The word “Expect” is a tough one to explain to non-native English speakers. I don’t think there’s a direct translation into Spanish, and all the synonyms I can think of – suppose, anticipate, await, think you know what’s going to happen – aren’t simple enough. The dictionary says: "to look forward to; regard as likely to happen; anticipate the occurrence or the coming of." Big help. And even I, an English teacher, am trying to wrap my head around this word to understand if it is positive, negative, or somewhere in between.
I had a return flight home for October 16th. While there was always a chance I’d stay in Spain, deep down I thought I’d return home on this day to see my family and eat a hamburger. I’d spend the first two weeks of October bouncing around Andalucía and Morocco with my best friend from high school. We’d sneak wine pulls on buses and I’d squeeze my summer savings dry with hostel and earring purchases. As fate, (or my hasty decision-making), would have it, the first two weeks of October were spent living in a hostel and drilling words like “pencil sharpener” and “nose” to Spanish kids with an excess of boogers and school supplies, alike.
While drinking my morning Nescafe over a placid sea view, I often wonder, “What’s going to happen today? Will classes leave me smiling from ear-to-ear, or crying behind my sunglasses?” The avocado of teaching is about as predictable as a four-year-old girl’s willingness to share the pink crayon. Old Spanish men in berets who dawdle on my street, along with many bus 11 patrons, can attest to my stiff, hurried walking style. It’s because I’m sifting through the possibilities of which moods will swing through my classrooms, and which four-year-old will hide from me on the playground because he doesn’t want to go to class. And thirdly, I wonder how I’ll manage these things.
One time, fifteen-year-old twins Juan and Ines, usually reluctant to participate, led a 20 minute conversation in English about the stages and customs of dating in Spain. This welcomed surprise countered the day they chewed me out for 20 minutes in Spanish. They were irate with me for calling their mother about their lack of homework completion, participation and agreeable attitudes. Not knowing how to respond to such disrespect and foul mouths, I copped out and said, “You’re speaking too fast and I don’t understand. We’ll discuss it after class.” (Which we did, and I finally retook my authority role.)
Three to six-year-olds have shocked me the most, though. I always make my four-year- olds use the restroom and water fountain before starting class. One day Miguel was so thirsty from all the Cheetos he had eaten at lunch that he just couldn’t wait any longer. He stuck his face in the urinal, flushed it, and drank the germy water that gushed out. Then he ran up to me with a huge grin, satisfied with his resourcefulness, and even tried to hug me. (Keep in mind that four year olds are very short. When they hug you, their arms wrap around your legs and their faces go into your lap.) Immediately I snatched him up and held him over the sink while washing his hands and face. Berta noticed the attention Miguel was getting, so she drank out of the urinal, too. This incident did not happen at my language academy, but at a primary school that hires out teachers from my academy. I later told one of the full-time teachers what happened and he shrugged and chuckled, “Did they swim around in the toilet, too?” Who would have thought that toilet-drinking was normal for any living thing except dogs.
The other day, my five and six year olds took turns telling me how many body parts to draw on a giant monster. After drawing a jillion facial features and appendages, they requested I draw “tetas.” I drew ten dots on the monster’s chest. “Is it a boy?” asked my class. “Yes, it’s a boy. Let’s move on.” They weren’t about to move on. Giggling with the anticipation of potty talk, they demanded I draw “pitos.” I responded with an innocent, “I don’t know what those are in Spanish.” Rocio then turned to Nico and pointed at his lap. “Es la cosa de chico!” Nico blushed. I said, “I am NOT going to draw pitos. That’s very inappropriate.” Then I couldn’t stop laughing – at the kids, at the garbled, organic creature I had drawn on the board, at my job. My authority faded at that moment and I was a five-year-old giggling at base potty humor.
Not knowing what to expect extends beyond the classroom, as well. I must not have been paying attention the day my history teacher said Gibraltar is not actually Spanish territory. This weekend I was on the bus to Gibraltar, excited to climb up the rock and see monkeys, when I read in my Lonely Planet that I had to have a passport to go there because it’s England. So, passport tucked away in my nightstand, I hopped another bus to Tarifa as soon as the Gibraltar one arrived. Luckily, I have friends who live in a town very near Tarifa, so I got to stay with them and walk around the windiest place on earth. Tarifa is the most southern city on mainland Spain, catching the winds that blow out of Africa. Half of them go east through the Strait of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean, and half of them go west into the Atlantic. Hence, this place is a kitesurfer’s dream. The numerous colorful kites look like candy in the sky. And on a clear day, you can see Spain, kites, and buildings in Africa in one breath. It’s quite a dreamy back-up destination. Africa is a mere ten miles across the Strait. If I remember my passport, I’ll go there.
Maybe "expecting" has more to do with being prepared for brown avocadoes, and less with anticipating green ones. Or maybe the practice of expecting requires enough inventiveness to make less desirable people and situations agreeable, funny, or wanted.
Friend Jamie and I getting blown around by the wind
Kite surfer´s paradise... I wish you could photograph the wind
