Tongue twisters.

It's inevitable when speaking another tongue, the brain would betray you ocassionaly. Most mistakes I just shake off, the meaning being slightly obscured, like the sun behind a passing cloud. Just a transitory action soon to be revealed.

Some blunders, however, betray you and your listener. In China, constantly could be the modifying adverb of my inaccuracy. Bu dui was how my Chinese teacher proclaimed it. Or was it the cultural differences? (Refer to ChinaDoll, my blog in China, to understand some extent of the awkwardness).

No matter, in Spain, you can stumble your way around the language with relative ease and greatly reduced frustration. But there are times still when the ease lures one into a false sense of understanding yielding an even more awkward moment. Especially when it's uttered in the teacher's room.

Never, as I learned recently, say nos with corremos. If you run together with the reflexive, it's a whole other matter than just striking your feet in sync on the pavement.

What will I do next?

Not that, again.

Wine, like water, but not Sangria.

"Why do we drink alcohol?" the question phrased by one of the teacher's today during another classroom debate.

(This time the subject being the change of age legality in drinking alcohol in Spain, where a relatively young 18 is the law and the punishment is a soft slap by the police. For them, 21 lingered like a joke, one almost impossible to believe.)

To this question, I already knew my answer before he finished. But wine, not the general category of alcohol, had my attention.

As if a wannabe Sommelier, wine is the heart of my evening endeavors, the social ones and sometimes unsocial, alike. To toast my voyage to Spain, my friends back home celebrated with a night of the elixir I like so much. And with good reason too, Spain is chock full of it. Not alike Chile, with valleys filled with grapes almost the 2672  miles up and down its coast (not counting the driest desert and the high Patagonian mountains, of course), but the bodegas and bars in Spain seem to cherish it with even greater spirit.

To name a fine wine here is to name a fine region, La Rioja being queen, a valley sandwiched equally between the Atlantic and Madrid. To the south, the drier region of Andalucia (my region) gives birth to the lesser known, but much sweeter (literally so) Vino Dulce. A wine not named after its region and not so different from a Port, a sweet, dessert-like wine made famous by Porto, Portugal, which in Spain, is not too far off.

The adjustment of orientation was nothing like my mind to Spanish (slow, sometimes painful and certainly ego-depleting), but a journey, nonetheless.

I've learned, Tempranillo is another price tag for cheap, for it's Spanish word is beautiful, but its translation in wine words means young, or fresh from the earth. Sloppy English filling a label, "Produce of Spain", means another ranking: drinkable (not great) for the cheap. And the worst coming from a carton, El Gran Duque. Equally fitting in English, if the name described the taste, a one shiny Euro experiment.

But why do I drink wine? To be cool? The idea expressed by the wave of the class. If only, but the red hue that coats my teeth and completes its war path with lingering evidence on my lips (each time!) hints otherwise.

No, I enjoy wine for its taste, at times (Gran Duque certainly excluded), the relaxing effect that finally settles over me, for the atmosphere it gives a room and the people within it. Wine is wonderful, simply stated.

And for the health benefits, of course, too.

(A postscript: as the title probably hints, sangria is a fable of the past, mainly. It can certainly still be found, but its ubiquitous nature so closely associated with Spain is far from true. If you want a little mix with your wine, you're more likely to sound natural asking for a little cola or limon, Kalimotxo and Tinto de Verano, respectively.)

Toros.

In Spain, the debate of cultural vs. cruel, in the arena of a bullring, is a long-winded one. Be it the capitol or the classroom.

It's the story of a gory death juxtaposed with a brave (or foolish) man in a fancy costume, as one side might phrase it. And in a bilingual high school, in a small pueblo in the heart of Andalusia, it's a debate that gets enlivened from both sides with equal passion.

To serve one student's angle, a picture of a matador gored in what can vaguely be described as an uncomfortable location was thrust forward. With him came the words, ni arte ni cultura, a translation not needed, though it was given. This was English class, after all.

It's a common question to ask foreigners, "What do you think of bull fighting?" It was among the questions asked on my first day, right after, "How old are you?" It's a character and cultural determiner.

Catalonia, the region up north that is best known by mentioning Barcelona, is often times a separatist in "national" affairs and has flexed its independent nature by ending all bullfights within its borders. However, for one student, the idea of bullfighting is an economic catalyst to keep: Tourists, he declared in the best English he could, come to Spain for the bulls and through the bull ring, people see Spain.

Like sangria, paella, flamenco and tapas.

Or has that changed?

In a vulgar comparison, the head teacher reiterated, the Romans stopped throwing Christians to hungry lions. The sentiment of the opposed.

It remains a question that I don't see ceasing, at least in Baeza. A town where the nearest cafe to my apartment serves its coffee with a little milk, sugar and bull fighting on TV. The owners are proud aficionados, just like ol' Hemingway.

Another block over lies the bull ring, we'll see what the warm weather brings. 

More than a name.

Some aspects of invasion outlast their conquers, the Romans have their ruins, Columbus left the Spanish language (despite his Italian identity) and in Andalucia, the Moors left names, tiles, palaces, mosques, arches, and an undeniable bit of soul that drives flamenco.  Al-Andalus, the original name given by these inhabitants, and only slightly transformed in its Spanish form as Andalucia, is the place I inhabit now and a place I have yet to understand beyond its tapas, siestas and fiestas, try as I might. Invasion brings cultural complexities and these overtime become hard to untangle from one another. But in Andalucia, after a few trips around the captivating Moorish holds of the past, it only stirs the mind more. (Perhaps the best and first example being Granada, the jewel of Moorish occupation with its star, the Alhambra.)

However, the spirit of the Moors is the spirit of Andalucia now, with its Spanish deriviation reigning overhead with its Catholic crown.  To understand the influences and the complexity of cultural interweaving in early Spain, I needed a trip out of Spain---to the land where the Moors came from---Northern Africa.

From across the Mediterrean, on the Moroccon side, Spain feels almost inconceivable. It's existence in Northern Africa lies like a ghost of the past. A whispered spirit, for it is hard to point precisely, what effects Spain created in its days of brief occupation here. For here, the colored and brilliant tiles speak of their previous owner, the Moors. The arches are true in form and the architecture, cohesive with the new and old. The minarets look natural among the robbed and swathed, but remnants of Europe's invasion look vaguely forgotten. The Gran Teatro of 1913 (notably Spanish) is a form of cement, complete with columns and stairs, hints of grandeur exsist, like the Titanic above water. The Roman wall lies in crumbles with an understated appeal. Graffiti, not historical explanation, give it cultural identity. Only the French balconies that overlook parts of the Medina's coiling market look in use, but hardly so, only a few plants give evidence of apparent care.

Here, the interweaving of culture seems easier to trace, especially when we come to the Christian church. The adopted "Arabic" tower looks awkward with its other half of Jesus's cross and the cementary gives only names of Englishmen and their brief flyover.

In Tangier, its the people's behavior that strikes me most. Just separated by 15 km or so of blue sea and "whiskey" as they jokingly call it, is merely a heavy hand of sugar and mint tea. Islamic law is rule, more or less, though liberal is a word thrown out for good reason, too. Its subtleties are even harder to discern. A woman is of the most bewildering form, here. At times, a striking set of eyes is all I see. When we return on the ferry back to Spain, a Moroccan woman serving, wearing a skirt above the knees, even catches my eye. A rarity of skin, to be sure.

Through the wall, the Roman's relic of Tangier, a gap breaks its form and opens to the sea. With the breeze off the Med cooling the hot air, my preconceived notions are mirrored with reality a few steps away: a snake charmer wraps its pawn around the neck of a tourist, terrified as she is, she balks, but is resolved to get the picture. Palms extend forward in ploys to get some Dirham, the local cash, but Euros, of course, are gladly appreciated, too.

It's all too similar to Asia, I gush, but a feeling of triumph spills over. While I don't know the land, nor the culture, the familiarity of the haggling fight is not new. Still, when the ocean breeze isn't enough to keep the hackers away, we leave. Tangier has more to explore and the Moorish mystery remains.

Around a corner, through an arch, it feels like Deja vu. Titles elaborately decorated with blue and yellow border the cement slab that rises to its final height, the arch. I feel back in time of my own line, Granada, Spain, in the Albayzin. The neighborhood that gives the city its Moorish quirk and overlooks, across a small valley, the jewel I mentioned before, the Alhambra. Here, Clinton once stood and remarked, "This is the most beautiful sight in the world," according to the Spaniards, who have informed me. And I could believe it to be true.

The Deja vu does little to quiet the question, where does this all stem from and where is its place in Morocco today?

Sitting in the castle ruins of the fortress overlooking the sea, another throwback of the past, the first few hours thus far in Morocco only add to more questions.

Another "whiskey" later, some fresh swordfish and on to the next stop, Marrakesh. For camels, don't answer the question, but offer a diversion that is entirely Moroccan. 

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.