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.

The economics of tutoring English: Cost-Benefits.

It's not cheap to live in Spain, this I knew before I uploaded my resume to send my fate here. However, there are ways to get by, I was told, and then there is the reality of what that means.

In five months time, I've learned, adapted and stayed afloat, barely. Besides forsaking luxuries such as heat during nights that dip to -5 degrees Celsius to save on costly utilities, the thrifty Auxiliar (my referred to title) can, at times, afford occasional thrills, such as 5 Euro bottles of wine (upgrade!), by tutoring English on the side.

However, rationalizing the cost-benefit of having my breath linger in the icy air of my apartment (evidence) was easy to mathematically calculate. It didn't skirt the ordinary call of being frugal. Tutoring English in Ubeda, I soon came to realize, did.

While I wouldn't categorize myself as "kid person", you know who you are, I do enjoy kids, sparingly. Tutoring English seemed like no call of bravery and turmoil, but easy cash, like babysitting with a mission.

And for the most part it is, I enjoy the hours when progress is made and especially revel in the Spanish I get out of the exchange. However, there are times when this perfect picture is more accurate of an education center's advert, which can never be trusted.

This is especially true when the child doesn't actually want to learn English, but is being forced to by his parents anyway. Thus, we had the struggle of his desire to draw penises, not my requested body part vocabulary (i.e. eyes, ears, nose, those body parts with a more innocent nature). Then there was the time he pretended to thrash a skeletal foot at my head, in the act of portraying the emotion I had just explained to him, hunger/hungry. After that, came the time he refused to sing any Christmas songs in English, only Basque, naturally. After which he started running with scissors (we were making snowflakes), I kid you not. All of this cumulating to the point of our most heated tango, the call of his parents. Clearly I needed to remind him who had authority, his father. After escaping the door that he attempted to lock and block with his 10-year-old body, I reached the outside to freedom.

After this outside reinforcement from his parents, however, I've learned a few tricks of my own to become the master, or more accurately, how to better teach him and his needs.

And I think I actually saw a smile last week. 

Comfort Zones.

It's contrary to believe that I don't seek comfort zones. Each human does, no matter how daring he/she is. Whether your goals involve plunging hundreds of feet in the deep sea without oxygen (#freediving http://ngadventure.typepad.com/blog/2010/11/interview-swed-annelie-pompe-on-snaring-new-free-diving-record-.html) or stepping outside your bedroom more than once a day.

Despite our different devices, we are simple beings and comfort makes us indeed, comfortable. In moving abroad, I tip toed in the cold water of risk, but with each day, the risk decreased and comfort absorbed me just as it would've if I had still been in Magnolia, Iowa, the bubble of my hometown. Why? Because like I said, we are simple beings and comfort doesn't strip us bare, like risk, it delivers our preconceived expectations. Sure, many times we are utterly blissful with these results and could be content with this contentment forever. No problem, to each their own, but if you start to hear the static and feel the stagnation, you know: It's time to step out even further, beyond the "honeymoon stage" of your life. For the comfort bubble is like that extra winter weight you need to shed. Without it, we can push personal records (see above link), if we dare. 

Five months in Spain has me feeling the same, I'm ready to step beyond my personal limitations, or at the least, outside my routine. Today is no better a day. And on fear, the Swedish free diver says it best.

That sounds terrifying to me. How do you deal with fear?

"I believe there are different types of fear. There is the good kind of fear which makes me aware of possible risks and helps me assess risk. It's easy to deal with—I just take care of and minimize possible risks, then the fear is gone. Then there's the bad kind of fear, a kind of fear which puts up limits for you and makes you stop doing things you'd want to do. This fear is usually unwarranted and illogical, like suddenly having fear of darkness in the Swedish waters. I got over this by turning my mind over and starting to like the darkness as something cozy and relaxing."

Do something that terrifies you today.

Eyes closed.

We run to newness. Call it wanderlust, call it boredom. It strikes my mind when change turns to adjustment and the feeling of settling in crawls into my cranium. Where is the challenge? What opportunity lies around the corner? What will the next adventure be?!  Madrid? NYC? Auckland? and so on, etc. I feel akin to a panting dog waiting for the lick of a bone. I need it; I must have it! GIVE ME! Perhaps its the wintertime blues or something more chronic that needs to be examined further. I don't know precisely, but what I have declared is that this discontentment that seems to seep into my mind like a hookworm infesting its host is something that I have the knowledge and personal strength to take the action to prevent.

It's easy to look at your life and think, "If only....". The ending being seemingly endless here. If only I lived in Madrid, making local friends would be easier. Sure, maybe. Or? Insert "if only" and the chain grows into an unstoppable amoeba.

If you asked for one word to describe my twenties, restless would be my easy answer. And certainly this is the word that would describe my day, my week and probably this month. I have trouble staying still and my insatiable desire to live everywhere, experience everything and shake the "self" that I have created in exchange for feeling the essence of another, is all a part of it. So ordinary, I never wanted to be. But is it the personal struggle of the twenties, that thing they call self-discovery, or something I'll always be panting for? Adventure! Change! Insecure paychecks! Yes!!

Being a wandering nomad has its inherent benefits, traveling to faraway locals being a quick given, but the not so easily quantified changes are more difficult to pin down. The quirks that unfold over time, that materialize at surprising moments. These being the little reminders of why I crave more, an anecdote to the strength of the hookworm that burrows inside you.

It's those cold days, those lonely days, when no one understands you, that you've got to bite back the call of change. The desire of wanderlust, to pick it all up and go again, the whispering "what if" that weakens your form. Because does that really answer your problem?

As if medicinal, today I walked into somewhere new. The bar was simple. A bull's head, the mighty symbol of Spain, hung from the wall of concrete bricks. Matadors, in accordance, danced in black and white photos surrounding the slab of the bar, while we ate our complementary tapa of homemade paella. And I saw through myself, I wasn't seizing what I had right in front of me. Desiring somewhere else had left me not seeing what was right there.

Adventure! Or at least wonderful tapas right outside my piso and inside a bull's ring.

Time Flies.

Today, if my teaching contract were a marathon, I'd be half way done. However, unfortunately and perhaps fortunately, as I did choose that dare for myself, the physicality of that feat is yet to come (Paris, April 15th. Bring.It.On.)

But that's just a side note, let's bring it back to my original thread here, I was sipping on a cafe con leche (coffee with milk, my usual order) when this date dawned on me. I have been living in Spain since October and while that is nothing compared to my 11 month admission to China, Thanksgiving has come and gone, along with the likes of Christmas, New Years and even the day of the ground hog's shadow.

Time can be fickle, like money in a crisis, but while the days have sped by, my time has felt well spent. As in, it seems like I just got here, but so much truly has happened. Here are the highlights broken down; 3 months and two weeks in Spain:

*First and foremost, I've improved my Spanish. Without a doubt, the most humbling experience of this year. In the end, however, I've quelled many of those moments of frustration and feelings of irrational stupidity and moreover, moved beyond my inner reservations and insecurities to bring me here: a pleasant journey of progress.

*Discovering that the more I teach my own language, the less it makes sense.

*Hiking Cazorla, picture above, and reminding myself that I can never stop moving or exploring (insert North Face advert here, though that was unintentional).

*Riding a camel in the Sahara and coming to the understanding that a.) it's terribly uncomfortable and b.) I was quite out of shape, as my body ached from only two hours of camel lurching.

*Finding that sometimes pizza in the U.S. can taste better than the authentic Italian version, if said "authentic" version is cooked up in a place that looks like it should have that word tacked outside.

*Running through Madrid's Parque Retiro and feeling like I could get lost.

*Learning not all claps are the same and the art of the flamenco clap is one that has no predictable beat to try and pretend.

*Seeing the Alhambra and beholding its mystery and lost years.

*Dancing until the sun has risen and not regretting it, but certainly having some remorse about the red wine stain that has taken up residence on my teeth and lips.

*Experiencing the New Year in the heart of Rome with a bottle of Champagne and the threat of impending fireworks exploding haphazardly nearby, but surviving without a scratch.

*Trying and loving Jamon Serrano (Spain's famous ham), yes, a gift from God.

*Running circles through Baeza's olive trees and passing by the same old man with his cane and smile.

*Touring an olive oil factory and learning that an olive with a few hundred more can be processed from tree to extra virgin in just one day, but also learning that some Andalusian will never be understood in their "special Spanish", try as I might.

*Following Picasso's art trail through Spain and admiring Picasso's photographed progress of La Guernica.

*Knowing Baeza will always free tapas and thus a reassuring answer to my low paycheck.

(The Alhambra)