Foreign

The winds come up from Africa, the Sahara to be specific and shake the planet late some nights.  It sounds like the roof will pull right off as the hinges strain on the shutter windows.  Isn't that exotic? It even feels exotic tumbling out in my north Chicagoan nasal voice.  Sometimes I playfully whisper, "Africa."  The students find my accent strange.  They often mock me when I say things like " bag" or "pop."  It's cute that they think that they don't possess one.  I hear more Pitbull here than in the United States, seriously- and it's interesting to watch what happens to the students when a popular American song comes on.  They look longingly with their doe eyes and you can almost see a small tear shed as they belt out AS LOUD AS THEY CAN, those familiar lyrics.  Every outing has resulted in a frantic search for a Mexican restaurant.   I think we are getting home sick, as much as they say they aren't- I can smell it on them.  They LOVE the tourist shops, coveting keychains and tourist tees.  Bless their hearts.  They are foreigners.  I am a foreigner.  Everything is different for us here.  

  

     This week we found a kebab place in the village, but what was there truly inspired.  A Spanish local woman makes home cooked food in a menu del dia, for 6 Euro with three courses to take away.  The best spanish food I have had so far has been from a kebab place, where she cooks from her own kitchen with her little one peaking through the door and husband politely doling out the goods.  It's so Post Modern.   I'm glad I can buy it out in the open because it's a bit like crack.  I don't know if you've even known you were sad AFTER eating something because it elated you so.  I have seen the light.  Paella.  Roasted chicken with ratatouille.  Torte.  Let's just say I went back the next day and I may visit again today.  She WILL be my friend.  I will have the recipes.  She WILL acquiesce.  

     

      This weekend we went to the Costa del Sol, Malaga and Nerja and a little town I can't in any way pronounce much less write on an iPad.  I may blow up the autocorrect.  Malaga was such a cool city, costal with a fresh young vibe, which reminded me of Spanish colonial Caribbean islands.  The streets were narrow and the restaurants were all packed with people spilling out on the patios sipping coffee and wine.  The architecture, as always here was spectacular.  Details abound.  I took too may pictures.  I could easily live there.  We saw a beautiful,"one armed" cathedral that was unfinished but nothing sorely missed.  We see many cathedrals here.  Most don't dissapoint.  

      Sadly we left so early in the morning we needed calories and caffeine and luckily the liaisons let us stop for provisions.  So the morning started out rough but quickly turned a corner after we had taken care of our stabby dispositions.  We saw a ruined roman theatre in the center of town as well as Picasso' childhood home and baptismal church around the corner.  For some reason I thought he came from a meager beginning, not the case.  Definitely comfortable.  The house had two floors filled with prints but the highlights were his sketchbooks, his drawing horse and supplies and his childhood books complete with illustrations.  It was truly interesting to see how violent and influential his imagery from childhood was.  

After our half day wandering, we trekked to a small village where Jose de Gálvez was born and buried.  He was a kind of John Wayne to the Spaniards during the 16th century acting as an expansionist for the kingdom in both South America and in Alabama, Florida and California.  My eyebrow raised several times after touring the museum due to an interesting read on history and the lense that was presented about "heroism, expansion and liberation."  The lovely mayor treated us to a delightful meal of pork, ratatouille and patatas fritas.  We toured de Galves' church and crypt with a professional and thoughtful thanks delivered by An articulate and considerate volunteer named Clay. 

That evening we hauled off on the bus to Nerja, a costal city with beaches, shopping, eating and the ever important strolling so prevelant throughout Europe.  We immediately dropped our bags in the hostel and made way for the beach, dipping our toes gleefully in the Mediterranean water.  And then getting out again...because the water in April is about 50 degrees.   Nerja is a tourist town and it was an interesting cross section of Europe.  We watched folks walking watching us.  We walked the promenade sipping on cafe con leche and the students chewing on gelato.  We were in heaven after our long day, I think.

      The next day was filled witha few hours relaxing on the beach.   An early morning to see the light rise and a later morning just lying there.   I watched the kid's stuff as a few dunked themselves in the water and horsed around.  We looked at shops and most importantly had a two hour meal outside of a Mexican restaraunt.  Hallelujah.  Tortilla chips and guacamole.  We chatted about the day, the personalities on the trip and our dreams for the future.  No really, we talked about our dreams.  It's funny what the long meal ( but also familiarity from back home and a two for one drink special) brings out in people.  We capped the day off with a treat or two from a patisserie across the hostel and a quiet busride home.  We were all in bed early I think.  

Real life.

      

      So rest assured, real life has set in.  It's not quite boring but it is certainly quiet.  Classes, shopping for groceries, trying our hand at travel all while balancing responsibilities back home here and there.  My morning is filled with a group Euro style breakfast in the hotel bar.  Pan de tostada con mermelada and a cafe con leche is my preferred start. The kids opt for juevos revueltos (scrambled eggs that they complain is made with olive oil.) EVERYTHING has olive oil here.  Did you know that there are like 150 calories per teaspoon?  I wonder if they all do?   We use copious amounts.  My hands are never dry and always slippery.  I'm not sure if I am getting fatter or thinner.  Certainly I can power walk the hell out of my dogs now.   Fran, the hotel waiter is snarky, patronizing and truly perfect.  He forces all of us to repeat again and again the correct pronunciation of things, quizzing us along the way with a look of patient disdain.  I wish I could communicate my own snark back because we'd be two peas in pod.  I'd like to have a beer with him. His little stocky boy poops with the door open.  Adorable.  I want to smother him with kisses, the boy not the man.  ;)  

 

     We made spring break arrangements last week, ALL in Spanish with a competent and athletic travel agent named Rocio.  Again, ALL in Spanish.  After having a group of seven get quoted for a $500 with another agent, she found our flights to Paris, then Rome, then back for $250.  It took two days of conversations and three hours listening to her pick up unrelated phone calls again and again, but our patience paid off.  Nothing is efficient here.  NOTHING.  We had a twenty minute conversation (very one sided mind you) with a cute little clothes shop owner who told us of the party places, emphasizing Ibiza and the discotheques, which of course held my interest.  I followed almost 90 percent of what she said.  Most of my difficulty is in speaking but yeah, I really don't understand enough.  It's oddly surreal not being able to communicate and rely on charm.  I feel very selfish and apologetic most of the time.    

      We went on a trek to Granada last Friday on the bus!  Beats the hell out of Greyhound.  Nothing was sticky, no one was rubbing their private parts on my shoulder and no one was speaking to themselves.  It was a cushy 4 Euro for an hour ride.  It's the way to travel except for the unclear routing and pickup locations.  Not even a single whif of B.O.  Additionally, some local Spanish teenagers trying to mack on a few of the AState girls invited us out to a night basketball game.  It was a highschool girls game and a great time, although it was a painful reminder of my awkward days as a forward.  It's funny how universally wonky those years are for every young woman, down to the gratuitous forced high fives, "good job" at the end with the opposing team.  I had more than one shudder.  We went to the library yesterday, having the students pick out children's books.  We are having them create short illustrated Spanish books for an assignment.  Should be fun.

       When I'm not working, I've been spending a huge amount of time with the students.  Coffee daily, adventures near and far and the hotel, which is incredibly similar to a dorm by the way.  They are respectful of my privacy but thankfully include me.  They are so eager to laugh and share.  I love it.  They are very diverse in their personalities, one does impressions of everyone's mannerisms, one loves foreign films, one is quietly adventurous and brave and lovely, one is bookish and razor sharp, one is an unexpectedly complicated athletic frat boy, one is quietly pining for a girlfriend ( aren't they all?)....  It's funny because I hear people my age often talk of how narrow this age group is-but all they need is an ear.  They all have something unique to share but unaware that so much is consistent across the board.  It's ironic because most of these students don't have any idea who they are but it's clear to me because I've a few years on them.  I smirk often watching them figure stuff out that I've been through already or seen a thousand times.  It's just like the "a ha" moment in a classroom but in real time, real life.  It's been fun to watch them consider something they haven't had time to, especially outside of the classroom.  We spent an evening talking about body politics and the complex problem of Nikki Minaj over glasses of wine.  I am on the clock at all moments though here, which is strange.  I'm performing a lot.  The happy, fun face is on all the time here.  Which hasn't allowed me to really consider where I am at with things.  I've not really had many private moments, which a mixed bag.  It's a good distraction I think.  I give a lot of advice, hypocritical advice but hey, I feel like I help.  And they don't know the truth, which is that I'm full of it more often than not.   ;)

     The skype dates are hard.  I cry through most of them, or swallow it down.  I've so much to share.  About cultural differences, oddities, reflections, but somehow feel that the observations I find interesting, about feeling foreign -are best shared with the group here.  I'm not homesick.  I'm loved one sick.  I'm physically very affectionate and the last real hug I had was at the airport.  Lots of double cheek kisses with strangers however, but you can expect that it's not at all the same.   I'd kill for a Saturday with Joe, coffee, lunch, a dog walk and a matinee.  It's funny that the things you think you will miss desperately, you don't at all.  I'm in desperate need of a cuddle, a movie with a big screen, and the sound of dogs lapping up water from the next room.  Oh!  And underfoot carpet.  I've had such a hatred of carpet because of dogs, but when it's gone you miss its plushy warmth, especially considering how every floor is cold marble.  I combat this with the ugliest pair of man slippers purchased from the God send that is the Chinese Bazaar.  This place is like a Euro Big Lots.  So cheap, so good.  I bought a warm coat there for 20 Euro but have to smack student's hands away when they try to pull a loose string.  It may just explode from the cheapness.  I bought a pair of the coolest boots though this weekend in Granada.  The European woman are always asking if what I want is for one of the male students I'm with.  I obviously don't fit in wherever I go.  Here I just look like a clunky Brit.  These boots though?  Like truly Euro cool, and a cool hundred too.  But they'll last forever and I've a soft spot for shoes.  The perfumery will have to wait until Paris.  I suspect I won't fit in there either but bump that noise.  I'll eat pastries and sip coffee like a English milk maid with bad manners.  Everyone here is dark, thick black hair and olive skin.  Beautiful in an ancient Arabic way, always strolling.  Blondes stick out like a sore thumb.  It's odd hearing a blonde speak Spanish in Andalucia.  The men don't really speak much around their ladies but the chicks chatter on incessantly, unless a futbol game is on.  Women over 50 here look like there is a required uniform of 200 pounds of soft fleshy warmth and a sweater set.   One ran after me hissing "Chica!  Chica! Chica!" Thinking I could fix her phone.  At the businesses,  I get called señorita AND Señora, which is great because I like being both young and old, somewhere in between.  

      This weekend we are traveling to the Costa del Sol, a city called Malaga and another one I can't recall right now.  Should be interesting.  I've not seen much art yet so I hope to stumble on something inspiring, but as of now- the landscape still wins.  Hopefully it's an adventure.  I have booked travel to London, France and Italy so far outside of program events.  With a small student group, Barcelona is in the works and perhaps a jaunt to Morocco and maybe skiing near Granada, where in truth I'll happily sit by a fire doing photoshop mockups for my work sipping a coffee and chewing on some queso.  I've a lot to look forward to.  Those breathtaking moments are quite addictive.  Out for now!

Arrived!

     So my travels were quiet for the most part.  I am savoring the time I have in slight anonymity, silently reading and watching.  The students are far from comfortable with each other, with long silences and unsure conversation. We arrived in Madrid from Dallas and then hopped a quick plane into Granada.  The movie I bothered to tune into was a twee Chloe Morretz teen romance.  I'll never get that two hours back but hey, the empty seat beside me made things easier.  A poor chicken lost its life to have me chew a single piece and decide otherwise.  Microwaves are the new airplane ovens sadly.  The drive to Lanjaron was absolutely breathtaking.  It's spring in the mountains with orange blossoms, almonds, lemons and olives scattered across a treacherous terrain.  It's arid here, with seemingly unhospitable soil filled with rocks producing a surprising bounty.  It resembles the Rockies.  The mountainsides are covered in quaint ancient villages with terraced farms cutting into the hillsides.  This you notice as you move away from the graffiti blasted, car dealership littered, modernized Granada.  Although spectacular, the look down from a cliff side was enough to make me lean in the opposite direction. 

     The hotel is a hotel that De Lorca vacationed in.  It's very charming, filled with old details with its heyday probably during Franco's height of power.  Every door and lock is probably a hundred years old.  The heat is NOT on.  I type this while under two woolen blankets, wearing all my clothes, a hoodie (Arkansas State of course) and a scarf.  We had a three course lunch in the hotel restaurant at 3 o'clock!  Lunch, at 3.  I had beef stew, calamari (which blew my mind) and a pot of mouse chocolate.  And wine.  There was wine.  Red wine.  I am going to have to get used to that.  They expect me to eat dinner at 10pm.  Being the old woman that I am, that will take some adjustment.  I'm usually up at 5:30.  I plan on lovely walks in town and on the mountainside,followed by a daily market shop.  I hope to purchase a coffee maker for my room, which I will covet secretly not sharing a drop while I toil on my dirty little paintings.  Did I mention that it's freezing?  Hopefully the time change will allow me to adapt to late nights.  My exchanges in Spanish have been mixed, mostly I have a confused idiotic stare to my face and the Spaniards just repeat, repeat, repeat.  Then they just go ahead and do whatever it is they are asking me to do.  My hotel room is somewhat spacious, marble floors with a bidet to make crude jokes about.  The food network is on but EVERYTHING is dubbed over in Espanol.  I hear a dog barking and birds chirping in the courtyard that my veranda opens up to, it's beautiful but the staff smoke and gossip there.   Better get on the whole language thing.  Spanish women are very dramatic.  I like it.