"Me Too Talk Pretty Some Day" (Or, Alternatively, My Life En Sevilla)

I am bringing back A-broad Abroad because once again, I am both of those things!

I'll start with a resounding "Hola, amigos!" (To be pronounced in the accent of Marty Huggins, Zach Galifinakis' character in the 2012 semi successful thrill ride of a film, "The Campaign.")

For those who are unaware, I am currently living in Sevilla, Spain, working as an English teacher at a small language academy and attempting to learn Spanish. (In-text FN: the number of "unawares" should be few, if any, because I am unsure why you'd be reading this if you are that unfamiliar with the details of My All important Life at the moment. That said, those without Snapchat have been perhaps left in the dark as--heaven forbid--I forgot to update my Facebook "About" page with the news of my move. A millennial-generation travesty, I know!)

Though I never wrote "one last blog post" for my last month in Asia, I will go ahead and assure those who told me that reading those posts was "too stressful" -- and/or "heart-attack inducing" and/or "too much of my personality in written word" (ahem, Erin) -- that the literal logistics of my travels have become far tamer in the past year and a half. I have not lost a single cell phone, nor have I been stranded in an airport, nor have I been forced to dry an entire suitcase worth of clothes over the bathroom sink in the Singapore Airport at midnight while waiting for my flight. (See photo and caption).

[Caption: My last night in Singapore, I had just returned from a month long trip with a backpack full of some clothes much in need of a wash. My friend Prema let me wash them at her house while she went out, however, given the nature of my life and luck, of course her dryer broke with my clothes inside. After some unsuccessful attempts to fix it with her 15 year old son--such a fun social interaction--I was forced to take a trash bag full of the soaking clothes to the airport, weighing in total approximately 1,000 lbs. To meet the weight limit of the airline's checked baggage, I knew the clothes could not be wet, so I had to take my trash bag into the bathroom and dry each article by hand under the automatic hand-driers. After 2 or so hours, the clothes still ranged from damp to dripping. I had also accidentally dyed all of the clothes pink--none of the pink-ish articles you see above were originally that color. Finally, an airport employee (who spoke no English) took pity on me and took me to the basement of the airport - a dreary, hellish place that resembled an empty Walmart submerged beneath the earth, equipped with rolling tumbleweed, large unidentifiable machinery, and, to top it off, rats! There, I was allowed to use the industrial dryers meant for airport security/janitorial uniforms. I had the pleasure of informing a large group of men lingering around the dryer that I was, in fact, married--my husband just happened to be waiting for upstairs, and he was from China (? no idea why I added this detail)--yet one still asked if I would hold up my now-pink sweatshirt and smile for a photo on his flip phone. I'm sure that photo is now circulating the high-end Singaporean Fleece market, but as I never gave the man my number, modeling agents can't get in touch with me. A shame!]

Anyway, thus far my experiences in Spain have been far less disorganized; however, what they lack in thrilling, on-your-toes procedural curveballs, they exceed tenfold in majorly frustrating, majorly hilarious Language Barrier Confusion.

For clarity, I'll break the details of these past few weeks down by category.

Part I: The Host Family

Embarrassingly enough (though not embarrassing enough to omit!), I still do not know my host family's last name. I know my "mother"'s name is Nuria, and her husband is Javier, and their daughters are Gloria and _______________ (last female unknown). They also have a small terrier named Toby with the endearing habit of barking at-minimum 15 times in a row any time a human approaches him. He's a saint.

The family is really sweet, and of course, because I'm living with a Spanish family, I now also eat at Spanish hours, meaning a big meal at about 3 pm and a small something-or-another around 10 pm. When we eat all together, the conversation is all in Spanish, so naturally I have had the opportunity to bless them with what they surely believe to be a 2-word vocabulary (Si, No) and vigorous head nodding. Today, I thought I was finally tracking, so when I was asked a question, I responded with "it's called a rind! Or maybe a core, if you are talking about apples." Everyone stared at me for a few seconds, then burst out laughing, after which I was informed that they were actually talking about the process of balding. Language immersion success!

The family's house is situated in a plaza right in the heart of El Centro de Sevilla, a short two minute walk from Las Setas (a giant wooden structure modeled after mushrooms), a row of Tapas bars, a few clubs, and of course, shops. Sevillans l-o-v-e to shop. Though I do not feel the same passion for clothes, I do l-o-v-e this neighborhood, so I'm excited about my future apartment, which will also be close to El Centro. Today, my roommate (Mahea) and I signed on said apartment for the coming months--a two bedroom place with inlaid tile walls (very Spanish) built over 200 years ago. Exciting!

[Caption: (L) - a view through Las Setas; the building (R) is one of my favorites I've seen, where I imagine a ghost named (maybe) Juan Manuel Rodriguez García Díaz resides, emerging twice daily to sit on the top balcony and smoke a cigar while twirling his waxed mustache. Hardly a specific daydream.]

Part II: Teaching

I arrived in Spain on Saturday October 1, at midnight, after a lovely week-long visit with Megan in England. A few days before, I'd gotten an email from a woman to whom I'd sent my resume (and a headshot from circa 2011!) in July, saying she was hiring immediately. So on Sunday, I went to Bormujos, a neighboring village, for an interview. Now, the term "interview" is a stretch, because in reality, I sat down in a chair and my current-boss simply asked, "so when can you start?" Somewhat flabbergasted, I said I could start the next day, and so come Monday, I arrived, teacher badge in hand, in order to mold the minds of the youths and adults of Bollullos, Greater Sevilla.

I teach at CBS, Language Academy, or La Academia de inglés Bollullos, for students from ages 4-40. These students are either trying to learn English of their own accord, or their parents force them to come--evident most among the youngest students, who typically wreak havoc in the classrooms. Mahea (my roommate) taught the PlayWay (youngest) students for a few weeks before she threw in the towel, and during that time, one 4 year old repeatedly exhibited an interest in drawing the same subjects as one pre-pubescent Seth from Superbad -- phal-scinations, if you will. (pun intended). Literally... he drew tiny penises everywhere. Everywhere! (LOL).

My classes, on the other hand, are for the most part really fun and moderately well-behaved. With some, I teach vocabulary as basic as colors or the days of the month (lamenting most the fact that I cannot emphasize Halloween during this time as they don't really celebrate it in Sevilla). With others (older students, mainly), I am teaching grammar points like "frequency adverbs" or "present continuous versus present perfect tense." I love grammar, so this is fun, and it's especially fun when we can play games etc. in class. Both learning AND grammar-oriented games?! What more could a girl ask for?!

One thing I have struggled with--a lifelong struggle, really--is self-discipline when it comes to laughing inappropriately. For instance, on my first day, I was asking a 9 year old, Javier, to tell me how old he was. He was rocking back and forth in his chair, struggling not to answer "How old are you?" with the memorized (and wrong) statement, "I'm fine thank you and YOU?!" Suddenly, Javier, his chair, and his desk took an unforeseen and highly dramatic tumble. Javier fell to one side with his foot hooked under the leg of the chair, and in an attempt to catch himself, he grabbed the desk, which then fell on top of him as well. The other students gasped and looked confusedly at the scene, while Javier turned beet red and quickly sat up. He mumbled a quick "I am 9 years old" before averting his eyes to the floor for the rest of class. Throughout the proceeding minutes, I bit my tongue so hard I drew blood before I could go and hide my head under my desk, "searching for a pen" while I laughed uncontrollably at the bizarre Toppling of Both Javier & Desk that I'd just witnessed.

Another time, as I was writing a series of "time" phrases on the board, I heard a crescendo of youthful "TEEEACHAAAA, TEEEACHAAAA, TEEEEAAACHA!!! Aitor!!! Aitor!!! MEEEEEZZZ LEEEEZZEEEEE!!!!!" (translation: Teacher, teacher, teacher! Aitor! (the boy's name), Miss Lizzie! Miss Lizzie!). When I turned around, the student in question--a mischievous and often inattentive boy--smiled at me impishly, pencil in mouth, surrounded by a massive pile of pencil shavings. He had bitten the pencil--MY pencil--down to the lead, potentially poisoning himself in the process of exacting revenge on the utensil for reasons beyond my understanding. He was shocked when I made him clean the pile with his hands, and again I had to bite my tongue as he began gathered each shaving individually, pinching the tiny pieces between his forefinger and thumb slowly and morosely, for the final ten minutes of class. I was "mad" (as a teacher), but in reality, I was highly amused.

The adults are a bit different, as I want to seem both "cool" (I don't) and organized enough (I'm not) to be teaching people who for the most part are older than I am. On Thursday, I tried to exhibit my "coolness" by opening class with the question ... "So what would be the perfect first date? Who would be your ideal 'girl' or 'boy'?" The responses I got were as follows:

1. "I would take her to movie so we do not have to talk much." (He is both a winner and heart-throb, let me assure you).

2. "I don't know. I would tell him I ride horses and do my maths homework after school." (A date off to an exciting start! To be fair, this girl was 16.)

3. "I don't care much, as long as she likes Game of Thrones and Pizza. If she were no share her pizza, I do not like her." (Setting the bar high with the GOT and Pizza mandates--truly, a Renaissance Man with sophisticated taste to boot!).

In general, however, these people are incredibly nice and hard working, so I like teaching them. This job has also reminded me of the sheer absurdity of the English Language. Exhibit A: Countable and Uncountable nouns? These are words like "boys" versus "air"--you can count boys, literally, but you cannot count air as it is (quoting the textbook) "amorphous, abstract, and beyond the realm of physicality." Try explaining THAT to elementary English speakers. The only thing I could think of was to draw a blob on the board, citing this as "amorphous" and "love" (an abstract) as a thumping heart (--> Teacher becomes Act-ress!). Truly, why English Grammar insists on riddling the guidebook with exceptions and ambiguities is beyond me. It's impossible to say, for example, that I want "several bread" (as bread is uncountable), yet one can say "I want several PIECES of bread." What gives, Grammar Maester of Olde?! I have a bone (or three) to pick with him/her. But I digress.

I also make a gainly ~$7.12 an hour, which, amazingly, is enough to live on--enough to pay rent, go out, eat well, and travel a bit on the side. In Spain, I can live like a moderately conservative Prince (" ") on the wages of an American Pauper! Plus, as we all have learned in the past few weeks, when your rich, you can do anything ... you can grab [life] by the [horns]!!

Part III: Spain Itself

I was warned, far and wide, that Spain moved at a slower pace. That the "siesta phenomenon" was very real. That the people were steeped in tradition. That the economy was slow, that the meals were long, and that the go-go-go lifestyle of an American Professional was virtually nonexistent. I was also told that it was a beautiful, fascinating, charismatic culture with centuries of historical and religious and governmental influence preceding the nation's legacy. Thus far, I have found all of those things to be true.

Among the things I love are the oddities, like this building: (An as-of-yet unexplained Giant Man hanging from a window in the Contemporary Art museum).

I love the food--the croquetas, the tortillas (like quiche), the olives, the wine, the tinto de verano (like Sangria minus the fruit)--the list continues. I love the streets and the alleys, as they wind and narrow at random, anarchist streets that avoid any sense of grid (THE grid) while bustling with people and cafes and shops and bars. I especially love the streets at night, as they take on a sort of sepia tint under the street lights. I love the people in Sevilla, as they are friendly and accepting of foreigners and also fun-loving and understanding. I love, too, the elderly population here; the men and women stoop and shuffle through crowds with tiny, wizened feet, often sporting both canes and caps at once. (Honestly, the old people here are so small I recently mistook a woman for a towel hanging from a 1st floor window. Also, I thought a nun was a piece of poster board, and I am absolutely not kidding.)

On that note, my friend here told me a great story: the grandfather with whom she lives said he was "going to the supermarket" for exercise (he's in his 90s)-- an hour and a half later they saw him by the gate and asked him how the store was. As it turns out, he had not been ... in that hour and a half, he'd only made it as far as the gate. Amazing.

I also loved Cadiz, a small beach town that I visited with friends for two days, one night, last weekend. The city has an interesting combined history of Phoenician, Roman, Arabic and Christian relics (and cathedrals, mosques, theaters, monuments, etc), and it claims to be the oldest city in Western Europe. Though a few places stake this same claim, it still has some validity in Cadiz, and regardless of the "truth," it's obvious that the city is old.

[Caption: Both photos are from Cadiz - one of the boats as the tide was going out (L) and one of the sunset from Coleta Beach, cast against the silhouette of an old Artillery base/ Castle (R)].

However, despite all of the things I love about Spain and Sevilla in particular, I have also built up a List of Grievances, certain maladies specific to living here that I have noticed (and cursed!) with frequency in my day-to-day.

Here is said list:

1. The lack of logic in city planning: I feel like I am starring in a live-action Groundhog Day, repeating minutes, even hours, of my life walking down the exact same street over and over and over again. Every single day, I have found myself lost, passing the same family eating lunch multiple times before I realize that I have walked in a circle for over twenty minutes. It is truly impossible to find a pattern in the street layout, and I fear that orienting myself here will be similar to my talent in sports--nonexistent.

2. The flow of pedestrian traffic: This is perhaps the most infuriating thing, and even worse than Singapore, if that is to be believed. The simple act of walking in any direction in a crowd is like playing Tetris for Giants, as 0 humans in this city understand the notion of rightward-vs-leftward lanes of movement on foot. I'll take one step forward, only to have my feet run over by a baby carriage, stomped on by a woman's heels, or assaulted by a man in a hurry with no interest in acknowledging my existence. One step forward, two steps back; one step forward again, and then I jump to the side or under an awning, hoping to avoid the throngs of people who not only lack knowledge of traffic lanes but ALSO seem to operate on completely different temporal cycles (in real time). People walk at the paces of a) slow, b) slower, c) glacial, or d) questionably dead. If there were a Richter scale for pedestrian speed, Sevillans might be at a subterranean, 1 million-leagues-beneath-the-sea level. It's enraging and confusing, especially when people walk in rows 5 across, taking up the entire street, of course. Always, they look at you like it is both audacious and offensive that you are alive and, moreover, also walking on the same street. Once, I literally had to hug a tree to avoid getting trampled--and trampled in slow motion, at that!

3. Trendiness: Ugh. So much hate for this concept. Almost every day of my adult life, I have contemplated a utopia in which all people wear some form of a shapeless, temperature/weather resistant sack, enabling both movement AND practicality for all! However, alas, it will never be, as Trendiness still rears its ugly head in modern society. Like I said earlier, people in Sevilla love to shop, and because they are all "trendy," I definitely felt underdressed when I got here. Recently, I went shopping with one task in mind, which was to purchase a simple Fall coat. All too soon, I found that every coat in Sevilla, it seemed, was adorned with great little phrases like "PAINT THE CITY WITH YOUR FIRE" or "REBEL: Enter Cause Here ______________" or "DENIM IS THE NEW BLACK." If those are the anthems of our generation, God help us. Furthermore, most of the stores smell like they've been rigged with small pipe bombs full of Abercrombie & Fitch's worst (x30) perfume, which is abusive to noses everywhere and also probably somehow politically incorrect.

4. Cobblestones: I have a love-hate relationship with cobblestones, but it's mostly hate. I love the aesthetic and like I said, I love the "look" of the streets here, but my lord, whoever invented cobblestones had a serious vendetta against people with weak ankles and/or bad balance. I twist my ankle every single day. Publicly, gracelessly, mortifyingly -- the list goes on, and furthermore, when the streets and pavement are not laid with cobblestone, they are comprised of slick, traction-less little bricks. The mere act of walking from Point A to Point B is like playing Russian Roulette with your life and dignity. (Games, games, everywhere). When I leave the house, I often ask myself: Will I fall to my untimely death on these cobblestones today? Or worse, will I fall in front of a merciless crowd of people? Who knows! [Or worst still--Will I get EXPELLED??!? (I am 'Hermione,' always) <-- if you do not get at least one 1/2 of those jokes, smh]. Part 2 of my Utopian Daydream includes comfortable, theoretically orthopedic shoes lined with tiny suction cups on the bottom, made specifically to battle the slippery treachery that is Sevillan pavement. (I know, you're probably thinking, "but I thought she HATED trendiness? We'd all look like fashionistas in that get-up!" I'm just a bit ahead of the curve... just you wait.)

Here is an exciting pic of the cobblestones I took, for your viewing pleasure:

Part IV: Spanish Class

Arguably my favorite part of the day (aside from teaching) is my Spanish class, which I attend 5 days a week for 2.5 hours each day. If you've ever read "Me Talk Pretty One Day," by David Sedaris, he tells of his experiences in an adult French class, hilariously describing the tribulations of learning a new language once you are already a well-seasoned user of another (English). If you have not read this book, I at least implore you to read this short story. I cry (with laughter) every time I read it. Here is the link: http://www.esquire.com/lifestyle/a1419/talk-pretty-0399/

Below is an excerpt from their first day of class, during which each student was asked to recite their likes and dislikes. Sedaris writes,

"Two Polish Annas raised their hands, and the teacher instructed them to present themselves, giving their names, nationalities, occupations, and a list of things they liked and disliked in this world. The first Anna hailed from an industrial town outside of Warsaw and had front teeth the size of tombstones. She worked as a seamstress, enjoyed quiet times with friends, and hated the mosquito.

'Oh, really' the teacher said. 'How very interesting. I thought that everyone loved the mosquito, but here, in front of all the world, you claim to detest him. How is it that we've been blessed with someone as unique and original as you? Tell us, please.'

The seamstress did not understand what was being said, but she knew that this was an occasion for shame. Her rabbity mouth huffed for breath, and she stared down at her lap as though the appropriate comeback were stitched somewhere alongside the zipper of her slacks.

The second Anna learned from the first and claimed to love sunshine and detest lies. It sounded like a translation of one of those Playmate of the Month data sheets, the answers always written in the same loopy handwriting: 'Turn-ons: Mom's famous five-alarm chili! Turnoffs: Insincerity and guys who come on too strong!!!'

I remember reading the Sedaris story and thinking, "hilarious, yes, but surely exaggerated." As a free-thinking adult possessing a knowledge of words (any words!), I was (and am still) accustomed to expressing my emotions and my opinions with exactitude. I could stand on my soap box exactly how I wanted and when I wanted--I'd never be like the buffoons in this French class!

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The first day of Spanish class, I stood up and told everyone, "Hello. My number is Lizzie and I have 22 years old. I am study and I sing at a school in Bollullos. I have 1 brother" (not true) "and 1 parent." (Not true.) "I like green." (Fair enough.)

Other students provided exciting information like, "I am a boy. I am liking a movie. I am a Germany." We were really peering into each others' souls.

Every day, we have progressed slightly, but for the most part, these classes are all the same -- painfully slow, frustrating, and absurd. What's more, every day I have also realized something else that I have been saying incorrectly--to my students, especially. For instance, I found out that when I thought I'd been telling my students to "listen to me," I'd been telling them to "love me." (Identifying myself as both needy and potentially dangerous to minors). Though I have lists of words and questions written in my book, when actually forced to make conversation, I can only think to ask things like, "Do you like food?"

On one of the funnier days, we were learning how to conjugate reflexive verbs. Being adults, naturally most of us have forgotten all grammar, and English does not use reflexives, so though we had Señor Huevo (Mr. Egg - Left) to guide us on our path to fluency (which is slow-rolling), these verbs proved to be a challenge.

We learned how to say "I want to dress myself" fairly easily. However, shortly after, a French girl wanted to know how to say "I want to dress you" (as the pronouns would change, surely). However, in posing her question, she used the verb "to wash oneself." "Como se dice, for instance, I want to wash you?" she asked. Our teacher speaks very little English, so she looked on, perplexed, as we all took up the cause. "She wants to wash you," we said. "I wash myself?" our teacher asked. "No, no, SHE wants to wash YOU." "Ah yes, she washes herself." "NO!" we shouted, pointing to ourselves. "WE WANT TO WASH YOU!" "No, not MYself--I, ME, I WANT TO SHOWER YOU!!!!" "HOW DO WE SHOWER YOU!? WE WANT TO SHOWER YOU!"

We never did get the answer.

In general, these classes have made me appreciate my ability to convey my thoughts and feelings when I so desire. Having access to only simple adjectives and verbs is inhibiting, so I am looking forward to the day I will be able to say "No, I do not think those patent leather heels are attractive and the gold sequins on these pants are heinous." But for now, 'tis but a dream.

[If you made it to the end of this post, I am genuinely impressed and grateful. I will continue to update when I feel that I have gathered enough comic (or cosmic) material to share. Until then, 'ta luego!