La Clase

ALVARO, PABLO, MIGUEL, ALEX, IGNACO, JAIME: LA CLASE!!!

I jumped sort of blindly into class. The first session started before I met the parents, Celia and Antonio. Celia was to tell me how she wanted to boys taught, so I winged it. And by winged it I mean we played games. I just asked the little dudes what they liked to do with their former tutors, and shocker, games are at the top.

Games are great ways to break the ice quickly with kids, get them laughing and get yourself laughing. They're also a harmless way to test the skills of the kids and gauge where they are with the language. Simon Says, Hangman. After busting the ice have a conversation. Get to know the kids, ask open ended questions, get them talking. This will further reveal their handle of the language. I now start every class with a little conversation, which will sometimes go the whole the class and I believe those are the best classes. Conversation is the best practice. Of course a threshold of knowledge of the language is required for a 45 minute conversation, but if you sense an organic conversation developing with a more learned kid don't cut it off! Have a plan for each class, but don't be afraid of improvisation. If the conversation ends, jump into your plan, but carry on that conversation for as long as it's lively.

Most importantly keep your kids entertained and occupied. A bored kid is a distracted kid. But it's going to happen. You can't expect to have every minute covered. Use these lulls for a bit of conversation or goofiness. They are kids after all.

Something I didn't expect was to be dreaded. You know, I am "La Clase" learning, work, and concentration: all things icky. After coming from summer camp where counselors are revered by the kids, it kind of sucked to be representing something they wanted no part in. This is why I try to have as much fun with them as possible. Play with them in the pool, get them laughing during class. I want to erode the mountain of time 45 minutes can seem to a kid right after school or in the middle of a summer day. They may never want to have class, but hopefully they'll want to hang out with you even if you make them *gasp* read and write.

Cinco cosas:

When you meet a girl in Spain kiss her once on each cheek.

When you become super close you level up to one kiss. You're so close one kiss is all you need.

When someone comes up to you laughing and mouth-sprinting in Spanish just laugh and say valevalevale hahaha sisi vale. If they ask a question which you know because they stopped talking and are looking at you say No se and run away.

Madrileños are super friendly!

Go to El Tigre. Get a pint of beer. Yes a pint. And a complimentarty heaping plate of tapas. For 6 euro.

The Magnificent Madrid Metro

A quick something about the Madrid metro: it is phenomenal. Simple, user friendly, plain to see maps in every station, around every corner, easily guiding you to your transfer. Logical straight forward representations of each line are cleanly presented inside each car. One does not need to speak the language to navigate the Madrid metro but only recognize station names. Comprehension is not necessary. I've had much less stress working the Madrid metro than NYC's, funny because I speak English. Recalling my early struggles with the T in Boston I'm thankful for the Madrid metro.

Ahh the T. Unpredictable arrivals with only departing crowds, waiting crowds, or no crowds to inform you of a train's time of arrival or departure (I'm looking at you green line). Dingy stations, crowded tiny cars, oh the nostalgia of the sardine tin conditions. Come to Madrid where every arrival is only a few minutes away, telling you on a ticker, which will then flash--get this--the arrival of the following train. I did not know such technology existed. Where every car is clean and spacious. And stations rock this sort of artwork:

My station, Paco de Lucia

Hey Boston, take some friggin' notes. 

Una Entrada de Diario: Un Amigo

After the sharpening mornings, where my jet lag was polished away, I began to venture out and quickly found my mind shocked out if its American suburban slumber; not an unexpected one, not a lightening strike, but a slow, daily unfamiliarity. The soft tissue of the in-between, indeed became moments themselves, moments imperceptible at home, but sharp memories here: the woman lighting her cigarette in my peripheral, the ordering of a drink, being asked for directions in Spanish. Snapped from twenty-three years of unwitting practice in English and American culture, here, my mind has become sort of heightened, peeled to basic advertisements, casual metro conversations, and simple events. However, I remain apart, like oil on water, because I'm so attuned to these normally frictionless moments. This was no more apparent than on my trip to Farraday Café. 

"...see a stone is Spain and think of it as, in some essential sense stonier..." Ben Lerner, Leaving the Atocha Station. 

I sat down and after reciting Puedo tomar una cerveza, the waiter asked me, to what I deduced as, What kind? Faced with improvisation, I was lost. My face went blank and, unable to communicate my desire, I fumbled through incoherent phrases and words. Reduced to miming, I pointed at a small sticker on the the chair opposite me, advertising a beer. Estrella, I said, butchering the double L. He said something that came down to We don't have Estrella. I was sweating now, painfully aware of my inability in basic communication. Moad (pronounced Moahdd) as I learned his name to be, rescued me, and in his blur of Spanish I caught Amstel. Sisisisi, I spit out. He smiled said Vale (Ok, or some equivalent) and brought me an Amstel. Blood still thumping with the adrenaline of a basic conversational exchange, I downed the Amstel. Moad came over and asked in a noticeable but smooth accent, Where are you from? Soy de Boston, I replied. And we patched a conversation together with pieces of English and Spanish, resulting in that solid European handshake thing. La cuenta, I said, asking for the bill. He brought it and told me to comeback again and again. I said Sisisi and walked away with a stupid grin only a friend can provide. 

Desperate Literature: A Preface

A preface for the next blog: If by some fortunate fate of the gods you end up in Madrid and you like to read and want to meet cool people who also like to read go to Desperate Literature. Just off of Plaza de Isabella II, it sits at the end of a narrow curved calle. Inside Fench, English, and Spanish fiction and nonfiction line the shelves. In the back, a small chessboard is adorned with a “Please Play!” sign. Certain books, when purchased, come with a shot of whiskey; tea and biscuits at the appropriate hour; but most importantly, Charlotte, who’s there to offer you cold water, or her considerable literary ken. She recommended Leaving the Atocha Station by Ben Lerner, the inspiration for the following style of my blog posts and inspiration beyond the blog. Desperate Literature is a jewel.

Leaving and it's Lead Up

Hey there reader, consumer of my words, thanks for doing so. I'm doing this for those curious about mi vida en España and for myself so I have something to look back on before this summer is over. 

I'll be posting updates about Spain and Madrid, but also other creative writings, which may or may not have anything to do with Spain. Thanks for reading!

Tucked away in downtown Salem sits the Village Tavern. It had become the spot during the few month lull before Spain and there I was the night before takeoff. Pool balls were clacking, and friends were buying drinks, "Yeah I'll have another." My ideal low-key send off. I was sick of answering "Are you excited?"

Yes, yes I definitely was but I'm sorry to say I had begun to look past my time there. It had become easy to sort of forget about going. I mean I always knew, but it was some off in the distance thing like graduation when you’re a freshman. 

But then I started to pack. 

Then I was dropped off at the airport and flew all night. 

Then all the big bold print on signs was in Spanish.  

Then the cab driver spoke no English (wait, that’s pretty much the same). I recited the address I had been practicing over and over in my head, "Calle Nuria, Noventa y tres."

"Veinte?"

"No. Noventa, por favor." And we were off, the Spanish radio on low. We arrived and I clumsily asked "How much?"

"Treinte."  Mouth shut I handed him the thirty euro (euros?). He said Gracias and I turned to gaze, squint, through the high sun, at my home for the next three months. A big brick building with rows of small balconies and a surrounding complex of lawns, trees, y una piscina. 

At the door I heard a gurgle of Spanish behind me, and turned to see a face awaiting an answer. “Sorry, no hablo Español.” I was buzzed in by who turned out to be Pablo. He greeted me at the door  

 and showed me my room, the bathroom, and the kitchen. I unpacked and Pablo got back to watching Garfield so I zonked out.

Cinco cosas:

La cuenta, por favor: The bill please

Que es esto?: What is this?

Puedo tomar...: Can I have...?

Un café solo: espresso

Una cerveza por favor: A beer please