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!

Life´s Like an Avocado

You never know if it’s green or brown on the inside, but you expect it to be green. Similarly, three months ago I didn’t know if taking the TEFL track abroad was a good or bad decision, but I expected it to be attractive and delightful to digest. Not knowing what to expect between the August morning I boarded the plane and today has given me what I love and hate about life out here in Spain.

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

Somebody, Please Tell Me Why....

Even though Spain is similar to the U.S. in many ways, sometimes I see people or things that leave me utterly flabbergasted and confused – not unlike my reaction to thong babies. This entry will stay loyal to the blog’s title and address a few idiosyncrasies that, in a Spaniard’s eyes, are probably not strange at all.

For instance, this morning I ate breakfast at a café next to a pile of rocks that jut out into the sea. Along came a woman and her six or seven-year-old son with a bag of food and reading material. They climbed onto the rocks and sat down to eat fruit – a perfectly normal activity. All the sudden, the mother took off her son’s blue jeans to let him frolic on the rocks in nothing but a t-shirt and little green briefs. At first I thought he was going to go swimming, but no, he only climbed around the rocks in front of the crowded cafe. The mom kept his jeans on her lap for the duration of my breakfast (forty-five minutes) while intently reading a magazine – was she cold? Long pants could reduce the risk of scrapes her child was bound to accumulate on this Sunday morning rock jaunt. Maybe she didn’t want his jeans to get dirty; that’s all I could think of. The next time I’m hiking and don’t want to get my pants dirty, I might just do as this woman does and take ‘em off!

Something else I don’t get: Why does my student Jesus bring his Simpsons suitcase to English class? I haven’t asked because I don’t want to embarrass him. This English class is an extracurricular activity and only requires a couple books and a pencil. Poor Jesus breaks a sweat every time he tries to roll it between the table and the wall of our closet-sized classroom. Rolling backpacks are pretty popular for kids in the states and in Spain, but this thing is big enough for a four day trip to Granada. Maybe he just really loves the Simpsons?

Coworkers and students told me that Halloween isn’t a big deal in Spain, and that hardly anyone celebrates; therefore, it was up to me make sure my students got a taste of it. Last week I carried on the spirit in the form of innocent mummy-wrapping and mystery box games. I decided to go downtown on Halloween – in normal clothes because supposedly hardly anyone would celebrate – to find people dressed in legitimately frightening costumes. Little children were walking with their parents dressed as horrid zombies with blood running down their faces. Some kids even left their parents’ side to hiss and scream at strangers. Why would their parents allow this behavior? Little did I know the innocent fun in my classroom was so mundane. Each of the two bars I entered played old 1970s American horror films that were funny upon first glance, but too gory to watch. (Alamo Drafthouse Weird Wednesday style, to those of you who know what that means…) Everyone who dressed up looked like they had just walked out of coffins or the butcher’s, and the whole night, I wondered, “Where are all the creative, funny costumes?”


My favorite class during a Halloween party

According to one of my older students, Spanish Halloween consists of what people see in American Halloween movies – throwing eggs, scaring the living daylights out of people, and dressing up in gory makeup and costumes. That explains the eggy mess on the front door of my school on Friday, but leaves me perplexed about something else. Why would a city so blatantly anti-American eagerly adopt a grossly commercial American holiday, and exactly the way they see it in our horror films? I’ve had students turn non-political speaking activities into Bush-bashing sessions, and have encountered more anti-Bush/USA sentiment here than anywhere else. So why was Halloween so catchy this year?

Standing in front of my school with fellow teacher

On Friday night I went to an underground flamenco bar to watch an "authentic" performance. The show was intimate and incredible, but one peculiar audience member stole it from the performers and gave authenticity a new meaning. My friends and I referred to her as “the bird lady” because her pet parakeet sat on her shoulder for the whole three hours. This woman was old and burly, and with a throaty voice she shouted obnoxious applauses while the bird teetered on her shoulder. She clapped along with the flamenco performers and caused at least one old man to roll his eyes in disgust. She kissed her bird’s beak between sets, and hid it underneath her shawl every time she got up to fight the crowds for the bathroom or bar. If I hadn´t known here was a live bird under her shawl, I´d have thought she had a pulsating tumor on her shoulder. To nobody’s surprise, the bird left evidence of its nervousness all over this lady’s back. Is washing her parakeet’s poop out of her clothes as commonplace as washing her clothes? I don’t understand why she totes around her jittery bird, but I’d be very disappointed to see her again without it. Maybe she just wants to be the center of attention.

Flamenco performers

The flamenco aficionados at this table couldn´t stand the bird lady

Bird lady standing up when everyone else was sitting down.

Unfortunately, the bird ran across her back before I could shoot the pic!


I’m sure if I asked these people why they do what they do, they’d give me a rational answer. Of course, these and other Spaniards probably think I’m quite strange, with my quick American walking pace and thick accent.

Beachin´and Teachin´

I live on the beach! That’s a REALLY big deal for a landlocked girl from Texas. The sand is literally eight steps from my front door. Never mind that in the right light it looks like kitty litter; it’s truly lovely. I leave my windows open to let in the sea breeze and hear the waves. My pedestrian-only street attracts toursits and couples from all over the world. I often pull back the curtains to see people snapping pictures of the view, or couples kissing by the palm tree out my front door. But more often than not, when I look outside, I catch people peeking in at me. I live in that house with the open windows and music that can be heard faintly from the street. In Hyde Park (Austin) I often biked past homes that looked like illustrations in a storybook – warmly lit, friends laughing on the front porch, comfortably nestled in overgrown flowers and ferns. And I remember very specific homes in Valparaiso whose salsa music penetrated bougainvillea walls and whose front porches held at least two grandparents on rocking chairs. These homes were enviable and untouchable, like chocolate cakes behind glass. Their inhabitants didn’t seem like real human beings with jobs and worries, but like people in Southern Living magazine photographs, frozen in that one perfect moment. It’s exciting to realize that some passersby on Paseo Maritimo may view me through that same lens.

View from my front door and bedroom window

My wonderful flat. I´m on the bottom floor.

I hate to admit it, but the “real world” is the same no matter where you live, even on the beach in Spain. The last three weeks have left little time for strolling like the Andalucians (and tourists) on my boardwalk. Like many of my friends and family, I had a condescending view of teaching English abroad before coming here. “Oh, it will be fun for a year! What’s wrong with delaying reality? It will be like studying abroad and getting paid for it!” I daydreamed. Not the case. Like any job, it can be fun, but it’s a far stretch from studying abroad and “delaying reality.” In fact, I’ve had to relate that sad news to several study abroad students I’ve met who hope to join the TEFL workforce post-college. Just like in the states, teaching is exhausting and doesn’t end when you leave the workplace. Right now I’m teaching ages 3 to 20, levels ranging from zero to nearly bilingual. It’s frustrating to know that while the rest of Andalucia has a three hour lunch break, I have none. It was also extremely strange to have gone from student-in-Cadiz to adulto-“Senorita”-profe-de-ingles literally over night. Sometimes I feel like a fraud; there are so many days when nothing goes as planned and I think, “What the hell am I doing?” Also, without a program or any hand-holding institution, I’ve been quite lonely and nostalgic for, dare I say, the USA. But lucky for me, I don’t have to leave my new home to receive the best kind of therapy out there – watching and listening to the sea. And thankfully, some of my students are so cute and amusing that I could hug and kiss them (which is totally acceptable of a teacher in Spain).

If you visit, you´ll know my house by the Jesus portrait.

Below, I’ve taken on the persona of several students, just so you get an idea of the type of people I hang out with every day. Read on if you´re interested...

My name is Julia, I am six-years-old, and my favorite word in English is “fantastic.” I like to be called Julia the English way instead of the Spanish way. My best friend is Beatriz, and we always sit by each other. We have the same pink and purple Witch doll binders that are the same size as our desks. One time Senorita put me and Beatriz on separate teams for a game, and I cried a little. But after class Bea and me did our best friend handshake, so everything’s okay. We’re still friends and I still like English. I hope Senorita calls on me tomorrow!

My name is Pepe and I am six years old, too. I always bring my dad’s old messenger bag to class because it is big enough to hold my coloring kit, books, pencil case, stapler, and binder. I don’t know why, but for some reason I am always the last one to pack up my supplies and leave the classroom. At least I know how to spell “seventeen;” nobody else does!

I’m Carmen, I’m fifteen, and I hate English class. I only go because my parents make me. Annie makes the class do stupid stuff, like talk to each other in English about famous people. I always wear my hair in front of my face so she can’t see me and won’t call on me. Oh, and the one time she actually let us listen to a song to guess the lyrics, I was twenty-five minutes late and missed out. I also missed the day she fell out of her chair and flashed her underwear to the whole class. Ines and Juan said it was hilarious. How old is she, anyway?

My name is Daniel, and whenever Annie asks “How are you?” I say I’m “okay and terrible.” I’m nine years old, but I feel older. I am very good at English and always finish assignments first. I am very funny and make everybody laugh, except for Annie. When she isn’t looking, I like to push buttons on the CD player, say bad words in Spanish, and shoot the middle finger. Also, I enjoy making fun of my friend Jesus for wetting his bed and being fat.

My name is Jesus, and I am eight years old, but I turn nine very soon. Entering English class on time is always very hard for me. I am usually late because I have to eat a bocadillo that my mom gives me. Then, I have to roll in my backpack that is too big to fit between the wall and my desk, and squeeze myself into a chair. I usually have food on my face during class and feel very uncomfortable; this doesn’t help when Daniel makes fun of me for being gordo.

Hello, I’m Roberto, I’m 18, and I’m a biology student. I feel very strange sharing a class with a 12 year-old-girl whose English is better than mine. Also, it’s strange to have a teacher that looks younger than me. I’m only in this class because I have to pass the Trinity exam before graduating university. Annie likes to do a lot of speaking activities, but I don’t have much to say in Spanish, so what would I say in English?! Especially to a 12 year-old-girl.

Hello! My name is Raquel! I have four years and I like boys. I love to kiss them and jump on top of them. Sometimes me and the boys jump on top of desks. Then teacher gives me a banana on the board so I behave better. I love to sit right next to teacher during story time, and I hate sharing colors, even when they aren’t mine.

I´m liking most of them more and more. Hasta luego.

Whirlwind

Spaniards in Cadiz walk slower than their babies crawl. On my daily walk to class, I am by far the fastest walker. While the locals stop to chat with everyone they see on their (seemingly) aimless strolls, I zip through their social scenes like a silent roadrunner. This makes me feel both invisible and blatantly foreign. Even the stray dogs mosey around as if they could sniff and lick the grimy cobblestone streets forever. But the last two weeks spared no time for such “jollying about,” as my British tutors would say.


Elementary students and teachers after last class

In Spain’s most relaxed region, I surrendered my snazzy Ironman watch not to beachcombing and siestas, but to a whirlwind of job searching, teaching, and paper writing. Depending on the day and my Inbox, I was going to work in Costa Rica, Venezuela, and Spain. I delved into the difficulties of teaching adults who don’t even know the word “bed,” and absorbed a lot of criticism from my teachers. I wrote twenty pages on one student’s English progress, and took my TESOL exam. To my brief relief, I completed the course on Friday and toasted to being a true blue, certified English teacher.


Celebrating completion of the TESOL course

The next morning, I was off to Malaga for a long-awaited Paco de Lucia concert and a very conveniently-located job interview. Malaga is a Mediterranean metropolis with a reputation for being ostentatious and saturated with British ex-pats. One of my tutors described it as the Can Cun of Spain. It’s nothing like Can Cun, in my opinion, but it does boast the birthplace of Picasso and vacation destination for the Gettys. The city leans against bright green mountains and faces the cerulean sea. Moorish castles perched on hills tower over the traffic and apartment complexes, and palm trees line the wide pedestrian thoroughfares. But most importantly, the language school where I interviewed is well-structured and has a strong reputation. The school’s director offered me a job on the spot and drove me all over the city. His hospitality coupled with the city’s offerings of art museums and miles of beach had me sold. Anyway, I can always work in Venezuela or Costa Rica next year.

It was nice returning to Cadiz with a job.

I just sped home from my last TEFL class and will board a bus back to Malaga in 2 hours. Luckily, my friend Adam is also trudging onward to Malaga to work at my school, and Lindsay is tagging along until she moves to Portugal. Having friends around will take the edge off of apartment searching in a foreign country.


Malaga, my new home for nine months

Orientation is tomorrow, and classes start Monday! Hopefully by my next blog entry, I’ll have found a place to live and slowed down enough to walk like the Andalucians.

Throngs of Babies and Oodles of English

Sunset on La Caleta, prime thong baby site

Picture this juxtaposition: gaggles of Wifi users hunched over their laptops on the steps of an ostentatious cathedral in Europe’s oldest city. I feel funny leaning against this heavy cathedral door, doing something so modern when I could be inside looking at bloody crucifixes and portraits of dead monks.

Though it has wifi in certain plazas, (in an effort to attract more tourism), Cadiz is a slow-paced, old fashioned city. It teems with Moorish architecture and narrow roads not much wider than American SUVs. It’s a sun-drenched tourist destination, buzzing with a slew of Spanish accents (all of which unfortunately contain the theta), and hoards of babies and old people.

These two populations have a lot in common, really – status, power in numbers, and pleasantly plump. These babies are thicker than American babies that strolled into the Purple Glaze all summer. So plump they can’t move. They lie flat in their reclining strollers, looking like dolls in fashionable onesies. And the old folks sit around like Humpty Dumpties, expecting you to yield, dodge, or help whenever they choose to move. But the babies really crack me up. Lap dogs have become accessories in the U.S., but babies are accessories and status symbols here. And they stay out later than I do! I’ve noticed babies fast asleep, flung over their fathers’ shoulders at three am in plazas and bars. They’re always dressed to the max, sporting rhinestone studded earrings and completely color-coordinated shoes, clothes and strollers. But the beach is a different arena. The other day I actually saw a four-year-old wearing a thong. (And of course no top!) In Spain it’s normal for girls to build sand castles topless on the beach, but in thongs?! How does a four-year-old find this at all appealing and comfortable? Maybe her mother wanted to show off her cute baby bottom. Not long after my first thong baby sighting, I saw a little boy running loosey goosey, hunting for seashells.

You only need to spend thirty minutes in Cadiz to notice the babies and elderly. If you see a young woman walking down the street without a stroller, she’s usually pregnant. Or, in the words of my new British friends, “She’s got a bump due to drop any minute."


Pedestrians gaze at Moorish architecture and the Atlantic

My TEFL (same as TESOL, fyi) tutors and six of fifteen classmates are British, so my version of the mother tongue has improved leaps and bounds. I say “quite” “a bit” and “have a think” quite a lot. Another interesting accent I’ve picked up is the non-native English accent. Thanks to my students, I can fake a Spaniard trying to speak English pretty well. But Spanish has been useful only at the grocery store and my regular cafe. From sunup to sundown my class is inside the TEFL building, teaching, dissecting and breathing the English language. It’s strange to leave my flat in the morning, walk seven minutes through Spain, and enter through the doors to Planet English. Ten or more hours later I leave this little bubble and weave through Spanish babies and grandparents, only to do my English lesson plans and papers. So, besides the babies and old people, I really haven’t discovered much of Cadiz or Spain. It’s all good, though. Classes are fun and so far I love teaching.



A few English students and fellow TESOL trainees

I'm applying for jobs in lots of different countries. Until then, I’ll be a TESOL teacher/student by day, and thong baby spy by night!