On My Reading List

In April, I traveled to Pais Vasco, or the Basque Region, in Spain with a few friends who had flown in from the U.S. That region of the country has been made famous by ETA, the terrorist pro-sovereignty group that has killed over 800 people since it's founding in 1959. Yesterday, the most recent fatal attack occured in a town just outside of Bilbao, famous for it's Guggenheim Museum, in which a police officer was killed. Usually, the attacks are non-fatal, such as the attack in October at the University of Navarra in Pamplona, and sometimes attacks that are not intended to have victims end up being fatal, such as the bombing of Madrid's Barajas Airport parking garage bombing in 2006. The group is viewed in understandably bad light by the rest of the world and even the residents of Pais Vasco are mostly unsupportive of the group that brings shameful fame to their culturally significant little corner of the Bay of Biscay.


Most of what I know I learned from a good friend of mine who studied the violent nationalist group in college and wrote her thesis on the violent nationalist group ETA versus the non-violent nationalist campaigns of the Catalan region in Spain. Pais Vasco has an extremely culturally rich as well as tragic history. The oldest European language, Euskara, is from there and developed independent of all other languages as no base language has been identified as one whose structure Euskara has adopted. During the Spanish Civil War, Franco chose Guernica, a tiny city in the region, to give to Hitler as a gift to test his Blitzkreig military strike concept, causing devasting life loss and destruction to a city that had done nothing do deserve it.

Getting now to the subject of this post, on my reading list is "Basque History of the World," written by Mark Kurlansky. I'm looking forward to learning more about their history and culture so that I have a better idea of who they are, and am not just thinking about them in terms of their connection to ETA.

Holly

This past Thursday, my cat of almost 20 years, the cat I grew up with who I coaxed into loving me after years of pulling her tail and accidentally rocking a chair over her recently declawed paws, passed away. She lived a very long life and for most of it she was in great health. I'm glad to say that she probably only suffered for one week before she died, and that's because she stopped eating. The timing was interesting-- I had been home from Spain a little less then two weeks and Kim and her family were in town. I don't think Kim and I have been around the cat at the same time in over two years. She went with her whole family around her, and I don't think that was a coincidence.

Being home has been an emotionally charged experience in many ways and I was thinking about how being around Holly, petting her and singing to her (she loved Disney music), would always help me sort out my problems and feel better. I think it was that by giving her attention and singing to her I was making her happy and it's so easy to tell when a cat is happy--they purr. That, in turn, would help me feel happy. The singing started when I was about 5 years old and watching a movie, I think it was All Dogs Go To Heaven, and there's a part in there where the little girl sings. Holly had always liked the sounds of a recorder, and I remember that Holly perked up when she heard the singing and so I got the idea that she liked music and began singing to her. After basically torturing the poor cat when I was younger, I had much ass-kissing to do. I also noticed that she liked hearing The Colors of the Wind and so I began singing that song too. It took a little while, but eventually she began to trust me enough that she would let me pet her while I was singing instead of rubbing her neck and face against a corner and purring just out of my reach.

I really had to work to get her to like me and it definitely paid off. Once she was comfortable enough to let me pet her, it was like instant medicine--after all there is such a thing as pet therapy. I always tell people that I like both cats and dogs and while I eventually plan on having both, if I could choose one or the other I would choose cats. They may not be in your face happy to see you like dogs usually are, but they are happy in their own, less energetic, way. Just by letting me be one of the three people in the world who she let close enough to touch her, and by enjoying my less than beautiful singing, Holly showed me that she had let go of my annoying, little kid ways.

Sorry for all the tail-pulling, Holly. I'll miss you!

Just Some Thoughts

I miss speaking Spanish even though I didn't speak it that well. I miss the feeling of being a foreigner, even though it came with many awkward moments (I don't know why I miss it and don't intend on figuring it out). I miss the people who helped me with Spanish and made me feel comfortable in Jaen. Once I find a job and get settled in a place, I plan on finding a volunteering opportunity where I can help people learn English and help them feel part of a community.

Maine

My family and I are spending a few days up in Maine in small beach town called Ogunquit. It looks like what you would imagine from a New England beach: rolling waves smashing against craggy rocks and bursting into coves. There is a path that goes along the beach from our hotel on to other small beachside towns. This morning, I took advantage of the gray, cloudy skies and went for a jog, something I love doing but somehow rarely find the time to do. There’s really something about the ocean air that makes everything more enjoyable, even the feeling of sweat gathering along my forehead. The view reminded me of the movie Life As a House, with Hayden Christianson (pre-Star Wars) and Kevin Klein. While there was no cliff sheer enough to jump off of into the water like in the movie, I imagined that if there were a sunset on the horizon (there wouldn’t be—we are, after all, on the Atlantic and not Pacific) and it were warmer (it wouldn’t be—it’s Maine), I would have had a strong urge to jump into the water.

I’ve been to a few beaches on the Mediterranean: the beach in Nice, France, even though it’s more like a gravel parking lot and not a beach, and the beaches in Marbella and Torremolinos, Spain. A week and a half ago, I was actually at the Torremolinos Beach, and I don’t think there has ever been a period in my life where I go to a beach more than once every few months (if not once every few years). It struck me that while the two beaches, Ogunquit and Torremolinos, are on opposite sides of an ocean, and the one in Spain is technically on the Mediterranean Sea, not the Atlantic, that I was looking at the same body of water. I know, existential moment that has been written about too many times, but it’s one of the first times that thought has hit me with the strength it did. If there’s ever anything to be compared from country to another, it should be the beaches. Some will have cliffs, others will have rocks, and even more others will just slowly fade into the waters to where the sand came from, but they all give that same, majestic feeling of smallness and, at the same time, unification.

Family

My sister Kim, her husband Nathan, and their 6-month old baby boy Camden, flew in on Friday night for a week long visit. Finally, after missing Camden's birth in November, I was able to meet the little guy. When I left for Spain in September, I knew I would not only miss out on his birth, but also on my chance to help my sister during that time and I wouldn't be around to help until I returned. And since then, I've been thinking about not only the personal sacrifices we make by studying abroad, doing programs like I did for a year, doing peace corps for 27 months, or just plain old moving permanently to another country, but also the family obligations we are choosing to push aside.

My family was more than supportive of my decision to leave for Spain but my Mom did remind me of what I would be missing. I had some time, obviously, to get used to the idea that I would be missing this event in my sister's life and I had some time to prepare for being very homesick during that time, so all in all I fared pretty well. But then I think about some of my friends who have done programs like Peace Corps and who didn't go home for at least a year. I imagine that if I had been doing something like that and found out while I was over there that my sister was pregnant, and knew I wouldn't be back until after the baby was born, it would have been extremely difficult.

Part of the reason I decided not to return to Spain next year was that I felt I had already missed out on enough. Who knows how often I will be able to see Camden now that I'm home, because hopefully soon I will be starting a job and will be very busy, but it's nice to know I have the option to see family on holidays and for important events.

Why I Was in Spain

The program I participated in in Spain was called "Auxiliares de Conversacion norteamericanos" and it was run by the Spanish Ministry of Education. These are all fancy words for the Spanish Government paid me to help teach English at a school. My school was in a small town called Cambil in the southern part of Spain. Specifically, it was here, in the eastern part of Andalucia. A town of about 3,000 people, when I received my placement in July 2008 I immediately google maps'd it and found the nearest big city. About 20 miles north is a city named Jaen, which is actually the capital of the province my school was in, and that is where I decided to live. All that I had to do until my September 17th departure date was worry about whether or not there would be a train, bus, bicycle, even a tractor that would be able to take me to my school.

Fortunately, about half the teachers at my school lived in Jaen and I found a ride and it was even in a car and I did not tell anyone about my willingness to have gone there in a tractor if it kept me from living in a tiny town. The school had one class of each grade from first through sixth and I spent an hour each week in each of these classes. My main role was to help with pronunciation, which if you've read my previous post, you know didn't go so well, but I also lead activities and games. Before I went to Spain, my knowledge of Spanish consisted of what I had learned in half a year of Spanish classes in high school, meaning that I did not and could not speak Spanish to my students. When I gave them instructions, I gave them in English. When I helped them with their assignments, I helped them in English. When I attempted to speak Spanish, I learned I was really good at making them laugh. Even though most students were not able to understand my instructions and other such things and required that the main teacher translate into Spanish, I was always amazed by the few kids in each class who were able to understand me and started working before the teacher translated.

One of the things I miss most about Spain are my students, even the bad ones. I feel like I got to know them pretty well, considering of course the language barrier and that we didn't share a love for High School Musical (yes, that movie made it to Europe). I think my kids liked me; after all, if nothing else, I didn't understand enough of what they were saying to know when they were saying bad things and punish them. Sure, I got made fun of, and I think I was pretty good at catching when that was happening because I'm pretty sure pointing at someone and giggling is universal. And eventually I learned enough Spanish to help them with assignments and things like that.

I'm not planning on teaching here in the US, although it is something I'm keeping in mind as I try to figure out what I want to do. Teaching elementary school-aged children in Spain gave me a different perspective on the country than I otherwise might have had if I were teaching adults or working in a different field altogether. You see so many older people there and know that if they are seventy or older, they have lived through a significant civil war and a ruthless leader and through them you see where the country has been. With children you are able to see a bit more of where the country is going, and although this obviously isn't specific to Spain, it is specific to my experience and an experience that I hope all people who get to live in a foreign country are able to have.

Culture shock, or is it?

Six days ago, I arrived at Boston Logan airport with two suitcases at a total of ninety pounds, an overstuffed backpack and a cheap knockoff rolling carry-on suitcase that I had bought for 14 euros at a Bazar Chino in my Spanish "hometown" of Jaen. Embarrased by my awkward ability to actually carry all of the stuff I had with me, I had grabbed a free metal cart and on went all of my life possessions from the previous nine months.

I was home after spending a meager twelve hours per week at a small elementary school in the countryside of Andalucia, assisting the English teacher by repeating her mispronunciation of words like "behrgare" (translation: burger) so that the students wouldn't get confused (people might have to ask a few times what they want to eat, but at least they'll get some semblance of a word instead of a finger pointing to the word on the menu). But what was I home to? A place that could use a little English pronunciation practice as well as a lesson in what it means to be a foreigner. Perhaps it's a bit too harsh to say that New Englanders need to re-learn how to pronounce things. After all, it's not the only place in the United States that I've lived that is easy to make fun of: Texas and Ohio aren't exactly English-problem free.

The day after coming home, on Saturday, I went with my Mom to run a few errands, which consisted of going to a mall to drop off glasses at a Lenscrafters and going to Walmart to get a few toiletries. Side note: I do not recommend going to either of these places on your first day back living in the US after being abroad for a while. The most shocking part about being in a Lenscrafters was that the employees were all holding gigantic plastic cups of a slushed coffee-like thing from a restaurant inside the mall somewhere. America really is the land of the jumbo-sized will last you a week in the desert drink. Now, I have to admit that I severely missed the coffee on the go offered by so many placed in the United States, a custom that labels you American and will make Spaniards glue their eyes on your hand that is holding your coffee/water/soda faster than you can say "my face is up here, please." The two mornings per week that I went to my school, I walked twenty minutes to catch my ride and each time, I was holding a coffee thermos. Even though I told myself that the people staring were all just jealous that I had coffee and they didn't, I can guarantee you that's not what they were thinking.

Walmart, even though I don't recommend a trip as soon as you arrive in the states, your obviously beloved homeland, was not as shocking as Lenscrafters. Maybe it's because I had already had the initial American mall interaction and was braced for whatever Walmart had to throw at me, but it's also because Europe has a very similar store called Carrefour that it reminded me of. The popcorn smell wasn't there in Europe, but who's counting details. What was surprising about Walmart was the gigantic aisle of cereal. Really, who needs that much cereal? But then I found a brand that I hadn't had since I left and became thankful for so many options.

So really, was I experiencing any kind of culture shock? After all, I lived in a city with almost no English speakers, a kind of fashion style that I'll just label as eclectic, tiny little dogs running around everywhere, so many people walking around that you felt sorry for those who had to drive cars, and a gorgeous mountain and olive panorama for as far as the eye could see for almost nine months. And now I'm in a place where everyone speaks English (where I'm learning to tune out conversations about so and so who did such and such), Gap fashion, an eerily quiet neighborhood where you rarely see the people you live next to, let alone their probably over-sized German Shepherds, and a panorama of never-ending trees.

The biggest difference? I've lost the sweet oblivion of not hearing about the neighbor of the person standing next to me in line who did such and such thing and can I really believe it.