Half a World Apart

It’s not that I’ve had writer’s block, it’s just that I’ve been absorbing so much that I haven’t been able to put anything out. Wait, maybe that’s the definition of writer’s block. I’m in disbelief at how quickly time has passed since December 14th, 2008, the date of my last blog entry. Life in Hawaii has been so nonstop with work and play that sometimes I feel like a minnow caught in a strong current that circumvents the globe before I can take a breath.

But still, there’s no excuse for my dearth of writing.

So, I’ll try to start from the beginning.

Spain, while lovely in its unadulterated passion for noise and celebrations, is a place I look back on and think of quiet and solitude. Pinkish-orange evenings on the beach with nothing but my pen and wine grew comfortable after hectic days in the classroom. Sometimes I even felt invisible against the backdrop of boisterous tourists and grunting old men in Pedregalejo, my neighborhood. And sometimes I would make myself invisible on purpose, ducking through narrow alleyways and feigning deafness in order to avoid awkward small talk with neighbors – “I read about that Mormon cult down in Texas!” “You always walk so fast! Where are you going?” Or, my favorite from Javier, a grizzly fisherman hunched over a flaming boat barbecue, “Take some sardines! They’re free! Come on, eat them! And where is your boyfriend?” Of course, this type of small talk was endearing and necessary, but not every time I left my house. The last six months in Malaga, I thirsted for ocean and sunsets of a different vein. With reef-sculpted waves and volcano-strewn cliffs, Hawaii always seemed a place less consumed by societal matters than by nature’s bounty. I longed to charge unforgiving waves, take new risks, and build friendships without a language barrier. The chain of eight little igneous rocks pulled me from the Mediterranean to the Pacific like a magnet to a fridge.

Moving to Hawaii, the sky was so big and blue, it was impossible to look once and be satisfied. I remember the scent of plumeria and strawberry guava wafting through the air in Manoa Valley, my first neighborhood. I remember sitting on the bus, half-smiling at elderly, gray Japanese women whose feet dangled an inch above the dirty floor. Quite a contrast to Spanish busses filled with rollicking teens and pushy old ladies. Riding “TheBus,” as it is aptly named, was also insight into Hawaiian culture. Men really do wear aloha shirts every day to work, and women often wear flowers behind their ears. Right, if single, left if married. Bus drivers smile and sometimes even ask how you’re doing. Depending on the bus route, there’s usually at least one chatty cathy willing to talk your ear off. A couple times I got lucky and heard a live ukulele concert on the way to work on the number 4. And of course, there are the views from the buses that make you crave fresh air and hikes. Hawaii’s home to muddy, serpentine trails that creep along the ridges and offer unobstructed views and free-falls, alike. And then there are the waves. But that’s another blog.

I spent December applying to between forty and fifty jobs. I applied everywhere from hole-in-the-wall bakeries to underground bars to Obama’s Alma Maître. Sending out my resume was like brushing my teeth, I did it out of habit, half-thinking, but feeling minutely productive afterwards. At night I’d find myself partying at the infamous “ape cage,” which has slowly turned me into a tomboy.

I got a job as an English teacher to study abroad students from all over the world. Quite a contrast to my little kids in Spain! More to follow on that later.

From Malaga to Honolulu

Pending rain on Oahu's windward side

Liz and me catching the sunset at Kapalua Bay, Maui

Thanksgiving feast on a makeshift surfboard table with the boys from Date and Pa'ani

After a year of teaching kids their English ABC’s and sipping cheap wine against a backdrop of flamenco and sunburned British tourists, I craved green and blue. Hawaii was the obvious destination. It also happens to be where I promised myself in ninth grade that I would move after college. Thanks to hospitable friends and a small savings, I’ve been couch surfing my way to a new life in the Aloha State. I’m restarting my blog and will keep you “posted.”

What Not to Do in Morocco, Part I

“Offers of a tour of the town, however, you may want to avoid. To do so, it is a golden rule to look as if you know where you are going. Never admit to this being your first visit to Morocco. If you feel confident enough, say that you have visited the town before….In addition, never allow yourself to be bullied into going with someone with whom you don’t feel at ease – there is no shortage of candidates.” Rough Guide Morocco

One of the first things I said to Billel, an employee at my hostel in Chefchaouen, was that it was my first time to visit Morocco and that I don’t speak French or Arabic. Billel served me and my friends Sarah and Joyce mint tea and coffee every morning. He promised in broken Spanish that his good friend was a hiking guide to the Oshran waterfalls a couple hours outside of town. Everybody in this town has a friend of a friend who has exactly what you, the culture-thirsty tourist, craves. But upon arrival to this country, I didn’t realize that. We accepted his offer and soon understood why we were led out the hidden backdoor of the hostel instead of the front.

Mint tea and fresh-squeezed orange juice, compliments of Billel

Chefchaouen, or simply Chaouen, is nestled in the heart of the Kif region, a sweep of lush mountains ripe with marijuana plants. Even though the possession and sale of marijuana is illegal in Morocco, it appears as though everybody smokes it. It was obvious after the first five minutes driving with said tour guide and Billel that said tour guide was not sober.

For the sake of wordiness, I’m going to call said tour guide “Bob.” Bob couldn’t speak English or Spanish. He never introduced himself, nor said anything, for that matter, and left all the communication up to Billel and his broken Spanish. Bob’s car was a baby blue Cold War Mercedes, suspiciously identical to every taxi in Chaouen, sans the “taxi” sign. Before taking off, Billel instructed our American friend Nick to get out of the front seat and ride in the other car. He explained that if the police saw a blonde haired foreigner riding in the front seat of the car, they could get in trouble for posing as tour guides. “Ahh,” I thought to myself, “Do I forfeit this waterfall hike? It’s now or never!” Everyone in my group was asking the same question. But for one reason or another, we complied and took off with Bob, Billel and their fake taxi entourage.

I say “entourage” because Bob and Billel brought along a few friends. The whole group consisted of two cars and one motorcycle, six tourists and five or six twenty-something-year-old “guides” from Chaouen. Once we passed a few police cars and made it to the edge of town, Bob sped up. Me, Joyce and Sarah were alone with two Moroccan men whom we didn’t know, practically in the middle of nowhere. Bob and his friend in the other car played outrageous drag racing games that included lane-switching and dodging oncoming traffic. Meanwhile, his badly scratched American and Arabic hip hop CDs, turned up at maximum volume, sliced like knives through the car. We were driving among green rolling hills dotted with sheep, shepherds, and Berber women picking red flowers to use in dye – a landscape that would have aroused peace and calm in any other circumstance. The racing and music gave us a very legitimate reason to be scared for our lives. The three of us expressed our fears quite differently. Joyce’s face lit up when a Beyonce song came on. She sang a few words and said, “This makes me feel better.” Then, rather than falling silent or complaining, she made jokes to convince herself she was OK. Sarah’s worries, on the other hand, rolled off her tongue. Everything she said, Joyce and I were already thinking. Despite futile attempts to tell Billel tell Bob to slow down and quit driving like a maniac, I was mostly silent. I felt three things on this car ride: the most scared I’ve ever been since riding a bike down the Death Road in Bolivia, guilty for organizing the trip with a bunch of frauds, and really, really stupid.

About every 20 minutes, Bob pulled off the side of the road for one reason or another. The first time was for gas and small talk with friends. The second or third time was because his friend’s motorcycle was acting funny, and because they had to transfer a small black duffle bag from the motorcycle to our car. “Please let it be lunch, please let it be mint tea and sandwiches,” I thought. Joyce and Sarah were sure it was drugs.

View out the windshield. Its deceivingly peaceful.

After this transaction, the three vehicles were separated. Nick was long-gone. There were no other cars in sight, just Bob’s old school Mercedes zipping along the side of a cliff in the Kif (Marijuana) region. At this point, the girls and I weren’t sure whether or not we were going to the waterfalls. I thought about The Daughters of Juarez, a true story about young Mexican women getting kidnapped and killed (among many other brutal things) in the desert. I thought about Natalie Holloway. I pictured our faces on Fox News and CNN with that annoying message bar blinking at the bottom: MISSING IN NORTHERN MOROCCO!

Then Bob curved around a cliff and slowed down. We could see a crowded parking lot up ahead. We were at the base of the hike, and we made it without a scratch. Nick’s car was there waiting.

We piled out of the car. The solid earth felt good beneath my tennis shoes. Bob stayed behind, but everyone else walked into the gorge. Sighs of relief turned into laughter which turned into “That was really stupid, why are we still with these guys?” But like children, we followed the Moroccans. We probably wouldn’t have had the gate to the main trail been unlocked. They knew the alternate route, and we were ready to finally see some falling water.

Relieved to be out of the car

The gorge was cool and damp, quite the opposite of the desert and camels that most people associate with Morocco. Pitched tents and picnic blankets were sprawled out along the riverbanks. It was our first time to see Muslim women camping out in their headscarves and djellabas, which looked more practical than my t-shirt and knee-length pants, given the dropping temperatures. Then, all of a sudden, Billel and his buddies started shouting across the river to their friends at one of the campsites. Since none of us understood Arabic, their shouts sounded more like excited dogs barking back and forth. Something was bubbling, and we were dying to know what. But in hindsight, Billel was probably just explaining why he was tagging along a bunch of foreigners and boasting about all the dirham he was about to pocket. His friends crossed the river and walked with us. After walking for about 20 minutes, I think Sarah, Joyce, Nick and I realized that all these “guides” really wanted was to get paid for socializing and smoking hash in the mountains. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.

One of many families camping in the gorge
My ¨guides¨ were yelling at the people on the other side

The “dudes” took us an hour into the dense forest and past one gushing waterfall before admitting they had miscalculated the time it would take to get to the big one. At this point, nobody was too surprised. They stopped to smoke and laid out a big blanket by the river. Then they unzipped the black bag – it was lunch! We were relieved. Then they served us mint tea without asking for any money. No one was too upset about not seeing the waterfall. Actually, we were quite pleased with our peaceful destination. We made jokes and gulped down sweet mint tea while Billel and co. got high and ate. Everyone was happy. Finally doing something we paid for

After finding out what was in the mysterious black bag
One of the dudes

Descending the mountain, my friends and I agreed that we weren’t getting back in the car with Bob if he was stoned, and that if there was a real taxi in the parking lot, we’d hire it. In my most assertive Spanish, I approached Billel about Bob when we got back to the car.
“Has Bob been smoking? Is he high? We are NOT going back with y’all if he’s been smoking and is going to drive like he did on the way here.” Billel looked worried but tried to assure me he was completely sober and he’d tell him to be more careful. The problem was, we didn’t really have another option besides walking, which would have taken all night or more. And even if there had been taxis in the parking lot, we couldn’t afford it. So we drove off with Bob and Billel, again. After five minutes, Bob stopped the car. “Why are we stopping?” We asked Billel. “Bob wants to smoke.” Billel wouldn’t let him drive, though, and made him trade places with one of his other friends who supposedly hadn’t been smoking. He turned out to be a better driver, thank goodness.

The sun was setting, Berber women were walking down the highway with heavy bushels of flowers on their backs, and for once we enjoyed looking out the window. This was the longest we had driven without stopping. And then right when we realized that, we stopped. This time, Billel had to say hi to his friends in a convenience store and buy some things. When you hire a fake guide, you can’t expect them to stop when you say stop and go when you say go. After 20 minutes at this roadside stop, Billel slipped back into the car with a big paper bag. “Would you like some beer?” he said, grinning. This was the first alcohol we’d seen in Morocco. The country’s perfume and makeup doesn’t even contain alcohol. After contemplating, I decided I better drink up because we’re still not back to Chaouen. Then, as if we hadn’t been appalled enough for one day, Billel asked me a question: “Is it OK if my friend drinks while driving?” I at least made one good decision on this eventful Saturday by saying “NO!” "Taking the edge off"

We made it back to Chaouen and counted our blessings. Thank you, dirty hostel with chipping paint and no flushing toilet. Thank you light blue buildings, thank you cell phone service, thank you clean clothes, thank you hot food, thank you cobblestones beneath our feet! It felt good to know that Billel hadn’t asked for anymore money than we originally agreed, and that his friend’s didn’t get us killed. Oh, thank you Billel, for not being ALL bad! Thank you heartbeat, thank you lungs. It was good to be alive and well. Except I needed a bath.

Part II: What (You May Not Want) to Do in Chaouen

Pretty much every door here is blue photographable

(I obviously didn´t take any pictures inside the hammam, so I´ve included a few photos of the town.)

After a day of sweating out my nerves with false tour guides, a long bath was crucial. And nothing seemed more logical than going to the Hammam, the town’s public bath house that uses up most of the hot water supply.

Before going to Morocco, I had read and heard magical stories about Hammams. Three of my friends who went to hammams in Marrakesh highly recommended experiencing one. Tales of gooey olive oil soap, scraping off dead skin, and interacting with Muslim Moroccan women behind closed doors had me racing to the center of town an hour before sunset, when the hammam closed for women and opened for men. Sarah and Joyce stayed behind for this adventure.

Spices and Dyes

I wanted to scrape off my dead skin. But more than that, I wanted to defy my stereotypes of Muslim women by seeing how they act, well, naked and in a big group of women. While putting my clothes in a locker, a teenaged Moroccan girl wrapped in a towel sauntered into the locker room and smiled at me. She looked refreshed and rosy. “Nice,” I thought, “Maybe I’ll make some acquaintances inside!”

In I walked. The humidity was intensified by the smell of dirty bodies and, frankly, the overflowing, hole-in-the-ground toilet, which I later found. There were two rooms. The first was a sauna, meant for sitting and sweating. The second a bathing and massaging room with a large well of hot water. A heaving naked woman, except for magenta underwear and a scarf tied around her waist, was bent over a French tourist and kneading her back. There were no Moroccans inside except for the masseuse, and besides her it was just me and two French women. I sat dumbly on the marble bench and waited for my turn to get a massage. When it finally came, the French women had gone, and I was the last customer for the day. The masseuse called to me in French to lie flat on my stomach on a thin mat on the wet marble floor. All was quiet except for her heavy breathing and the water trickling out of the spout. She pushed the last bit of strength that remained into my back, sending me into a sleepy stupor. The final call to prayer echoed through the sauna walls, and I felt like I was really in Morocco. Then, she commanded in coarse French that I turn over on my back. Having been in the sauna all afternoon, she was sweating profusely. Her giant breasts hung so low, they were millimeters from brushing up against me. She rubbed me down with thick olive oil soap and scraped it off with an abrasive cloth, pulling off sheets of dead skin. My arms and back were just starting to feel baby-soft when her three-year-old daughter skipped into the sauna.

She had to go to the bathroom. The masseuse stood up, pulled down her daughter’s pants, and lifted her up over the drain next to my left foot. The little girl peed right into the drain, with aim so good it looked like she was potty-trained to do it. Then her mother wiped her dry with her bare hand. Relieved and happy, she skipped out of the sauna. Her mom sprinkled water on her hand, really a couple of drops, and resumed massaging my back. Shocked and disgusted, I was silent, just like in the car with Bob and Billel. Then she told me extremely slowly that her husband died and she was all alone with her daughter, so would I please leave her a tip? She even slid her index finger across her neck and widened her eyes to make sure I understood that he was really and truly dead.

I expected to go to the hammam and have a “cultural exchange” with local women, but instead I got a pee massage. I left her a tip, maybe out of fear of how she would react otherwise, or maybe because I felt like it was my duty as an American tourist in a third world country to share the wealth.

Typical street in the Medina. As Sarah put it, walking in Chaouen feels like walking on clouds

Travelers my age all seem to crave a “cultural experience,” but really have no idea what that means. I think it would be incorrect to glorify my massage as a cultural experience, but it certainly was one-of-a-kind. Supposedly hammams in bigger cities are a lot nicer, but Chaouen’s is full of surprises.
Chaouen´s mosque
First Arabic Coca Cola Sign Sighting

Laughter From Afar Is the Best Medicine

Dedicated to Danny on his birthday

Katy cracking up over Plaza Nueva. The Alhambra is in the top right corner.



Katy looking out at the Generalife Gardens at the Alhambra

On a pier near my flat
In Sevilla during Semana Santa

Cold rain fell on the Alhambra the day it was our turn to go. This produced both rapid water flow for the fountains in the Nasrid Palace and a cacophony of bad manners in motley languages. Unlike the other tourists, my sister Katy was in no hurry to snap photos and see the Patio of the Lions. To her, the Alhambra was nothing more than the place I’d talked about seeing all week long. Instead of blending into the antsy crowd, she stayed on the periphery and howled with laughter, somehow finding everything from my makeshift headscarf/rain shield to German chatter hysterical. Nobody at the Alhambra would have guessed how much she had been suffering judging by the jokes and laughter belting out of her tiny frame.

As many of you know, Katy’s boyfriend Danny and good friend Warren died last January. Thank goodness for simultaneous spring breaks because she got to escape familiarity (except for me) and delve into a refreshing panorama of olives, Holy Week processions, and men who hiss obscenely at women walking down the street. I say the latter is refreshing because it made her laugh.

Katy stands at barely 5 feet, 2 inches and has the messiest hair I’ve ever seen on a girl. She’s notorious in our family for rarely brushing it, a habit she started around age 10 when she was a true blue tomboy. She’s always been “the funny one” between the two of us, famous for her impersonations of Mr. Young, the neighborhood tailor, and Betsy, her Theta house mother. She says that her recent trip to Spain was the first time she had felt like herself again, and I believe it.

Shopping with Dad´s money, wooo hoooo!

As soon as she walked off the airplane, she went into a 20 minute imitation of an acquaintance she met on her flight, a 22-year-old surfer from California who ordered a Bacardi and Coke at 7 am in honor of his mantra to “Live it up in Spain.” This commenced 7 days of nonstop laughter and jokes, which culminated at the end of the week in Granada. This city is a treasure chest for medieval Muslim architecture, the Alhambra its most dazzling jewel.

Before roaring up a steep, cobblestone hill in a crowded mini bus to enter the Alhambra, we ate a gourmet lunch and went shopping. This was all done outside in steady rain. We hunched over our plates and ate under an umbrella in Plaza Nueva because Katy refused to go inside. “I like the rain, I think it’s nice,” she said. “It’s her vacation,” I thought, “What the heck.” We paid the check and entered a milieu of Moroccan scarf and chotchky shops, laughingly fighting over who got to hold the umbrella. The Sierra Nevada rain fell harder and harder, and our 4 Euro umbrella bent inside-out every time we walked against the wind.

It’s needless to say our shoes were squirting out water with each step by the time we arrived at the Alhambra gates. We looked like haggard twin hobos with too many scarves. Our main goal was to see the Nasrid Palace, the heart of the Alhambra and the section that causes my coworkers’ eyes to widen every time they talk about it.

Into the Nasrid Palace we sloshed, relieved to finally see what all the fuss was about. As it turned out, the real “fuss” inside was impatient tourists vying for space to take photos of sparkling artwork they probably knew very little about. Not to say that Katy and I knew much about it, either. In fact, earlier in the day Katy asked, “What time are going to the Olly Ambra?”

Posing in the "Sala de Las Dos Hermanas"

Every chamber, atrium and corridor in the palace is precisely proportioned and breezy with scented air from towering pine trees and sweet orange blossoms. According to my Andalucia Lonely Planet, “This is the place in the Alhambra that will stir the desire to own beauty even in the most unpossessive of people.” I’m afraid this sentence was extremely true for many visitors who hogged coveted views and greedily videoed for what seemed to be longer than January. Instead of filling our memory cards with a plethora of stalactite vaulting and Arabic engravings that were stunning but meant very little to us, we took funny pictures of each other in a colorful array of newly bought, sopping wet scarves. The Patio del Cuatro Dorado and the Palacio de Comares felt like majestic playgrounds, and Katy and I were their most devoutly playful patrons.

Somehow we missed out on the mint rain ponchos in the background

We finally stumbled into the Patio de los Leones, a courtyard I was excited to see since I had spent hours studying in an art history class several years ago. As our rainy day luck would have it, the famous 12 lion statues were on vacation for repairs, the fountain was off, and the bowl of the fountain was surrounded by a nouveau, wood-framed glass casing. It actually reminded me of the industrial-hip interior decoration at Chipotle. Sometimes pictures on postcards are better. So Katy and I continued posing for each other in our bag lady outfits. We sauntered into the chambers surrounding the courtyard, and finally turned our giggles into quiet “ooohhs and aaahhhs.” To the naked eye, ignoring the gaudy box around the poor lion fountain, the Nasrid palace seems perfect. The intricate geometric engravings from floor to ceiling, the lighting techniques, the refreshing alliance between tiny detail and airy spaciousness (unlike other sites I’ve visited, like cathedrals) – it’s a feel-good place to be, even in the rain.

But it also holds many secrets. Its Muslim architects left flaws in the artwork and design to recognize that they as humans can only seek to create perfection since, according to the Quran, God alone is perfection’s true source. I wonder if the artists and builders cringed while creating flaws in their masterpiece, or if they did so sincerely believing they weren’t making mistakes in the conventional sense, but rather lovely tokens of respect. Either way, they truly believed that perfect peace and harmony were hiding in a sealed envelope not even they could open. And yet they still managed to create sheer beauty despite their deep awareness of mortal imperfection.

As the Nasrid Palace creators accepted the fact that perfection was a secret, my little sister is sore from trying to accept that perfection’s opposites, chaos and death, are secret, too. At least for the short time we spent in the Alhambra, she accepted this secret and just laughed.

We got lost trying to find the palace exit. Getting lost in the cold rain usually isn’t fun, but it is when you walk in on a couple photographing their own make-out session. At least, it was for us. Unused to such unabashed PDA, Katy quaked with laughter, grabbed my face to pretend to kiss me, and took a picture of it. Then after immediately playing back the picture, a very unflattering close-up of our chubby cheeks squished together, she reeled over and laughed so hard tears of joy rolled down her cheeks. Now that’s beauty in imperfection.

Ultimate scarf moment

Language Tug of War

My job is to teach English. The “theory” behind my “practice” is communicative, which means I have my students do more speaking and listening activities than grammar exercises. It also means I am supposed to speak 100% English, even when my students stare blankly at me and moan, “Spanish, PLEASE!?” While I tote a Trinity TESOL certificate and claim to be “professional,” I often feel like a fraud. This feeling especially emerges when I resort to Spanish to explain something, when my students have to make embarrassing noises and gestures to be understood, or when I practically beg them to practice English.

Eight-year-old Jesus recently hurdled a communication barrier by remembering the words, “Bathroom, please.” This success was greater than most. All last trimester, whenever his bladder was full, he looked like he was going to pass out. Waving his arm urgently in the air, his face turning red as an apple, he’d hiss, “PSSSSSSSS” while accidentally spitting and obscenely cupping an imaginary private part. My response: feigning seriousness and pushing down the laughter bubbling up my chest. “Jesus!! That’s very inappropriate! The question is “Can I go to the bathroom, please?”” Finally, after writing the question on the board numerous times, he at least says, “BATHROOM PLEASE!” and no longer gesticulates.



Class Clown Jesus. He has no idea he´s one of my favorite students.

Alfonso is a chatty five-year-old whose mother dresses him in navy blue knit stockings under plaid short overalls. Lately, his favorite thing to do at the start of class has been to press me about my personal life (in Spanish). “Do you have a boyfriend?! Do you have a husband?! What about kids?!? I know you at least have a husband.” Again, trying not to laugh too hard, I simply say “Alfonso, that is none of your business. And do I really look like I’m old enough to have kids?!” “SI!” he replies. The rest of the hour, he squirms around in his chair, smiling and blushing every time I call on him. But trying to get him to speak English is harder than it is for the rest of the class. I’m convinced that some of his confusion is pretend. Sometimes I let this class “play teacher.” One day, it was Alfonso’s turn to be the teacher and call out names of jungle animals. The rest of the class was supposed to respond by making the relevant animal sound or movement. Even though he at least knew “monkey,” he looked at me with big longing eyes and a faint smile, waiting for me to whisper a word into his ear. He rested his little arm on my lap and leaned in towards me. “Snake,” I whispered, and he blushed. “ESNAAAAAGGGUH!” gushed from his mouth. The other kids were dumbfounded and didn’t get down on their stomachs to wiggle around like they usually do. Sometimes my younger students imitate me perfectly, but others, my words transfer into their minds like hacking vomit noises. The subtle “uh” sounds (the shwa) entwined in our language are sounds we hardly notice, but often impede effective student-teacher communication, at least in my classroom. Sometimes my students try so hard to regurgitate my words that they stress every single sound, not just the important ones that I stress. This comes out like Alfonso’s version of “snake” and may accurately portray how American English sounds to non-native ears. It’s not pretty.



Me and Alfonso

Alfonso’s favorite word in any language is “caca.” He’s not the only one, though. Four and five year olds are obsessed with anything potty-related. It’s no longer surprising, nor amusing, when innocent English phrases become “caca” phrases. The phrase “Hello caca!” coined by mischievous little Raquel caught on like wildfire with a four year old class not too long ago. During drills, at least one kid refuses to repeat “cat” or “boat” and instead belts out a giggly “Caca!” Sometimes, I think, “You’re right; this is all a bunch of caca.”

This rings true when I have to beg four-year-old Javelu to come to class. For the first couple of months, I spent the first 10 minutes of class chasing Javelu around the playground. Every Tuesday and Thursday when he’d see me march up to the playground to gather my class, he’d peer at me like a deer caught in headlights, then run for his life. Through tunnels, up ladders, under staircases – you name it, he ran there and I had to follow. With the help of other teachers, sometimes I’d catch him, but then he’d collapse into heart-wrenching sobs. “I don’t want to go to English! I hate English! I’m not going! NO!” This hurt my feelings, but more than that, I sympathized with the kid. I mean, he goes to school from 9 to 4 without a nap. “Oh, Javelu, no pasa nada!” The words carelessly spilled out. That’s what all the preschool teachers say to the criers, “Oh, it’s no big deal.” But that’s the last thing Javelu wanted to hear. So, in my heavily accented, non-comforting Spanish, I’d say “Javelu, we’re going to have fun! We’ll play games and sing songs, and you can even be the leader today! Please come, everyone wants you to come.” He’d choke out a few more snot-filled ‘NO’s, and then the other teachers would take over. I gave up. After a couple weeks of cutting class, Javelu’s father demanded he go, tears or no tears. Now I can persuade Javelu to sit in class without crying, but I still can’t get him to participate. Songs, games, coloring, and occasional permission to stand on his chair won’t even bend the corners of his frown. My capability of teaching Javelu compared to his ability to shut me out is pathetic. He doesn’t say much, not even “caca,” but I know he’s thinking it. One day, not long after his tears had dried, he turned to me and spoke with surprising fervor. “QUE FEA!” stormed out of his little mouth. That means “HOW UGLY!”

Javelu, in many ways, is similar to my sixteen-year-old students who mostly refuse to speak English unless forced. Juancho and Ines, twins with matching bad attitudes and motorcycles, try harder to wheedle Spanish words out of me than they do to utter words in English. The only times they have ever spoken in English without incessant pleading is to talk about dating in Spain, which inevitably leads to probing me about my personal life. For awhile, I thought, “Who cares what they’re talking about, as long as it’s in English?” But on Valentine’s Day, after inventing romance fortunes for their classmates (in the future tense, thank you very much!), they asked if they could tell me my Valentine’s Day fortune. “OK,” I said nervously, “As long as you keep speaking English.” Bad move. Whatever flimsy wall I had built between my twenty-three-year-old-self and them, was completely knocked down. What they said was not only inappropriate, but also proof their English was good enough to humiliate me. The bell rang and I didn’t see them for another week because they cut class. Apparently, making fun of their teacher in English isn’t even fun enough.

A few of the ¨Caca¨crowd

Between understanding mean remarks like “Que fea,” and copping out of successfully giving instructions in English, sometimes I wish I didn’t know so much Spanish. Like Juan and Ines, most of my students do everything in their power to make me speak it. It often feels like I’m in a contest against my students for the dominant classroom language. I’m at one end of the rope, pulling with all my might to encourage them across the language barrier. They’re in a gang at the other end, steadily dragging me over to the Spanish side. As of right now, I’m somewhere in the middle, just trying to teach them something, anything, new in English.

Customs across the Pond

The U.S. and Spain are much more similar than they are different – I mean, Spaniards are technologically advanced, work long hours, dress like us, listen to a lot of the same music, believe in equal rights, and speak the same language as half (or more) of our population. At first glance, the differences appear to be little more than 14-year-old motorcyclists and ostentatious displays of affection. After a three-week-long interval in the Lone Star State, however, subtle differences lit up like the neon lights on S. Congress, cementing my American – or Texan – identity.

First of all, America has a distinct highway culture. Our gas stations are so representative of their towns that they even sell t-shirts, coffee mugs, ceramic bald eagles and local cuisine. Pulling up to the Czech Stop gas station on I-35 for a 32 oz. Dr. Pepper and jalapeño & sausage kolache w/ cheese never felt so patriotic as it did four weeks ago. Kolaches actually make me sick after two bites, but I realized on this trip that I eat them out of reverence for the place. The man in line behind me ordered pickled pig’s feet. I’m not that Texan, but I appreciated the cultural transaction. While the sight of pickled pig’s feet is unappetizing to say the least, it’s comforting to always see the giant jar displayed on countertops alongside jumbo pickles.



Best exit off the Austin-Dallas corridor



I know Spain’s highway culture only from the perspective of public transport. Views out bus and train windows are void of billboards and tall signs luring travelers into gas stations and restaurants. Instead, olive groves and orange tree orchards are stitched into hillsides like patches on a quilt. While many gas station signs and billboards could be anywhere, olives and oranges ingrain a sense of place. Spanish transportation methods may be less entertaining in terms of the radio and convenience stores, but they are much more advanced than America’s. Efficient trains take you virtually anywhere you need to go with plenty of room to stretch your legs. And their tracks tend to run through the countryside, so you’re sure to have breathtaking views out your giant window. While less comfortable, buses are cheaper and go more places than their train counterparts. The views are a little less impressive, but at least you don’t have to pay for gasoline. Americans spend so much alone time in their cars. I’m not sure which is lonelier, though – driving alone in your car, slouching and looking sloppy, slurping down a Big Gulp from 7-11, and listening to your favorite music, or sitting on a bus next to strangers with white Ipod wires coming out of their heads.

Spanish countryside and the famous Ronda bridge

Manners on Spanish buses make having your own car extremely attractive, though. I spend between 1.5 to 2.5 hours on buses Monday-Thursday, and have grown immune to “me first” attitudes. While I believe that the old and decrepit should have seat priority, sometimes I don’t notice them waddle onto the bus. They have no qualms about nudging me, and others younger than forty, to get off their well-deserved, blue-carpeted bus seats. Sometimes I’ll be standing on the bus, and all the sudden I’m pushed left, then right, then left again as if by an ocean wave. It’s usually just someone bigger trying to find a seat. Several times, older women have literally pushed my hand off the railing so they could have their desired grip. They never say “perdon” or “por favor.” Unfortunately, I caught myself behaving similarly in the U.S. and got a few disgusted, deserved stares. It’s definitely not culturally acceptable to push yourself through a crowded bar in Texas without smiling and sweetly saying, “Excuse me,” or “Would you mind letting me by?”

There’s also not much concept of a line here in Spain. Trying to wait in line at the bakery or market is like trying to scream your way to the front of the line in the U.S. It just doesn’t happen because it won’t work. Here, whoever screams the loudest and fastest for the vendor’s attention gets priority. The first time I bought bread, I entered an empty store. I watched four other women waltz in after me and order first, as if I was invisible. I was so intimidated and upset by such selfish clientele that I ducked out and thought, “Fine! I don’t need their bread anyway!” What I realize now is that “nice” behavior in American terms is often awkward and ridiculous in the eyes of the Spanish. For example, every time I tell my waiter “gracias” or ask the grocery store clerk “que tal?” I receive strained smiles and rushed answers. No need for small talk, just take your goods and get out.

But that is not to say that Spaniards are anti-social. The volume of cackles, hollers, and kisses heard from my street is incomparable to any other country I’ve visited. You’d think the population was part-deaf by how loudly it communicates. In many U.S. cities, the only noises heard in busy streets are engines, horns, and teenaged boys’ bass systems. I think this is due in large part to urban planning with nothing but efficient travel in mind. On the contrary, most of the streets in my neighborhood are pedestrian-only and beckon leisurely strolls and social interactions. Half or more of the streets in the city center are pedestrian-only, as well, and truly act as Malaga’s blood vessels. They contain all the best bars, banks, and outdoor cafes, not to mention frequent parades and street performances. It’s much easier to celebrate here because the city doesn’t have to block off roads. American roads are wide and airy, often void of people but full of vehicles. Therefore, partying usually takes place indoors and on private property. Andalucians may find this oddly private and stifling. They’d just rather be outside and in public, which makes sense since they boast the best weather in all of Europe. There’s no doubt I’ll miss my lively narrow street when it’s time to go home.


View out my window, always full of bicycles, couples, and screaming babies


Another pedestrian thoroughfare in my barrio

And on the subject of celebrations, every day is reason to indulge a little in the eyes of the Spanish. I think America generally has a deny-and-binge mentality. We work hard all year and take luxurious vacations in the summer. Some of us eat healthy all week so we can pig out at the weekend. We don’t drink at lunch, but once the clock strikes happy hour, drunkenness is suddenly permissible. The Spanish, on the other hand, indulge more often, which is different from binging. There’s no such thing as happy hour here, for it’s acceptable to drink (moderately) at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Also, work hours are not set in stone, as my friend who owns the local internet café will open later than scheduled if she has something better to do in the mornings. Restaurants along my street close at random times of the year posting signs that say things like, “Taking a vacation to rest Dec. 6-20.” People have three-course lunches, take naps, and return to work for five more hours. If a couple is walking along my street and feels like making out, they’ll park themselves wherever convenient, sometimes against my window, and go at it. Discipline in any form is one subject I just don’t hear much about. The Spaniards I know, at least, appear to do what they want, when they want, and don’t suffer from obesity, anorexia, mental illness, or unemployment.


The lack of discipline has been a problem for me, though, in the classroom. That´s a subject I may delve into deeper in future blogs. Until then, bottoms up to American courtesy and Spanish consumption habits!