Familiar Things

“Experiences are only as good as their catalogue and analysis.”  - Mars Chapman

I’ve had a lot of experiences.  I’m rotten at sharing them.  

For example, the other day I went to Retiro to soak up the Spanish sun and awoke to find a group of guys kicking the soccer ball around in a circle.  This would be no big deal, of course, and hardly worth sharing... except that not one of them had any pants on!  That’s right, they were playing soccer bare-chested and in their underwear - a wide array of underwear, might I add.  And they were having the time of their lives, delighted with their present circumstances and location. This is Spain.

Every week, I meet some new, interesting person.  There’s an African guy a few feet up the hill from my apartment who stands outside the Dia grocery store everyday holding newspapers and opening doors for old women.  The other day, I finally stopped to ask what he’s about.  As it turns out, he’s from Nigeria, and he’s working here to earn money.  He can’t return because of pending paperwork, but he says he doesn’t really want to anyway.  “Africa is rich,” he said.  “But the people are poor.  We don’t have even basic infrastructure - water, electricity, hospitals.  You learn that money isn’t important.  You can live without money, but you cannot get ahead without infrastructure.”  There’s an Iraqi man at church here, Mustafa, who has some incredible perspectives on The State of Things.  My German roommate, Florian, is a wealth of information and precision.  People are fascinating, and most of them are really, really terrific at sharing their experiences.  It’s easy to find them here.

So a lot of things have been charming.  A lot of things, though, have been grueling.  Hunting for an apartment was awful.  I saw some strange apartments, and some even stranger people.  Deal after deal fell through right before the closing date.  Living with a family an hour away from everything, this was a frustrating investment of time, as you can imagine.

Becoming familiar with the Spanish education system has been equally taxing, especially as an assistant coming from a full-blown teaching position.  As it turns out, a Fulbright ETA grant is, paradoxically, a sort of demotion.  While it translates to a low level of responsibility, it also means less power, control, and efficacy.  Hammering out an actual job description and personal mission for myself (because it was never given to me) relieved but did not console me.  I love my co-workers and I feel I can learn a lot from them.  There are just days that it seems a little futile.  (Please note - that’s an American measuring self-worth in productivity, right there.  Run and hide.)

Moreover, leaving a perfect life at home with truly wonderful friends, family, co-workers, a beautiful relationship, and a job I truly loved has been borderline tragedy.  If you feel you have not heard from me often enough, this is why, for I refuse to write when I am grumpy, irritated, angry, cynical, or just plain homesick.  It’s much more efficient to put on a brave face and rent a stupid car in Italy and have an adventure of sorts.  There are 15 days until I come home; I know this without having counted.


And yet, faced with the prospect of leaving, I'm realizing that over six months I have, in fact, carved out quite a life for myself.  I have friends from all walks of life and a multitude of countries (though admittedly, it's often difficult to escape the American expat community), and we meet up for tapas and savor the Spanish evening at a sidewalk cafe eating olives and patatas bravas with Tinto de Verano.  I only just located Golden Crisps at the Hiper [mercado] down the street, thanks to a friend's recommendation.  The annual Bollywood Festival last weekend breathed out colorful dances and delicious food.  Who knows what this weekend holds!  


The prospect of packing all of that up into two suitcases and leaving with little more than a truncated 'sta-lo is daunting and, if I'm honest with myself, borderline tragic.  To use the words of Prince Caspian, I've spent a lot of time missing what was taken from me.. but... luckily, I definitely haven't squandered what was given: experiences, experiences, experiences.  Memories, friends, food... that is my catalogue - the very beginning of it.  I am so thankful, and so, so blessed.  

Fifty-four Square Inches: A Word on Packing

A quick glance through any newspaper will likely inform you that obesity in America is on the rise. We love our food as much as we love our BBQ. (Indeed, The Economist just ran a long article about our BBQ pride; no region is exempt.) Now then, follow my logic: bigger people equals bigger clothes, and that equals bigger suitcases, right? Wouldn't it stand to reason that airlines, astute and well-informed on their customers as they are, would increase baggage allowances to accommodate our recent changes in... stature? (Please note, I say this as a disinterested patron of 5'8".)

But no! It would appear that the reverse has happened! Because of teaching, I didn't even start thinking about packing until two weeks before I left. Two weeks to transplant my entire existence. (By the way, if you've never tried this, you should. It's enlightening.) That is two weeks to decide which over-the-counter drugs are indispensable when you don't have the energy to explain what you need in a foreign language. Two weeks to plan your reading for the next 6 months. Two weeks to decide how to navigate the change of seasons, as well as to realize what items you're missing. (In my case, that would be a good winter coat and jeans, two items extremely hard to come by at short notice.) Finally, that is two weeks to find out what Spanish teachers wear, how that fits with your wardrobe, and to what extent you are going to conform... or not conform... and then arrange your suitcase accordingly.

Preparing the suitcase is a task in and of itself. There is, as everyone knows, a 50-pound limit for every suitcase you check. However, there is a very good chance that your suitcase will hold more than 50 pounds, and that there will be a good three inches left over on top, so it's important to distribute weight around your baggage well. If you do this, though, the extra space is maddening. Clearly, Samsonite and Delsey have acclimated to our enlarged population quite well.

It came as a bit of surprise, then, when at the airport check-in, they charged me extra money for my second bag. What, you say?! One bag! That's right, my friends. American Airlines has generously allowed you one bag for your international trip. But, you say, doesn't 'international' imply that it will most likely be a long trip? Why would they take away your second bag? Surely no other airline does this!

Alas, such is the sad state of things. Last time I checked, Lufthansa and Iberica allow two bags. Foreign airlines, whose citizens are decidedly smaller than ours, not to mention less materialistic (that is to say, more minimalist). Go figure.

Is there, in fact, a correlation between a person's weight and the baggage allowance? Probably not. But I maintain that there is a decided gap in marketing strategies somewhere along the line. In a nation that caters to our every whim and vanity, you would think that something as extravagant as air travel would follow suite. But to charge for an additional bag... that is extravagant.

The Starting Gate

As soon as they hear about my upcoming sojourn to Spain, people inevitably ask me two questions:

1. When are you leaving?
2. Are you excited?

That would be January 4th, Pat, for $800 please.

And no, I am not excited... yet. But thank you for asking.

Normally, I would be rearing to go. It's Spain, after all! But after fishing about in my soul for several days now, I really don't think I can say that I'm excited. Rather, it's stressing me out. You see, there is a saying in my family, one that somehow became ingrained in my psyche in spite of all my efforts to repel any of their wisdom: "Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might," they say. Problematic, to say the least.

What have my hands found to do?

I have 75 sophomore students depending on me to be their teacher. 75 sophomore students who just learned I was leaving. 75 sophomore students who need a kick in the pants and a reason to dream.

I can't give it to them; I suffer from no savior illusion.

But I can give them a run for their money; and share whatever I have left to give and hope that those 5 loaves and 3 fish multiply; and show them that quitters never win and winners never quit... and whatever other cliche that happens to prove true.

I can help them learn how to beat the test and help them see that even though they are facing an academic world that caters to white, middle-class students, they can play the game, too, for let us not deceive ourselves - it really is a game. You just have to know which two answers to eliminate.

I can squeeze one more essay out of them because they will work for me unlike they will work for the person who is going to take my place - at least for the first week or so. I have high hopes for him, bless his soul. My kids want to love someone, but they're stubborn buggers about it. He'll be okay.

I can support my co-workers and add some levity to an otherwise odious week. I can listen to their stories and learn from their experience. Referrals, it seems, are not all equal - or bad.

I can enjoy the days I have with the people I know and the opportunities I've been given.

School is what my hand found to do, and by golly, I'm going to do it. It's a fight to do it well, of course; no one likes knowing there are only four days... three days... two days... before infinite amounts of freedom.

Does that prevent me from being excited? No, not really.

But add to that planning classes, enjoying an unbelievable number of wonderful friends as well as a great family, and putting the finishing touches on travel preparations.

Actually, that's inaccurate. Aside from completing a mountain of paperwork and a Black Friday forage for luggage, I have made few travel preparations. January 4th looms ever closer. And I still don't have my visa.

Details, details, details!

My hands are full, to say the least. Thank God I'm not married! Although... hmm... yes.

Am I excited? No.

Ask me again in four days.