"Hey, do you have a boyfriend?"

Remember aforementioned brat? (See "Economics of tutoring: Cost Benefits"for explanation, if not.)

Today I had my last English lesson with the aforementioned. After an ernest hour of effort, he sat down next to me on the sofa, calmly for the first time that hour. Then he interjected in Spanish, as he loves to do. In an almost-practiced manner, he began with an honest question about American culture and then dove straight in, "¿Pues, tienes un novio?" jaja

(Random brother and sister at Jaén's Feria)

Even at age 10, Spanish men (or boys) think they have game. For the record, he still dislikes English. 

24 before 25. Video-making, stage one.

I first read about the goal-system, x-1 before x, on a blog. I took an instant shining. Better than New Year's Resolutions, the simple math equation is direct and more personal. I started my own; 24 things to do (big, small and a few admittedly impossible) before I turn 25.

Last year, I wanted to learn Spanish (partial check mark), run a marathon (check!) and get something published (check! check!). This year, I'm learning to create video. Photography is my go-to creative outlet, but with the extra plus one on my age, I'm ready to evolve and push my tech-savvy beyond the average Joe or Karen. My first stab at video came last year. I was at Zhengzhou's ostrich farm, my first week in the heart of China.

It was my first go.

I used Apple's simplistic iMovie for editing and was still attempting to learn transitions, focusing and content. I was at phase one, shoot. My second go, one minute in Paris, is in the making. Unfortunately, in the larger screen mode, none of the video is clear. Another problem to figure out.

Ultimately, I'd love to learn how to make something like this.

Or this. Click "this" to see the link from Vimeo. 

It's almost Visa time--again.

Here's a look at the last time I tried to get a long-term Spanish student visa.


From afar, my mistake(s) had been obvious.  Sure, I could blame others, but the truth soaked my marrow like the rain dotted, then drenched, my clothes in a reassurance of the hilarity of it all.  Of course, hilarity, at that moment, as I trodded D.C. looking less Marilyn and more Manson, wasn't yet in use.  Rather, a slow drip, drip, drip, like the torture cell for a prisoner resonated.  And to that, I too felt its physical and mental twist.

The mistake: Never fax.  Or was it trust the mail of WeiWu Lu?

It has been a long 10 months.  Yes, TEN is the current count since I applied to Spain and here I am now.  Currently dry, but nonetheless marrow-soaked.  Go with me on this.

(Nepali prayer wheels could be useful.)

What have I learned?

1. You can't get fingerprints in China, unless you become a criminal.  Thus, creating a big problem for obtaining a background check and/or the right to get into another country.

2. The more problems you have (consult no. 1 for the beginning of such problems), the more questions you have, the more likely someone may start running away from you.  This is also true in my case.  Helen, I apologize.

3. Yes, you can order a fingerprint kit from Amazon.  You can also print your own fingerprints.  You can even get charged $18 for the FBI processing fee.  However, you won't get your results.  It will probably not be dark enough because it was blue.

4. Applying for "real" jobs in America is not fun.

5. DON'T FAX a background check.  This will mean it will not be notarized; you may not realize at first that this is a big deal.  It is.  They will tell you this in D.C. after you've made a special trip, stayed in a hostel and then will have to start from square one, again.  You will feel worse than step 4.

6. You will realize you have to go back to Des Moines, Iowa, which you just left, but don't have the money to fly back.  Instead, you will have to enlist the help of family-friends, family and Angel from the DCI.  Then, you will just have to cross your fingers and remember, you turned the prayer wheel in Nepal.

(For an American without a European passport, it's a long road to cutting the red tape and getting a Visa in Spain, but one worth it.)

The Saint of the olives, San Isidro.

Back in May of last year, I googled "Baeza, Spain" like any kid of the 21st century. I had just found out, according to my new English teaching contract, I'd be living there for eight months.  I had reason to know. Google produced a myriad variety of the same, the lion fountain, the cathedral, the plaza, but the real spirit of the town didn't appear: olives.

(Olive oil is like water here and its price reflects that mentality. That mega jug costs just 9 Euros at the supermarket.)

I hadn't been to Spain. I knew an embarrassing little about the cuisine (apart from "tapas" and paella). I was legless; I didn't even know how to say Jaén (my current home province) or find it on a map. (In other words, despite my four months in Chile, I could speak guiri talk, or tourist Spanish).

The education was quick. I remember that first week like a cocaine-influenced dream (think Requiem for a Dream). I was warped. In that honeymoon haze, I was relaxed in the friendly air that Spaniards are famous for, but as my words streamed from an email to a friend, I expected the year to be vexing, as in distressing, not annoying. In this small Spanish town, I didn't know how I was going to fit in. Tall, blonde and without an ear for the Andalusian accent (which is known unofficially as a different language, Andaluz), I was lost. Compound with a tongue ill-equiped to micmic the quick trills, I had little confidence. The opposite of the Spaniards who surrounded me.

I went through the next phase: negotiaiton, and soon enough, the adjustment phase. Baeza took on another sentiment. Not vexing nor stressing. Its spirit became evident: olivos, aceitunas, aceite de oliva. Which essentially all mean the same thing--derivable of the olive--olive trees, olives to be consumed, olive oil. Just as the Spanish language, even in its Andaluz form, became something I could understand.

On San Isidro, the celebration of the saint of agriculture, a procession of 20 band members, several well-dressed Spanish families, and the throned Saint marched through the heart of Baeza. The tallest image being the olive tree branch. Tourists clicked photos and I felt a twitch of pride. For one year, I knew what it meant to honor the olive.

In a total contrast, Madrid, too, celebrates San Isidro. Fireworks, concerts and a limitless number of drinking parties take over the public squares. It marks the beginning of the bullfighting season and the festival in Madrid. Their version of San Isidro only ends after two weeks of partying.

From what I know, not a single mention of olives or agriculture is made.

(A terrible ipod photo of Baeza and the procession. Do you see that olive tree branch? Yes, that's San Isidro.)

To give you a primer, check out this video. It explains Jaén and its reverence of olives. 

I still haven't gotten used to the wafting smell of the olive oil factories in the streets and school hallways. 

In case of a crash.

I'm attempting to save guard my computer in case of a diaster (I see the end coming soon). As so, here's the beginning of my Flickr upload. Click! to see more.

(Amish family in Baltimore's Inner Harbor)

(Portrait, my younger sister on the farm)

(Nadal after the gold medal win during the 2008 Beijing Olympics)

Hope? Not yet.

Except the chop of the helicopter circling in the blue sky, Retiro Park in Madrid exhibited all signs of normalcy. Groups of friends laughed, pairs of teenagers passionately pecked in the open grass, and dogs ran from tree to tree, as always, sniffing out their territory.

Down the hill, past the open-air book stalls and bikers, hoards of people gathered, until their bodies amasssed to one large clump extending farther than my eye could see. Only a police officer on a motor bike putted through, slowly. Their chant was the same I had heard the night before, "¡Huelga, huelga general!" Strike, the general strike! The aim--labor reforms for Spain's population, mainly the young and educated, waiting for their luck to swing or the government to take action in their favor.

In Spain's largest cities, protesters had taken to the streets, in the process, stickering their message, "No consumas, Cerrado, Huelga General" (Don't buy, Closed, the General Strike!) everywhere, storefront windows, advertisements, and one unlucky Porsche parked in front of the Ritz. "Ladrones" was spray painted on bank windows (robbers), asesinos (murderers) to McDonalds and Starbucks, and the anarchy A to any surface that would catch a by-passer's attention. Trash cans exploded with mini bombs placed inside and one large dumpster was set aflame near Puerta de Sol.


Thousands marched and with their strength of numbers, confidence oozed, it was mob mentality. Various leaders would storm into a storefront to force the business, big or small, to lock their doors and shut down. The threat: spray paint, damaged products and huelga (strike) stickers, on every surface. Each time it was the same, similar to an orchestrated routine. After the span of five minutes a clanking shield finally came down. Another store closed and with it the chorus of whistles, shouts and shrieks from the crowd, approval.

Allison and I found the group mid-march Wednesday evening. The official kick-off was 10 p.m. that night, La Puerta de Sol was filled with protesters swinging their official red flags and boasting slogans scribbled on posters, "No pan. No paz." No bread. No peace. It was reminscient of a 21st century French Revolution with iPhones, Youtube videos in the making and T.V. crews gathering on the fringes. Like the media, Allison and I hung back, we didn't know what the grand plan was, but if it included something violent, we didn't want to be in the heart of it. We had jobs, after all.


As young Americans, we were unaccustomed to authorized nationwide strikes. We had missed the strikes calling out the 1%. Only videos via the web kept us informed enough to know they had happened and then just as quickly, ended. Our generation didn't have the same strength,"Power of the People".

Despite the numbers, Spain's leader and President, Rajoy, had already announced no change would happen, but for those sanctioned 24 hours you can protest all you want. In effect, Madrid, the busy captial city and heart of Spain, was shut down. Public transport was essentially unusable, except minimun services. Flights into Spain were cancelled.

In the calm after the passing wave of strikers, a group of privileged elite crept out of their hiding places of their well-secured apartments to go and party. One girl gasped with great surprise, "Qué pasa?" (What's happening?)

It was this that shocked me more than anything else that day.

Looking to mañana, but with the thought of today.

Teaching English means contracts. It also means starting new adventures and ultimately ending them. With three short weeks left, my thoughts have been tumbling like the setting on a washing machine on hyperdrive. It's almost time to pack up my bags and start all over, again, with all its good and bad.

Looking back on this past year and the one before, the chapters have been unique and strange. For you, for me, I'm going to attempt to condense it to a readable form so I don't forget how great its been.

Novelties&Negatives.

1. Off-beat experiences: Meeting the world's tallest man, riding an ostrich, attending several Chinese banquets (code for drink-a-thons with baijiu, a strong alcohol that tastes terrible, but according to one Chinese Communist Party Secretary, makes you more beautiful and live longer, I could say the opposite), hiking China's famed Tiger Leaping Gorge, swimming across the Li River, having a paella party with my Spanish co-workers, listening to readings of Antonio Machado's* poetry by my students, various and very authentic Spanish lunches (tests of your ability to consume nonstop courses of food and drinks at two in the afternoon), joining the "American Show" of Malaga, waking up to a gift from Santa in Spain, running through the olive trees, and so on.

Sometimes the year becomes one big blur ---------#-----------%---^^-------- and you forget all that happened. I've had more than one Skype conversation where I said aloud,"What have I been up to?" Then after I hang up I remember what that #pound symbol was supposed be. Another story.

(Banquet and the aforementioned baijiu)

2. Daily life: Not simply passing through a city, a town, a booming metropolis, but becoming a part of the fabric. Learning about a country and its culture by interacting day and day out. To me, this is the essence of traveling. It's not to check off a place from a list, but become a part of a place.

(Christmas party in China--surprise performance by my students)

(Flamenco in Baeza)

(Air quality between Zhengzhou and Andalucía)

3. Maturing: While developing my self-confidence has been a big focus of the year and still a work in progress, just like my Spanish, it's also simply learning about oneself. Moreover, confronting tough, weird and/or awkward situations and learning to battle them with flair along the way.

(Confronting the weird, tough and awkward, but clearly not fighting with flair)

(In Paris, that tower is a dead giveaway, I know)

4. Relationships: Leaving friends. Making new friends.

Repeat.

(Friends in China)

(Friends in Spain, but pictured in Portugal)

5. Travel: Hiking the rice terraces of China & Vietnam, Melbourne bar hopping with Ingrid, rock climbing in the limestone towers of Thailand, hiking to Everest Base Camp, soaking up the quirk of Portugal, riding camels to the Sahara in Morocco, eating, eating, eating in Italy, and runing through Paris (26.2 miles of it, to be exact), roadtripping with two Germans from southern France to southern Spain, "camping" (or squatting) in the car during Las Fallas festival in Valencia.

(Island life in Thailand)

(Desert life in Morocco)

(Castle life in Spain)

Awash with the phantoms of my past, the fantasies of adventures to come, and the possibilities just around the corner, I'm also trying to remember one of my missions that I set for this year. That is to live in the moment and not overthink tomorrow or the day before. To relax, to quell that anxiousness, and think simply, TODAY.

Still, it's hard, especially knowing that next year I'll be moving to MADRID!

*Machado is one of Spain's most famous poets and somewhat of a legend in Baeza, where he taught literature for seven years and wrote of the olive trees and the people of the land. You can find his face or entire body near the scenic paseo (walkway) and the Casino (first Casino of Baeza, it's no longer that but a historic place turned restaurant), his name is found everywhere inbetween, especially in the tourist shops.