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.