Oh hail great Iowa

It's rare that Iowa is given a blink of attention. When I lived in Maryland this past fall, my home state stirred emotions among Marylanders that ranged from that's unfortunate to where is that, again?

Recent news stories generated from Iowa and delivered to the world at large include the Iowa State Fair's new culinary concoction, a stick of butter deep-fried and speared by a stick, no utensils required. And contrastly at the same event, a guest star appearance by Sarah Palin, just in case the American people chocked on their brains and decided the Presidency should be hers. To recap we have: Palin politics and deep-fried butter. That is, if we forget the Hawkeyes and the symbol of the possible inner-Iowa football rivalry cup.

Corn.

And while I may sound bitter, I'm not. I love my state and I can't imagine a childhood outside of Magnolia, even if I had imagined it many times as a child. However, I realize I'm now in Spain, far from Iowa and the U.S. My preamble is this--to set the stage for what I experienced mid-Tuesday this past week, all in the midst of an American Revolution lesson. A lesson Sarah Palin could perhaps use.

As I tried best to explain the Declaration of Independence and the Second Continental Congress with nuances that stirred, not deadened, the fourth-level class of Spaniards at Vandelvira. I could hear their chatting rumbling like a motorcycle breezing by the highway with an air of decided cool. It was evident, they could care less about George Washington and his army of Minutemen against the bloody British. (Is this what it feels like to be a teacher in America? If so, I certainly prefer China.) Nor were they all ears for my best attempt of conveying American spirit and patriotism. The same spirit that still makes its way to t-shirts and bumper stickers blazoned with America in the name of bald eagles and the stars and stripes. However, I held that to myself. A spirit I can only take up with a sarcastic intention, sorry U.S.A.

Nonetheless, I repeated, it's only taken a few thousand years to get to us in the timeline of humankind and advanced civilization. I wanted someone to listen. Like Iowa, I may not always be proud of my country, but I feel an innate responsibility to defend it. So I improvised, adding my own touches on history and how it has shaped modern America. Illustrating the idea of Give me your John Hancock (this only elicited giggles because the students apparently only caught the tail end of that name, cock. Indeed, I am teaching at a high school and Spain is not so different from Logan-Magnolia High School). I let the snickering abate and then added how small the 13 colonies, the soon to be United States, were and where I actually came from; Iowa, a state that wouldn't even become a state for another century.

And their languid attention turned to applause as Inma, the official teacher of the classroom, asked the students to give it up for Iowa. In an unexpected lottery win, (yes, you can call it that) the school received two assistants from the great state this year. And like it or leave, Iowa could be #1, in their view. (Thank you Stanzi for that great and unbelievable line.)

The Great Bike Ride Across Iowa. 

To note: I've never received such enthusiasm for the Hawkeye state (outside of the two rivers) and I probably will never again. Thus, I felt it necessary to post it, yes, my third post of Spain. even if the students still probably can't find it on a map.  

A Thanksgiving miracle.

To begin, Spain has been a terremoto (or earthquake) of madness. What madness am I referring to? And how does this roughly sketch out my first 5 weeks in Spain. I may or may not be sure myself.

However, I digress, because this post is about Thanksgiving miracles and these kinds of surprises don't happen often, or at least to me in a kitchen, with a raw and enormous bird.

Let me explain, as auxiliars (assistants) of language and culture, Thanksgiving was a given. We are American, we would celebrate it and bring the festive cheer to the Spanish teachers we have gotten to know and love. As my third Thanksgiving abroad, I wasn't expecting high chances for the signature bird of giving. In Chile, we had fresh salmon from the historic Mercado Central and China offered chicken with bacon cooked inside. Delicious, all the same, but hardly standard. That is, until this year. If anyone asks if Spaniards can cook, the answer is a resounding yes. Or at least my several invitations for the Spanish special of a lunch or almuerzo (usually a eating marathon of several hours) has always indicated that I will leave Spain carrying an extra layer of fatty evidence. And so naturally, one of the teachers found a way to order a turkey. She offered without a prod to cook the symbol of our American-giving. I consulted the internet instead for what I considered a worthy challenge for me, stuffing. Except that a week before, the plan changed, like an oblivious monkey, the number of turkeys ordered had been two. Inma relayed to me over the phone and between a mix of Spanish and English, I confirmed the planned details of the night and hung up with a knot in my stomach. Had I really just agreed to cook the other turkey? Ojala! (Another Islamic throwback to the Spanish culture and language.)

Food poisoning was suggested as a real possible repercussion to this decision, but what was there to do? You can't waste a turkey on Thanksgiving. I consulted my other American friends. Someone had to know how to cook one. The number of turkeys consumed on Thanksgiving day in the United States is not trifle. Yet, that was another thing, as it turned out, no one had actually gotten close to the raw thing. Only the magic of the golden turkey was what we knew, however it got that way, I certainly didn't know. So, here in Spain, we rolled back our sleeves and gave in to the experiment. Our American reputations were at stake. Megan used the intelligence of the internet and I listened to her guidance. We caressed the skin with love, butter and spices. Three and half hours later, somehow, we did it. 

And we enjoyed it in a Flamenco bar that resembles a bomb shelter, if the world suddenly ended, we could've certainly given thanks. 

Bienvenido.

First blog post in Spain, true, but I'm going to make this blogging thing happen. VIVA ESPANA! I just needed a facelift from the thoughts I posted pre-Spain. I was in a funk, a fishbowl, what have you. It felt odd and forced to add how my preconceptions have changed from then and furthermore add to the mental fish bowl I'm swimming in now. However, I don't want this experience to fly back without some heavy internet documentation, so here I am now, welcome to the shark tank.