"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.

When the internet speaks.

I was picking the internet's brain (Google) about WWOOF (World-wide opporutunities to work on organic farms), when the browser unexpectedly gave me its opinon on the matter:

Page one, item number seven: Hippie, according to Wikipedia. Its keywords: sustainable living, thrifting, veganism, war tax resistance, WWOOF. 

Adventure! A.K.A. the unexpected "thrills" of being Cheap.

In China, my friend warned me of the perils of couchsurfing each time I mentioned it. To him, it was akin to inviting danger into your door. To me, it represented freedom, a chance to meet up with a local, and as always, an opportunity to travel for cheap.

The website, Couchsurfing.org, runs officialy as a forum for travelers to meet up, exchange knowledge and as the name allures, surf. The surfing, however, involves only the adventure of sleeping on another's couch, futon, floor or if you're really lucky, a spare bed for FREE.

So, with my (significantly) reduced monthly salary in Spain and the higher cost of European living, Couchsurfing became more than small-talk. It was travel survival.

I sent my first surf proposal to another American in Toledo, Spain. The city of three religious pasts: Moorish, Catholic and Jewish. It's Medieval charm extends from its historic mosques, cathedrals and synagogues, to swords, its most famous export. Indeed a favorite for any soul who wished to be a crushing Crusader in a previous life, or pretend to be one in this life, today.

I was in Madrid for the weekend to get my computer fixed, but had spied previously on my map of Spain's highlights that Toledo is just one hour, by bus, south of Spain's largest city.

(Atop one of Toledo's cathedrals, looking down on the maze that is the historic center)

(Walking along the river and contemplating Spain's past))

Getting a host was easy, arriving was painless (I actually took the train, which was only 30 minutes, bonus), and my host, Mike, a fellow Midwesterner and English teacher, was funny, gracious and knew all the tricks to hosting. We climbed the creaky stairs to the top of the Cathedral (see photo above), ate tapas in the bright January sun and walked along the river, which skirts the city and gives further hints of another former life, the role as a mighty Medivel fortress. We discussed the expectations of young Americans to jump on the corporate ladder of success or if that fails, graduate school, and the reactions from family, friends and soceity if you run the opposite direction and teach English in Spain.

I returned to the olive trees of Baeza refreshed and confident that my friend in China was more than wrong, he was missing out.

In round two, I wanted to see Sevilla, the capital of Andalucía and an uncontested destination for bullfighting aficionados, flamenco enthusiasts, and partygoers who prefer to shake it to dawn and beyond. As an American study abroad favorite of Spain, I knew I had to go. (In fact, Sevilla is haunted by Americans attempting to learn Spanish, against the added difficulty of the Andaluz accent). I was getting desperate to step out of my English-speaking mold; after all, I didn't come to Spain to meet more Americans.

(A flamenco dress shop in Sevilla)

Facilitating cross-cultural interactions is one of Couchsurfing's unofficial missions. And while most Spaniards don't know about Couchsurfing, finding a Spanish host in Spain is clearly not impossible. So, Salvador, a computer science student at Sevilla's university became my next host. Friendly, but lacking any flames to ignite a friendship, he welcomed me into his apartment and life for the weekend, per protocol. We discussed travel, attitudes of Americans vs. Spaniards, the likelihood of seeing a sheriff wearing a star badge (I informed him that his chances were nil), and I even said hello to his girlfriend via Skype, who's currently studying in France.

, 

(Sevilla's monument to the World Fair, the Plaza de España, 1929)

It followed all expectations, except the obvious expectation, my host showed me nothing of Sevilla, except the inside of his apartment. I was alone in the city, but not thwarted by this setback. I could still discover my own Sevilla, but the unexpected cold of the day was only worsened by the random torrents of rain, which just mirrored my mood, disappointment mixed with a sudden swell of homesickness. 

I chalked the weekend up to a failed operation, like a military cadet in training, it was part of the risk of joining.

A few hours before my bus back, I planted myself at an outdoor cafe. I read the end of my latest nonfiction book (Dark Star Safari; Overland from Cairo to Capetown by Paul Theroux) and sipped a Starbucks latte. Homesickness can sometimes be fought with nutmeg and caffeinated nostaligia. Plus, as Theroux reminded me, I wasn't riding in a poultry van in the middle of Africa.  

Then I got a text; Salvador wanted to know when I would be returning to get my bag. You should take a taxi, he urged. I smiled at the thoughtfulness until I realized why he mentioned the cab. Daylight Savings was today and my Spanish phone had failed to notify me.  I bolted and did that sprint-walk thing you see people do when they're late, to no luck. I arrived to the station 20 minutes too late.  

The next bus headed East left at 10 p.m. As my newly-adjusted watch told me, that was eight hours later.  I bought the ticket to the nearest city of Linares and headed out, defeated, and another 24 Euros lighter. 

I stopped into a Chino (Cultural note: convenient shops are often called this in Spain. Why? The owners are often Chinese, naturally, and usually the only places open on a Sunday), where I bought Spain's leading leftist newspaper, El País, and some satisfying junk food. I needed to emotionally refuel. I wandered until I finally found a grassy spot by the river that wasn't studded with glass bottle shards to sulk in the sun. I sat, eavesdropping without wanting to, on English conversations from the gathered groups of American study abroad students, "I hear all the hottest Spanish men live in Córdoba. Did you sleep with him? Oh my god...She doesn't know Spanish at all" until I fell asleep and the banter finally lost its meaning.  

I awoke with six hours to go. After an emotional indulgance of crisps, I left the clumps of American students and walked to Sevilla's infamous bull ring, overloaded with my pack, newspaper, and the rubbish of the previously mentioned junk food. With the unexpected expense of a second bus ticket, I decided to forgo the six Euro entrance fee to the ring and left to wile away my time with something cheaper, wine. 

(I wish I had been drinking wine here with friends in Pucón, Chile, a throwback from 2009)

To shorten this story, as needed, time collasped upon itself, like always. Ten o'clock came and I was waiting at the bus station. I discovered my bus actually continued onward to Baeza, the good news. I got on and intended to keep riding until I saw the familiar signs of my small city. I assumed it wouldn't be a problem, until I noticed one small detail. The bus driver was counting heads in the same manner I knew well from summer camp. At my stop, Linares, he paused as he recounted again. Yep, an extra head.

At this point, I was paralyzed with fear. Clearly my plan had backfired, but what could I do? I didn't want to get out. Concerned, the driver flicked on the overhead bus lights without warning,"Billetes!" Tickets! There was no please. 

I tried to wave the annoyed bus driver to my seat quickly, before everyone woke up, but my silent waving failed. Finally he got to me and my now sweat-soaked ticket, "Why didn't you say something earlier?" He asked, in the least friendly tone. 

"I tried," I attempted to explain in Spanish, but with the mathematical inverse of decreasing confidence and increasing nervousness. "Could I pay the two extra Euros to Baeza?"

I had one option, he firmly responded, it was to get off the bus. right. away.

Flushed with shame, I collected my belongings, forgetting my favorite scarf, a souvenir from Lisbon, as I shuffled off. Looks of confusion and pity followed me until five seconds later the bus pulled away, leaving me alone in the darkness of the Linares bus station at 2:30 in the chilly morning. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, I mumured in time to my prancing. I was alone with no one to overhear me.  

By car, Baeza is a 25 minute drive away from Linares, but the deserted station had no trace of litter from any cabbie's advertising. I stood, cursing the ground, and willing tears to not sprout from my embarrased core. It was part of the adventure, right? 

I was waiting by the side of the road in the hope of catching a passing taxi, like a hunter waiting for its prey in the wild, when I noticed a moving shadow. My only instinct was to follow. This could be the only other person out there! The movement led to a light, which led, amazingly enough, to an emergency health clinic. Victory! I collected myself and my thoughts, took a deep breath, and started the story of explaining myself, again.

"You came a long way," the attendent in the clinic said with admiration. He was more shocked that I was an American living in Baeza than my failure to arrive there properly on a bus. 

Thirty-five Euros later, a taxi dropped me off in Baeza. I directed him to the Plaza de Toros (Baeza's bullfighting ring) and finally my apartment. He'd never taken anyway to this destination before.  

(Sometimes solo "adventures" suck, the photo is just outside my apartment, a different night.)

The time: 3:15 a.m. 

Paris.

Lifting off.

One day and four weeks of work lie betweeen easy living and my last paycheck. Another year of teaching English is abruptly ending. How do I feel?

Overwhelmed, galvanized, astouded. 

How did this happen so fast, again? 

I've run a marathon, turned 24 and finally begun to make small steps in nourishing my confidence in all aspects of life, but most pointedly, in speaking Spanish. I'm exactly where I want to be right now. I'm living life and learning about myself, the world and my ever-changing role within it. I'm Not in a career I can't leave, Not in a house that I must pay off, Not in a relationship that I must strive to maintain. I can be selfish and that's more than cool, it's expected. 

Yet, it's all on the brink. The Spanish government is in possession of my next decision. Will I return to Spain? That depends. With an economy in crisis and education the latest blow in budget crunching (15,000 teachers in Andalucía alone will be fired before next year), my admitida status means little until I receive an official contract and that thing we all need, the next paycheck. 

Vamos a ver...

We will see...

The 26.2-mile meditation.

The marathon is just another metaphor for life lessons.

Not the usual. Run slowly, don't sprint, life is a ____________. Yes, marathon.

I'm referring to the metaphor that teaches you that to really know something is to experience it. Yet after the intial go (whatever you may have stepped out to do), the unknown is gone and it's much easier to pace yourself than to go all out sprinting, after all, it almost killed you that first time. If you've run a marathon, you can visualize that statement, it literally almost killed you. Be it the last 4, or 10 miles. Or let's be honest, maybe the whole thing.

I recently read an op-ed about this exact idea, the title I appropriately stole, a 26.2-mile meditation from the Boston Globe. The idea is that balancing the experience you've learned with the desire to out-do yourself in the next succesive endeavors is the art of it all. Thus, the meditation.

My take:

It's irrational to register for a marathon, truly. The body isn't intended to run 26.2 miles and evolution (okay, society) has only further developed our inclination to lounge like lizards, couch potatoes, or hibernate like bears, etc. than to run for hours. Plural.

However, it's just that irrationality that drives marathoners. The tenacity and grit it takes to overcome the societal force that says, "Why don't you just stay in with me and watch an episode of Jersey Shore. Snooki is going to something really crazy tonight!"

Except I prefer to be the one making the moves and not contributing to Snooki's irrational paycheck. Moreover, this meditation has taught me to just relax, to enjoy it. The goal shouldn't be to prove to others, but only to yourself. If you can do that, you've mastered the art of something else, perhaps even bigger.

For clarity, I've defined irrationality, the main focus of my meditation, here.

Irrationality:
         a. Not endowed with reason.

b. Affected by loss of usual or normal mental clarity; incoherent, as from shock.

c. Marked by a lack of accord with reason or sound judgment

Lessons I'm learning.

I'd read on LinkedIn that the traditional resume is changing. The white paper, as we know it, inked with statistics and boring details that are hardly telling of a person's true character, is inching toward the same trend as print newspapers. That is, becoming extinct. At least for some of today's most innovative companies, who seek to hire someone based on the person that is demostrated beyond the 2D. More than facebook, this means any online social medium: Twitter, blogging, LinkedIn, and more. And if you don't have this "self" online, you should start etching because a growing number of industries expect it.

Thus, I came to have Twitter. My only "friends" are people I've never met before. They don't comment. Ever. But on the positive, I now follow and get further news updates from the BBC, the New York Times, Runner's World and Outside Magazine. They never once comment about their breakfast of choice, silencing my internal protest to Twitter. Rather, I receive gems of news I may have missed or inspirational running quotes like this, "You cannot grow and expand your capabilities to their limits without running the risk of failure." "When all else fails, start running."

--Dean Karnazes

However, the business writer that tipped me off to this point also hinted that one sleepy Twitter account didn't quantify an attractive digital resume. So, I expanded further. Here's my most recent creation in the making. Take a look, http://annafrisk.wordpress.com/, it should at least drive home the point: Hire me if you want an affable weirdo. (Does that combination exist?)

Hoping for some luck.

You can also read my resuscitated blogging for the California Tea House, http://www.californiateahouse.com/blog/tea-trips/235-alhambra-granada-spain-tea.html here. 

Holy Week

The city is cloaked in purple, Semana Santa (Holy Week) is almost here. Baeza, a relatively quiet town of 18,000, is going to be bursting with tourists, bands, processions and images of Jesus, in just a few days.

Semana Santa was made famous to the outside world by Sevilla, the capital of Spain's largest provence, Andalucía. Come Easter, most tourists know Sevilla as the city with the ghosts or KKK men parading through town. The images are striking and shocking to the uninformed, including me before I came to Spain. So I asked, wh y the KKK uniforms? Not surprisingly, I received this answer: the costume has always had religious origins, however, the KKK took this symbol and distorted it for their own specialized aims. Moreover, Sevilla and Spain have no penchant to make political or racial statements; they just want a good party, the basis of all Spanish fiestas.

Except, I'll only see the purple banners and the blowing debris of the aftermath. I'm getting out of here. To Madrid, Barcelona and then finally, southern France.  I'll be spending the week of vacation hopping from beach to city on the Mediterrean, I'll let you know if any images of Jesus cross my radar.

(Another Spanish fiesta, Las Fallas, Valencia, Spain)

Burn, burn, burn.

Tonight marks the night for these giant minarets (or in Spanish, fallas) to burn to the ground. All, that is, except one. The best is saved from the jumping flames and placed in a museum to be admired for the rest of the year. 

I found most of the fallas to be highly entertaining, for example due to the deep crisis, the much talked about politicians of Europe were having their own crisis, but as you can see above, some were just admirations of past heros. 

Your regularly scheduled programming will continue in just a bit.

Until then, a photo of why I've been delayed.

A falla at Las Fallas this weekend in Valencia. 

To be a polygot...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-17107435

Cultural Differences.

With the advent of my marathon training, I started adding lemons to my water bottle. I needed to hydrate. Thus my theory was to add chunks of lemon to my bottle and the 8 recommended glasses of water would just vaporize, more or less.

However, the bobbing lemon wedges aroused an odd amount of curiosity. Dare I say an equivalent that I experienced far too often in China, a place where I always felt someone's suspicious eyes on me. To the extent that it wasn't odd to have someone walk over and peak inside my basket. "That's what you're buying?" I only assume they said in Chinese.

But in Spain? Did Spaniards not enjoy el sabor de limón?

Actually, as it turns out, they "enjoy" it, more or less, when they are suffering from diarrhea. Apparently it helps stop the flow. ¡Toma!

This I found out when my boss, Inma, leaned over and whispered, "Are you okay? The other teacher just asked me if you had the runs."

(How I feel/felt--a continuous state)

Great. That explains quite a lot.

On another note, I'm heading to Lisbon, Portugal in three days.

a;lksdjf;alksdjfa!

Running 10 miles today ain't no thing.


(Photo from 2008 visit to the Great Wall, a graphic that led to the real thing, I promise.)

Running with Olives.

I knew marathon training would be tough in a town that is compact like an armario. Training could be mindlessly repetitive, and aptly I'd probably feel akin to a control subject in a rat race.

The problem being my natural tendency to sprawl. A tornado, as my sister phrases it, is my greatest by-product. To those unknown to this phenomenon, it's a pile of shit deposited wherever I have been. And this same spirit applies to running, excepting the deposit of shit. I love to sprawl wherever my legs will take me. Which in Baeza meant past a cathedral or two, up and down the curving brick streets, out to olive oil factory row, past the football field and back home. One hour could easily be burned, but sprawling like this isn't captivating after the first several months. I was like the rat who had already found the cheese, the chase lost its appeal, quickly.

Until, that is, I found another route. Running uphill, once again, I kept running even when the pavement ceased. It turned out to be Baeza's best trail, one that cuts through the olive trees and loops back into Baeza after 5k. An old memorial is among the sights along the way, but more interesting are the occasional workers shaking down the olives (who have since disappeared, the olive oil season is over). It's the essence of Baeza, especially with the old couples strolling through hand in hand.

Fun fact: 10% of the world's olive oil production comes from Jaén province (the smaller province within Andalucía, where I live). If you look at a map, it's quite impressive.

One Week Experiment.

Only Spanish.

¡Adiós inglés!

¿Por qué? ¡Haz clic aquí!

The hardest language to learn?

I found this blog and found the insight shared about the difficulties of learning languages to be spot on:

What really makes it hard: personal context

It was me.

I made Spanish hard – I had the wrong attitude, I studied in such a way as to focus on what made it so “impossible”, when I tried to speak it I would constantly think how stupid I sounded and I kept reminding myself how hard it was.

The fact of the matter is; if you tell yourself the language is the “hardest one in the world” you are right! That mantra will keep you locked in an inescapable feedback loop that will make it the hardest language. You will set your filter to negative and find many reasons that support your claim.

A language is not an academic subject, it’s a means of communication between human beings. Communication is hard for reasons of shyness, inexperience, no good motivation and lack of confidence. By propagating this myth of hardest language you are doing nothing more than adding to people’s lack of confidence.

The full blog post can be found at http://www.fluentin3months.com/most-difficult-language/

I'm going to remember this tonight when I speak Spanish, it's all a matter of thinking and pwwwwah Spanish ain't no thing. Or Chinese, 无疑, wúyí.

Edit: That night I meant Lola, who gave me her number and also offered to teach me Spanish, a local dance and let me stay at her place, if I wanted. Bonus--she also mentioned she has a pool! ¡Toma!

How do you say "haircut" in Spanish?

Some things are simply terrifying to do in another language. A doctor's appointment, finding yourself in jail, and I believe haircuts rank right up there with those two.

Why? Because besides the obvious of scissors slashing away near your face, there is the fact that haircuts can go terribly wrong and in Spanish, Chinese, Farsi or Swedish, you may lack the arsenal of words to stop it.

This was a true fear, especially in Baeza, where fashion forward is looking like a clone of the other guy, who also happens to be a clone of this guy. And I certainly didn't want to join the crew, though he is dashing.

Thus, mastering the lingo of the haircut was worthy of some anxiety. When I lived in China, I found it to be the same. Avoid haircuts, but when one must go, pray for the best and bring a student to translate. No, I didn't want that purple tint that woman happened to be sporting.

But as I wrote about conquering fears, I decided a haircut was exactly the cure. Moreover, why not do something wild? So, I did and I can't say it was entirely successful. #SomeThingsJustDon'tWorkOutInLife.

However, there's always the next haircut to stress over.

San/Saints and Crushes.

Opinions on Valentine's Day seem to run the gauntlet. That being a most glorious reflection of marketings' genius. Or the sentimental, it's all about the love, baby.

Regardless, the holiday's (extreme marketing) origins in the U.S. have skipped several large bodies of water and landed almost everywhere else. Yesterday confirmed this.

As I squirmed (I lean toward the first opinion, in case that needed to be classified) into the high school, I saw not only a boy wearing a diaper (in honor of Saint Valentine) and his famous wings, but more hearts, red, pink, wings and enough flower bouquets to fill my bedroom, had I received them all. I slipped by fast, but not without a cringe and a moment of remorse for not bringing my camera.

Still, the day can be sweet and little reminders of love/or like can be appreciated, even by me.

Take this treasure I received. I shouldn't say that it came from five 14-year-olds, who asked their mothers for money, but that's exactly what happened.