i find myself tiring
of the songs filling my playlist–
they are either too much a reminder of home
or not enough.
i ache to fill my ears
with a new set of notes
if only the shortening
still-hot days
of this endless summer
could sing me a new song,
one that will remind me of home
and make me at home,
all with the same
melancholic melody
You are so lucky!! I have always known this, and tried not to take advantage of your wealth. I mean it. We don’t have all the typical luxuries that many Americans have, especially in the past 9.5 years of having children and only one salary to support them, one TEACHER’S salary. But still. Now that I’ve been here, I realize day in and day out how SPOILED we are. We have a huge home with a huge yard, two cars, the ability to go anywhere at any time, and jobs that ROCK!
Let me tell you about what it’s like to be a teacher in Spain. To be a student in Spain. You will have, more or less, the same hours as in America. But the similarities end there. Students, you have to buy, and carry across town, all your textbooks. Your parents will put forward 300€-400€ every year just for this. Teachers, you can say goodbye to the dream of having your own classroom. You’ll move around all day, toting books and supplies, to white-walled, un-air-conditioned, packed-to-the-gills classrooms with teenage body odors seeping into every moment. And just when you thought you could make an amazing presentation to your students on the first day of school with the PowerPoint you spent hours preparing, filled with special effects and links to important sites crucial for their understanding? Sorry! There is not a computer here. Not a projector. Not even an old-fashioned, transparency-laden, ten-years-back projector, nor a screen! (Don’t even MENTION a document camera, please, or I might die!) A whiteboard? Please, a whiteboard? Of course not! Everyone loves the feeling of dry chalk dust on their palms for the rest of the dashing-through-hallways day! (Just in case you were under the impression that you could tote your Mac and projector from America and use Wifi to access everything you ever needed–God forbid you have such an idea!–I might add that Wifi pretty much doesn’t exist here, and if it “does” it’s a lie, sham, scam, and disappointment, because you might wait five minutes for one page to open!)
A couple of hours will pass, and it feels like it ought to be lunch time. A siren announces that it’s… not lunch time. Oh, I’m sorry, your parents can’t afford to feed you? Sucks to be you, no free-and-reduced lunch forms to fill out here! No cafeteria! Perhaps your parents packed you some pan and you can wander around the school for thirty minutes counting down till your main meal at 3:30, after the last bell.
If you’re a student and you need special services, such as, um, Spanish as a second language? Special education? A teacher might just come and pull you out of class every day with a small group of other students, a mixture of all types of needs, and you will neither know why nor have a single phone call or form sent home to your parents.
I know what you’re thinking, America. Sounds a lot easier, doesn’t it? There’s no stress about decorating classrooms, arranging desks in a special way, filling out paperwork and attending IEP/ELLP/MEETINGS! But come on! Just try it for one day, and you will be forever grateful for what you may have thought was a desperate situation, a no-respect, get-me-out-of-this-profession situation. Trust me. One day in a Spanish school, and you will learn to LOVE your job, your board of education, your rights, your Americanism!!
And that, over everything, I think, is why I’m here. 🙂
i am haunted in sleep
my subconscious stolen by bright lights
a coughing neighbor
words on the street sounding so familiar
i feel my language has followed me here
night hovers each time i look at the clock
even when dawn should be ringing my alarm
I have another hour of darkness to endure
the waning moon
two days past full
lights my ride across town
last night another moment of panic
isolation and cultural constraints
keeping me, once again, from what i need
a short call, a simple email
his words come across both lines
i have it for you, come home, it is better
it is a simple grammatical error
I feel the correction at the tip of my tongue
(come to your house, you mean?)
but as i wait for fingertips of sun
and gather my ticket of isolation,
i allow his words to rest,
to make a home in my heart
just like in America
where we feel we need
a 7 Eleven, a McDonald’s
every quarter mile,
when we fill our bellies
with Big Gulps and fries,
Spaniards need fruit and bread
walking home from the park,
preparing the afternoon meal,
you just never know when
you’ll have a fruit or bread emergency,
when you’ll have to rush to the
panadería, the frutería,
and stock up on crusty, thick bread,
peaches so plump you’ll have to halve them,
and sweeten your life
with the whole foods we can never quite find
on every corner back home
For Jana Clark
you are still in your same house
(i have the address memorized)
my favorite neighborhood,
across the sea from me now.
you lived there then,
the Septembers of my youth,
peppered with your words
that ask me now to write a memory
i could write about the time when
in one weekend warm weather withered
into a bitterly cold fall,
my first year of college
one heartbreak crashing into another,
the Labor Day break just a reminder
that warmth no longer existed
or back in the day,
my naivete governing all thoughts,
i believed i was becoming a woman,
my ache for belonging too great a need
as i gave myself to him
(thinking the whole time
i need to tell my best friend,
the sharing of the news
more meaningful than the milestone)
but none of these match up,
they can’t quite compare
to the memories i make today,
four weeks after you stood beside me in the bar
and begged me to cast my ballot
i am in a new dimension of reality
where Romans and Carthagenians
march across town in handmade
togas, swords, and shields,
peppered with brightly lit rides
and rebuilt Rome, chock full
of every marisco you never quite knew
my September to remember,
no falling leaves,
no fall festival,
just skinned rabbits in the grocer,
fresh bread on every corner,
and your words peppered
in the background of all i do,
of all i am, all these years
and miles later.
Today I had my first real bike ride since arriving in Spain. Yes, I have ridden my bike almost every day, but riding around this city is merely to save a few minutes of time, not for enjoyment. There are so many crosswalks to have to stop at, and the bike paths are on sidewalks full of pedestrians who refuse to get out of the way and almost seem to pride themselves, instead, on getting IN the way, so it’s not a fast-paced, Cherry-Creek-Bike-Path kind of experience. Not to mention if you ride on the side of the road you have to constantly slow down and look behind you as you pull around whatever random car that is double-parked in front of you.
I have come across a few “back roads” to get from one side of the city to the other in half the time, and I began my morning ride on one today, then riding along the harbor and heading towards the closest beach. It was a bit of a climb, and I wanted to take a back road, but missed it, and was stopping to check the map on my iPhone when two guys on mountain bikes cycled past me. Everyone here who has a bike has a mountain bike or a foldable bike. Today I learned why.
Though they were in front of me, I finally got to use my favorite cycling term of all time, “On your left!” as we pedaled up the hill (though I’m sure they didn’t understand my American-accented Spanish version of this phrase). Of course the two men on mountain bikes couldn’t keep pace with me!!
I reached the crest of the hill and stopped to take a few photos of the harbor, the mountains, and the Mediterranean. Not exactly the same views as home, but I think I’ll survive. 🙂
At last, just after the beach and having to ride through two tunnels (very frightening, as they were just wide enough for two cars, but as usual, anywhere outside of this city has ZERO traffic), I saw the back road I’d wanted to take that led to the top of the mountain bearing a castle… It was full of gravel two inches thick, and a passel of mountain biking men were making their way up the trail. It was the first moment in my bike-life where I was disappointed with my Fuji. Access denied!
Nevertheless, I continued down the main road, hoping to gather some other great views, only to be disappointed again by a fuel refinery whose smoke filled a large cove and choked me as I pedaled uphill.
Despite these two small disappointments, I felt amazing. Rather than averaging the Cartagena-city-limits speed of 8 mph, I was at least able to come out of my morning with a 13-mph (hey, I said mountains, remember??) average speed of satisfaction. I could actually feel my muscles tightening, my quads pulling themselves into a gratified smile. How could I have put this ride off for so long??? Oh wait… I was trying to adjust to this insane schedule they have here of staying up late and getting up just before work.
Well… they can put the girl in Spain, but they can’t take the Colorado out of the girl. I think it’s time to start setting my alarm so I can brighten my day with the beauty of actual cycling.
Today I had my first real bike ride since arriving in Spain. Yes, I have ridden my bike almost every day, but riding around this city is merely to save a few minutes of time, not for enjoyment. There are so many crosswalks to have to stop at, and the bike paths are on sidewalks full of pedestrians who refuse to get out of the way and almost seem to pride themselves, instead, on getting IN the way, so it’s not a fast-paced, Cherry-Creek-Bike-Path kind of experience. Not to mention if you ride on the side of the road you have to constantly slow down and look behind you as you pull around whatever random car that is double-parked in front of you.
I have come across a few “back roads” to get from one side of the city to the other in half the time, and I began my morning ride on one today, then riding along the harbor and heading towards the closest beach. It was a bit of a climb, and I wanted to take a back road, but missed it, and was stopping to check the map on my iPhone when two guys on mountain bikes cycled past me. Everyone here who has a bike has a mountain bike or a foldable bike. Today I learned why.
Though they were in front of me, I finally got to use my favorite cycling term of all time, “On your left!” as we pedaled up the hill (though I’m sure they didn’t understand my American-accented Spanish version of this phrase). Of course the two men on mountain bikes couldn’t keep pace with me!!
I reached the crest of the hill and stopped to take a few photos of the harbor, the mountains, and the Mediterranean. Not exactly the same views as home, but I think I’ll survive. 🙂
At last, just after the beach and having to ride through two tunnels (very frightening, as they were just wide enough for two cars, but as usual, anywhere outside of this city has ZERO traffic), I saw the back road I’d wanted to take that led to the top of the mountain bearing a castle… It was full of gravel two inches thick, and a passel of mountain biking men were making their way up the trail. It was the first moment in my bike-life where I was disappointed with my Fuji. Access denied!
Nevertheless, I continued down the main road, hoping to gather some other great views, only to be disappointed again by a fuel refinery whose smoke filled a large cove and choked me as I pedaled uphill.
Despite these two small disappointments, I felt amazing. Rather than averaging the Cartagena-city-limits speed of 8 mph, I was at least able to come out of my morning with a 13-mph (hey, I said mountains, remember??) average speed of satisfaction. I could actually feel my muscles tightening, my quads pulling themselves into a gratified smile. How could I have put this ride off for so long??? Oh wait… I was trying to adjust to this insane schedule they have here of staying up late and getting up just before work.
Well… they can put the girl in Spain, but they can’t take the Colorado out of the girl. I think it’s time to start setting my alarm so I can brighten my day with the beauty of actual cycling.
feels like a weekend
and you’re missing my poems
just like i’m missing my words
me falta todo
rain seeps into every crevice
palm fronds droop
under the weight of water
and no one can believe me
(as usual)
when i tell them,
yes, i’m still coming,
yes, estoy en frente de tu edificio
open the door
let me in,
let me in,
let me be a part of your warmth
for this moment in time
(do you not see?
wet Crocs and all,
your money buys the barras de pan,
the giant bottle of olive oil,
the food to feed my family?
rain? rain? have you seen snow???)
i don’t have the words
to tell you how lonely
these morning moments are.
we watch from the balcony
the strange sounds at 4am,
like our 2.5-hour washer,
only different,
pouring out of God’s hands
and flooding the streets
my children’s first school holiday
inundated with entrapment
as they pitch fits about cleaning rooms
and pace hallways until
a stolen movie subdues them
there will be days like this
nights like this
with no escape
the small piso on level three
our only window to the world
and this
this
is when i miss you most
Spanish homes are spotless. Mothers put on special aprons to clean and everyone has a mop set like in a restaurant. They may have round-the-house clothing styles such as sweats and workout shirts, but they will never wear these things in public. I have seen them actually change clothes to run downstairs to the grocery store at the bottom of their building! How strange they must think I am, showing up at their doorsteps clad in bike shorts, clip-in shoes, a cycling jersey and a helmet in hand. No wonder I get wide-eyed looks wherever I go. I’m sure they just put their surprise aside and say to themselves, “Those crazy Americans.”
Perhaps they’re right. We are a bit crazy, or at least I’m a bit crazy. Not so sure anyone I know would drag a family across the sea for a year in Spain, but I’m pretty positive there’s not a crazy enough person on the planet to ALSO drag her bicycle with her!!
I thought for sure that everyone here would walk everywhere, and that the public transportation system would be awesome, much more effective than in the United States. I am disappointed to announce that both beliefs are untrue. Spaniards walk. Hell, there are crosswalks every five seconds, and all cars obey them if a pedestrian is present (Boulder! I’m living in Boulder, a dream come true!!). But Spaniards walk two blocks to the closest market or cafe, and then they either drive (most of them have cars) or sit patiently for the bus to take them the rest of the one mile if they have to go any further than that. I have no idea how they have the patience to wait for a bus that takes them nowhere. The bus system here is completely ineffective. To get from my apartment to the center of the city, where anything and everything happens, it is an easy two-mile walk (or cycle!), or I can wait, pay 1,20€, and take not one, but TWO buses. Why would anyone in their right mind choose to wait and pay for a bus when walking is much better for the body?
Speaking of bodies, Spaniards are beautiful people. I have seen more attractive people here than just about anywhere else. And of course they’re all skinny. To go along with my original beliefs, I’d always assumed they were thin from having to walk everywhere. But that’s not it. Not in the least.
After a month of having to choke on the constant smell of tobacco, adjust to the Spanish siesta schedule where we have to wait from 7:30 till 3:00 to eat? I have finally come up with the reason Spaniards are so thin: coffee and cigarettes. They live for their cafes, and for the outdoor seating which affords them the ability to smoke at all hours of the day. Even the teachers smoke!! Ugh! I’ve never seen so many smokers in all my life.
I guess we all have our demons. Mine is a bicycle I can’t live without, theirs are appearances on every occasion (even an errand) and needing tobacco to make it between meals. No matter how we choose to make it through the day, I think we can all look at each other and say, “Vale. No pasa nada.”
And do you know what I hate the most? I am a wordsmith. OK, maybe not the most amazing worker of words the world has ever seen, but I can say what I need to say, and what anyone else might be thinking as well, in a way that is genuine, that people can understand.
Do you know how difficult it is to go through each day and NOT be able to say what you want to say? To barely understand what those around you say in order to come up with an appropriate response? I am no longer witty. I am no longer audacious. I am just an ignorant fuck who sounds like a bumbling idiot.
If you were me, if you were the one whose parents and teachers told her at age eight, “You have a gift for words, you should be a writer,” do you know how difficult each waking moment would be? To know that your words were gone, stripped, tossed away? That your children’s words, the social butterfly oldest’s especially, the one who finds a friend in every circumstance, but has fear and anxiety now due to her language barrier, are all taken away??
And I ask myself, why am I here? Why have I demeaned myself to this extent that I will sit here crying for hours because my principal hates me so much that he told the department head that I deserved to be on my own, to travel to Murcia alone and figure out how to do my job because I have been so COLD to him???
I have met him twice, briefly, and I didn’t say much. I don’t talk much here. I am not myself. And now I am hated for not being myself, just like I am hated in other places for using my mouth too fucking much.
Why would I do this? Why would I turn down a viable job with a decent salary to become a teacher assistant in a foreign country where I CLEARLY don’t fit in, where the language burns my tongue, limits my every movement, where we are paupers with kids in a shitty school, where I have pulled myself ten notches down from my earned position in life?
The irony of it all: to learn a language. To find a new set of words, a new way of describing the world, to take on and imbed the words somewhere deep down, plant them in my soul for the hope of a different, better, view of this world.
Por favor. Ayúdame. He perdido mis palabras!
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