As the page turns...

I still have three months left here, yet in a few clicks of a camera, a few swigs of badly mixed drinks, a few long nights and a few raw goodbyes, it'll be over. This book will be done, the present unfolding European adventure will have folded for good (or at least for two years). My story has been a wild one, more twisted, painful and rewarding than I could've ever predicted. I hope I will be able to say the same for the epilogue.

Closing out the final chapter of my Tales of Twenty-some Countries will be harder than it was to introduce the pursuit. But the epilogue is nothing to cry about. I've accepted a two-year graduate assistant position at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, my alma mater, in the New Student Enrollment office.

I'll help coordinate, plan and implement orientation programs for new students, with special emphasis on international ones. I'll develop and direct an international-student seminar, run an English language group, arrange meals for foreign students with local families and create activities to increase interaction between foreigners and Americans. As part of the deal, the university is going to pay me for that job and even pay all of my Educational Administration Master's degree tuition. That's hard to pass up. So is finally being around to kiss my little gang of nieces and nephews, to join in family dinners and to dress in red on fall Saturdays with friends in Lincoln.

Even so, the decision hasn't been an easy one. I've had to turn down an opportunity to teach next year in the sunny, palm-tree lined coastal region of Spain that was just named the "world's best place for the good life." I guess I've chosen "The Good Life" over "the good life."

I believe our lives should read like a book. We are the protagonists in our own stories, and we must drive their course. There should be progress, excitement, inevitable lulls, a climax and a denouement. A good story has forward motion, a maturing plot and evolving characters. Happy endings are great but only if someone trudged through a patch of thorns in shorts to get there. I've recorded my narrative here, including my battles against the proverbial thorn patches that scratched me to sh**but ultimately left me better off. I hope to pen a happy ending here, too.

I've made a decision to keep moving and advance my story. So, here's to continuing to write one heck of a tale.

52 signs you're an American in Spain

...because you can take the American out of America, but you can't take the, well, you know...

1. You have a love/hate relationship with the siesta.  
2. You're not a fan of dubbing. 
3. You're really awkward with the double-kiss greeting.  
4. Your English gets worse by the day. 
5. You're waiting for Netflix and Pandora to get their you-know-what together and start functioning overseas. 
6. You curse the lack of toilet paper, paper towels and/or soap in the bathrooms here. 
7. You've explained countless times that rugby and American football are not the same. 
8. Your internal meal bell still rings around noon and 6 p.m. 
9. Cooking with butter reminds you of home.
10. You've gone to the ethnic aisle to find peanut butter. 
11. You have introduced said peanut butter to foreign friends. Their response was something along the lines of, "It tastes like peanuts," or my personal favorite, "Um, it's really thick."
12. You've paid outrageous prices for said peanut butter, ingredients to make tacos or baking supplies.
13. You wonder why anyone builds living quarters without an oven.
14. You've corrected a Spaniard's English and then later realized it was actually correct in British English.
15. You've been teased for your Central American/South American Spanish.
16. You'll never be able to keep up with Spaniards on the social scene. Going out at 2 a.m. isn't easy. 
17. You try to adapt your wardrobe to Europe, but on days when life sucks, you put on tennis shoes and your college sweatshirt and ask Europe to cut you some slack.
18. You brought a college sweatshirt from home. Or four college sweatshirts from home. 
19. You're the go-to expert on how life in America is/is not like it appears in the movies.
20. Spaniards think it's weird that you wear socks around the house.
21. Anywhere within eight or nine hours driving is a totally doable weekend trip. Spaniards don't agree. 
22. You don't have the heart to tell Spaniards that you don't catch a cold from not wearing shoes in the house/not wearing a scarf/not buttoning your coat. 
23. It's hard for you to understand that going to the doctor is free. As in, you don't have to pay. At all. No, really, you just go and then leave and keep your money.
24. You see gas prices here and suddenly $3.50 a gallon seems like a bargain.
25. You wonder why Europeans prefer hatchbacks over small sedans.
26. You've had to explain to people back home that Spanish food is not Mexican.
27. "Spicy" Spanish food doesn't seem remotely spicy to you. 
28. Sometimes the whiny, entitled American comes out when you can't buy something at 1 a.m. or anytime on a Sunday.
29. Your friends in America are 24 and married, while your friends in Spain are 30 and still staying out 'til 8 a.m.
30. You've realized that wine and coffee in Spain are far superior and cheaper than in America. 
31. You've told a Spaniard which part of the country you're from, and they've related your state/city to something from pop culture.
32. Or they said, "That's in the north, right?" To which you've responded, "No, it's actually in the southwest/center/complete opposite part of the country."
33. You've explained that Americans don't wear scary costumes for Halloween, and we instead use the holiday as an excuse to dress like an idiot or a lady of the night.
34. When you visit the States or have a visitor in Spain, you stock up on food (i.e. Reese's) and cosmetics.
35. You've realized Americans know nothing about European geography or politics.
36. You've visited more of Spain than most Spaniards. 
37. You've lost multiple battles against Spanish bureaucracy and customer service. 
38. It took you months to stop apologizing to people who run into you on the street.
39. Old people on park benches in the evening strikes you as the epitome of Spain.
40. You regret not learning to drive a stick-shift (or you're really glad your parents made you do it). 
41. You can point out America's flaws, but if a European does it you suddenly get all sensitive. It's like the great U.S. of A is your best friend or your mom. Nobody dogs on your mom.
42. Sometimes the lack of political correctness in Spain makes you squirm.
43. The Spanish practice of putting a heater under the table in the living room took some getting used to.
44. You dearly miss your clothes dryer. 
45. You'll never stop eating breakfast on the run/ordering coffee to go, even though it's totally un-Spanish. 
46. You've yet to eat an American-caliber burger in Spain.
47. You've explained that we don't eat burgers every day.
48. You feel uncomfortable in McDonald's or Burger King because you feel like everyone there knows you're American and are therefore fulfilling the stereotype. 
49. You have no good defense for, "That's why Americans are obese."
50. You wonder why America doesn't have cañas.
51. Given the crisis, you're thankful for the economic opportunities we have waiting for us in America.
52. But you're not ready to pursue those opportunities yet because you're floating through your youth in Spain, where life is usually beautiful, sometimes frustrating, sometimes backwards, occasionally tears-inducing, mostly entertaining and always worth it.

Dear fellow countrymen and women, any signs you'd add to the list?

Don't envy me.

People call me brave and adventurous, ambitious and determined. They congratulate me for making a decision that changed my life even though I was terrified it would, well, change my life. But for as courageous and composed as people think I am, the truth is deep down I'm as frazzled and anxious as you are. The path I've chosen wears on me, just like yours wears on you. 

I'm scared - Every. Single. Day. Of what I'm missing back home. Of losing touch. Of losing people. Of not learning enough or trying to learn too much. Of missing the signs that I'm in the wrong or the right place. You may think my life is worth envying. You see my pictures on Facebook; you imagine me regularly parading through passport control; you see me making friends around the globe and pursuing the opportunities I always said I would.

But you know what? I envy you, dear 8-to-6'er (nobody works 9 to 5 anymore, let's be honest). You're chained to your desk, at a job where you don't feel fulfilled. You sometimes plot how to accidentally spill your coffee on your keyboard so that it can be out of commission for a while. You eat lunch at your desk because coming back from a break just reminds you how much you don't want to be there. But hey, you have stability. You have a steady paycheck, perhaps a retirement account and savings, even. There are times when you feel accomplishment and optimism and self-worth. I envy that.

Dear wearied mom, you think cleaning runny poop - or, God forbid, crusty poop - off your teething infant's butt is unglamorous and perpetual. Perhaps you feel moribund, stuck in the monotony of your day-to-day. While I'm eating couscous in Morocco and Parmesan in Italy, you're taste-testing baby foods. Those meats really are awful. As much as you love your kids, sometimes you dream of travel, adventure or, hell, just a few days off. But guess what? I envy you, too. You are surrounded by people who know and support you. As much as that baby cries, she loves you, and you can hold her when you're about to break. I envy that.

Dear straying partner, you think your relationship is sparkless, blissless, romantic-comedy-moment-less. On Monday you talk about a weekend date night, but by Friday you're microwaving popcorn and falling asleep at 9 with crumbs in your bed. He's tired. You're tired. You wonder about passion and romance and surprise. But guess what? You're falling asleep next to him. When he holds you, it reminds you why you've hung on for so long. I envy that.

Dear young newlywed, you still hold your hand in the sun and watch your ring sparkle. You can't help but cry when you hear the song you danced to with Dad at your wedding, and you have tiered white cake in the freezer. But sometimes the naysayers get to you, the ones who've said you're not at an "OK age" to marry, that being ready only happens after you pass a certain birthday, that you didn't have time to find you before you agreed to we. You know what? I envy you, too. I envy the strength you had to commit. I envy the burnt dinners at home and the wedding album on the coffee table. I envy you having an us.

Even so, life is about decisions and accepting the highs and lows that come with them. There are good days and bad days for all of us. I'm not cleaning baby poop off butts, but I'm cleaning pigeon poop off my European sandals. Some days I'm OK with that. Some days I'm not. But I can't sit and compare my life to yours, and you shouldn't compare yours to mine. Because envy is a cancer. So here's to fighting it with everything good we've got.

Adventures in teaching

Kids say the darnedest things, and even more so in a foreign language. Sometimes my students' questions and/or comments catch me entirely by surprise, and I have to maintain composure while I think about how I'm going to address *insert taboo topic here*. Every day is an adventure. As an auxiliar, my job is as much to teach the English language as it is to teach the way we use the language (and the way we don't use the language.)

In a recent class with 14-year-olds, we were reading a news story about Samoa Air's charge-by-passenger-weight ticket policy. We were debating about fairness, discrimination, obesity, etc. My students kept using the term "fat people," i.e. "fat people have to pay more" or "it's unfair to fat people." I decided to give them a lesson about the intricacies and subtleties of  English (I wrote before about the loose Spanish PC code here): We don't say "fat people," I explained. Instead, we say "overweight," "large," "obese" or "big." This small lesson somehow morphed into a much longer, much more uncomfortable discussion. One student asked what we call "los negros" (black people). I explained that we typically say "African-Americans," which then prompted the "so why do you say 'white' but not 'black'?" follow-up. Good question. I had no sufficient answer. Then a girl asked when we say "n*****." She was 100 percent sincere. I was admittedly shocked and had to think for a bit about how to explain such a delicate word without actually repeating the word. I told them that it's incredibly derogatory and offensive, and I advised them to never, ever, ever use it. "But why do we hear it in music and movies so much then?" Another good question. Another unsatisfactory answer from me.

After all of that, just when I thought I was off the hook, a girl mentioned African immigrants selling sunglasses, watches, ice cream and other goodies on the beach. A student raised his hand and, again 100 percent sincerely, asked if I could explain the difference in pronunciation and meaning between "bitch" and "beach" because he couldn't hear any distinction between the two (I wrote a bit about that here). So, I got the go-ahead from the teacher, and I explained it. What. A. Day.

Here's to students keeping teachers on their toes.

Un saludo,
Teresa

On my decision to stay

I've accepted a position to teach again next year in the province of Cáceres, Extremadura, where I work now. With that said...

No one said following your gut was easy. Constant goodbyes are awful. Distance is awful. Tough decisions are awful. But so is forgoing an opportunity that will change your life out of fear that it will, in fact, change your life. Don't let your dreams be dreams, as they say.

My decision to stay will fray relationships and jeopardize career opportunities I could've taken. I'll waste money I should be saving and postpone the adulthood I should be planning for. I'll miss moments, birthdays and holidays with the people who are most important to me. I'll see cake-smeared nieces and nephews on Facebook and wonder if I should be home watching them evolve from infants to toddlers to schoolchildren. I'll see Husker tailgates and wonder if I should be connecting with old friends, rebuilding bonds naturally strained by distance.  I'll see family photos and wonder if I should be sitting at my grandparents' kitchen table while I can. I'll think about my unworn wedding dress hanging in a closet and wonder if sacrificing a marriage to my very best friend in order to stay here was foresighted or careless. I'll wonder about regrets and everything that was but isn't anymore. And when I leave let again, there will be more tears and more hard-as-hell goodbyes.

I have very little to show for the last six years of my itinerant existence. I have a college degree with honors and a hard-earned résumé that don't necessarily apply to my current pursuit. I own almost nothing, I have meager savings, and I can fold, stuff and Space Bag most of my life into 100 linear inches. What I do have is an email inbox and a blog full of travel dispatches, a Paleolithic computer full of photos and a memory full of characters and chapters.

I really hate "what ifs" and "could've beens," but there'd be no avoiding them next year in Nebraska or Spain. Anthony Bourdain (goodness, I really can't stop quoting him; the man's a machine) said, “[When I die], I will decidedly not be regretting missed opportunities for a good time. My regrets will be more along the lines of a sad list of people hurt, people let down, assets wasted and advantages squandered.” So here's to another year of adventure, discovery, growth and independence in Europe. Here's to another year of being poor, lost and foreign. With that, The Nomad Chronicles continues...

Un saludo,
Teresa

"This week in errors," Issue 3

This feature publicizes the week's most epic/memorable/blush-inducing language fails. This week's issue focuses on students unknowingly saying/writing wildly inappropriate things.

1). In a class, my students were playing "20 questions" about celebrities to practice asking questions about and describing personal characteristics. Nicki Minaj came up (if you don't know who she is, look here), and one of my students asked the student describing her if the person being described "had a big ass." I couldn't believe what I heard, so I asked him to repeat because I was sure I'd heard it wrong (like the time a student said he made a mistake on a PowerPoint because he "was wrong" and I thought he said he "was drunk"). He repeated, and sure enough, he confidently repeated "ass." He didn't realize that was a bad word because he'd learned it as an equivalent to "culo," which technically it is, but it's stronger in English.

2). This comes from one of my roommate's students. Look at #3.

The girl meant to say "hold me" or "pick me up" ("cogerme" in Spain Spanish), but in parts of Latin America, "coger" means "f***," so when she searched "coger" in a translator, that's what she got.

Un saludo,
Teresa

"This week in errors," Issue 2

This feature publicizes the week's most epic/memorable/blush-inducing language fails.

1.) ...trying to tell my mentor that "tienes que bailar esta noche, sabes." ("You have to dance tonight, you know.") When I speak quickly, proper pronunciation goes by the wayside and things can get a bit hairy. In this situation, "bailar" became "balar," which means "baaaa," like a sheep.

2.) ...while working on vocabulary with my fifth-graders, we came across the word "beach," which induced back-of-the-classroom laughter. English-language learners are infamous for confusing the pronunciations of "beach" and "b****," so I figured the juvenile chuckling was related to that. I launched into a spiel about how "beach" is not a "palabrota" (bad word) and how the pronunciation of minimal pairs completely changes the meaning of the words. The teacher and the students were noticeably confused by my sudden soapbox lesson and what had initiated it. Turns out a kid in the back had accidentally written "beach" on his name tag instead of his name. There was no "palabrota" confusion. Awkward.
 

3). ...I'd nominate this label for the worst Spanish-English translation of the year. It's certainly the worst I've seen in person. This doozy of a disaster comes from the label of a sauce my roommate brought home from the Canary Islands.

I'm no professional, but the translation should be something like, "'Mojo rojo' is a red sauce typical of the Canary Islands that's used with meats, fish, vegetables, roasted cornmeal, baked potatoes, etc."

Here's to being entertained by shaming myself and others.

Un saludo,
Teresa

This week in errors

This is a new feature I'm introducing that will publicize the week's most epic/memorable/blush-inducing language fails.

1). ...in reference to a "real heartbreaker," I said, "Es un rompecabezas, de verdad," which means, "He's really a puzzle."

2.) ...from a Spanish friend who's learning goofy English phrases from a Mr. T phone app: "Get out of my finger." He wanted to say, "Get your finger out of my face," which he wanted to follow up with "or I'll turn it into chopped liver." (He didn't really understand the chopped liver part, either. He thought Mr. T was saying he was going to insert his finger into his liver.)

3.) ...during English class, I told the kids I was going to sketch a "cheat sheet" on the board regarding the proper use of "some, any, an and a." Turns out if you say "cheat sheet" quickly it sounds like "chichi," which is Spanish slang for female genitalia. My students erupted in uncontrollable laughter, which I suppose I would've done, too, as a 12-year-old if my Spanish teacher said she was going to draw a you-know-what on the board.

4). This is a must-read: "The best worst translations between Spanish and English."

15 (+2) lessons learned in Spain

**I've added a couple of gems since I posted originally. 


1.) When you venture into the bowels of Spanish bureaucracy, you lose. 

Getting my foreign identity card was the disasterous, mindblowingly inefficient process I was warned it could be. The workers were incompetent, and the "rules" were nonexistent at worst and fluid at best.

We Americans were each given different "official" forms to fill out. The workers told us it was OK we all had different ones because it didn't really matter anyway. Some of us were told we needed to get a verification from the town hall that proved we did, in fact, live where we said we did. Some of us weren't told that. I was told twice that I needed three passport-sized photos. Ultimately, I needed two.

But the kicker was when my American friend told me that her American friend had gone to the station, and a worker told her that "she and her friends" needed to bring in a copy of every page of our passports. Is that really a bit of information that should be given to someone I don't know and then spread through the grapevine?

If you don't believe me, watch this hilarious-but-sad-because-it's-so-true video about Spanish red tape. 

2.) The travel gods like me.

I arrived at the airport in Mallorca at 6 a.m. for a 6:25 departure. And they let me on the plane with only a minor "you should really be earlier next time" scolding. I have twice had mishaps with trains in Merida, a city more than 30 miles from Don Benito. And twice, the train company paid for me to take a taxi from the Merida area to Don Benito. No official form asking for my name or an explanation of the situation. No money out of my pocket.

3.) Don't speak too soon. 

I wrote this post and saved it as a draft. Then I went back to Mallorca and got my iPhone 4S and my wallet (with that hard-won foreign identity card inside) stolen.

4.) If you're going to get robbed, don't let it happen in Spain.

Because replacing a stolen phone, canceling bank cards, dealing with police and applying for new identification is best done in your native language.

5.) Always carry coins. 
Spaniards really, really prefer not to have to make change. 

6.) In Spain, you arrive late, leave late, plan late, stay out late, eat late, wake up late, be late.

Puncuality just isn't a big deal. I think you can tell that from #2.

In Spain, lunch at noon is blasphemous. Going to the club before 2 a.m. is social suicide. Waking up at 10 a.m. on a Sunday is absurd. And being early is sooo foreign.

Source

7.) The siesta is still alive and well in southern Spain.

It's a ghost town around here between 2 and 5 p.m. Don't plan for midday productivity.

8.) "Customer service" is more like, "Wouldn't it be better for both of us if you just did this yourself?"

One day at the bus ticket window, the worker was on a personal call. I waited a few minutes, growing evermore impatient. Then I enlisted the classic American/British foot-tapping tactic. All in vain. Then she pulled out a tin of orange tobacco and started ROLLING CIGARETTES while I waited there.

A different day, I was having beers with my roommate, and I asked for the bill. Ten or 15 minutes later, I still hadn't gotten it. Then the waitress came out, sat down at the table across the way and had a beer with some friends.

I laugh only because it makes me cringe at the same time. Source

Source

9.) Official timetables are really just general approximations.

Shout out to #4 up there.

My 10:15 a.m. bus to work showed up at 11 o'clock once, without explanation. It generally rolls into the station around 10:30. Not once have I been in a plane, train or automobile in Spain that left on time, which has led me to change my arrival approach. I generally add about five minutes to established departure times and show up then. Turning up seven minutes late would be moderately risky, but three minutes would leave me with too much spare waiting time.

10.) Spain is a time warp.
  
Where did the past 5 1/2 months go?

11.) You can send used underwear to Spain, but don't try to send new ones.

Or detergent to launder them. If you send anything new from the U.S. to Spain (you can send used items without issue), you risk having it detained in customs in Madrid. They can slap you with hefty import and sales taxes on the goods and then charge freight costs to send the goods to their final destination (even though you already paid for them to be sent to their final destination).

I didn't actually learn this lesson from a shipment of underwear, but it makes for a more sensory example, eh?

12.) There are five requisite words/phrases to rock at Spain Spanish. 

Dime - literally means "tell me." This is an acceptable greeting on the phone and at customer service counters.
Vale - means "OK."
Venga - generally means "c'mon" but can also be used as a sort of "ok" or "yeah, right."
Vamos - generally means "let's go" but can also mean "enough already."
No pasa nada - means "it's OK," "everything's all right," "don't worry about it" or "no problem."

13.) It is possible to have an entire phone conversation using the terms listed above. 

I've heard it done.

14.) When out and about, it's not ideal to go more than a few hours without a coffee or small beer.

That's just the Spanish way. It's as much about rest and refreshment as it is about socializing and seizing the day.

15.) Sharing is caring. 

Be careful with what I like to call the "American food and drink faux pas." If you're buying something at the coffee vending machine in the teachers' lounge, you should offer to buy coffee for everyone in the room. (I learned that one in the teachers' lounge after seeming like a real American you-know-what for months.)

And if you go out for dinner with Spaniards, and you order the cheapest platter while your friend gets the most expensive one, the bill often gets split evenly in the end. (That's assuming they actually let everyone order individually instead of ordering a few plates and sharing it all, which is what I often see.)

16.) So just order the big beer and some filet mignon and see what happens.

Because that's the best way to cheat the system.

This might be overkill. Source

17.) Spain is imperfectly perfect. 

I may complain about inaccurate timetables and the siesta. And sure, I inject a lot of sarcasm into my posts because I really do see some things that are just outright ridiculous, in my opinion. But I've chosen to live here. I've chosen to subject myself to inefficient public transportation and mindblowing bureaucracy so that I can bask in the general gloriousness that is my life in Spain.

And you know what? I´m having the time of my life. I love Spain, Spanish and the Spanish people. And I don't regret a thing.

Un saludo,
Teresa

It's not like getting paid is important, right?

I started work here in Spain on Oct. 1.
Today is December 17.
And I just got paid for the first time.

I hadn't received a dime for 2 1/2 months' worth of work until today. But this is Spain, after all, and knowing that there has been some pretty serious economic instability plaguing this lovely nation, I expected some delays. But I didn't realize payment would be pushed back as far as it was. There's been speculation that the Extremaduran government was trying to put off paying us until January to keep our salaries off the 2012 books -- with our pay included, the government hasn't complied with its budget.

Only after some other auxiliares mounted pressure on the Extremaduran government via angry, desperate letters and appeals to the press, we got paid. Ah, the power of bad publicity.

Story about our delayed pay in the "Hoy" paper of Extremadura.  Source

Speaking of bad publicity...

Apparently our lack of pay is normal around here, sadly. Read this New York Times story about how working and earning money aren't necessarily mutually inclusive for Spanish employees.

Un saludo,
Teresa

North American Language and Culture Assistants: Application advice

As much as I want this blog to be a record of my adventures and misfortunes in Europe, I also want it to be helpful for potential North American Language & Culture Assistants who are drowning in questions about how everything works. To all ye applicants out there: The tales of mindblowing bureaucracy, late payments and the general lack of efficiency on the part of the Spanish government are all true, sadly. But the good news is, despite speculation that the dead-broke Spanish government would cut the auxiliars de conversacion program for next year, they haven't done so.

The application officially opens Jan. 8 (it opened in early November last year). You should start your application right now. Yesterday, actually. In the spirit of the season, I put together a nice list of application tips to help you on your way.

1. Don't expect to be placed in Andalucia, Valencia or Madrid
Because everyone wants to, and your odds just aren't that great. Not to say it can't happen, because it obviously does for hundreds of auxiliars every year, but hundreds of others end up in regions that they haphazardly listed as their third choice because they just knew they wouldn't end up there (I'm pointing to myself). I applied for Valencia first, inspired by photos of sun-soaked beaches and crazy parties. Then, because Andalucia, Valencia and Madrid are all in the same region group, and you can only choose one from each group, I put Cataluña, home to Barcelona, as my second choice. I listed Extremadura third, having never even heard of the place. Guess where I ended up?

Aw, Valencia.     Source

2. Don't expect to have a better or worse experience than your friend/cousin/brother/sorority sister did. 
Because it just doesn't work like that. There's so much variation between regions, schools and students. A friend who spent last year teaching in Madrid said her students were half-human, half jungle animals. I've heard of an auxiliar in a rural region whose students refused to participate because their parents were pig farmers, and they didn't think they needed English to take over the family farm (disclaimer: My dad's a farmer, and there's nothing wrong with wanting to take over the farm. But there is certainly something wrong with not wanting to learn.) I've heard stories of teachers practically bolting out of the room as soon as the auxiliar arrives, forcing the auxiliar to teach the class solo while the teacher has a café con leche in the breakroom. One of my friends is basically a live sound machine that only gets used when an English passage needs to be read. So keep all of that in mind.

This could be you.    Source

3. Don't expect the schools to follow the rules
Because they don't. According to the rules, auxiliars aren't replacement teachers, and we're only supposed to work 12 hours a week. We're assistants ("auxiliar" means assistant), but some schools treat auxiliars as teachers while the real teachers chat outside, presumably about their students' beast-like behavior. You may very well be teaching classes on your own. Fortunately, I've been placed in two schools that use me well but don't abuse me. Although I do teach full lessons by myself, the teachers are in the room with me in case I need them. I actually prefer it that way.

Best image that came up when I googled "clueless teacher."

 4. Start saving your money now
Because you'll need it. You'll likely work for two months or longer before getting paid. As I write this, it's late November, and I haven't received a dime. Apparently the auxiliars who applied through the British Council recently received an email saying they should get paid in December, but the date is thus far undetermined. I don't know what that means for we Americans. Fortunately, I anticipated this, and I have a cushion so that I can travel freely without obsessing over my dwindling funds (although I am still kind of obsessing over my dwindling funds). You'll need at least $3,000 to live and travel for the first two months if you want to do it right and eat more than ramen noodles.

Source

5. Read current and former auxiliars' blogs
Because you'll need their advice. Start here, although some of Liz the Young Adventuress's tangles with pissy Spanish funcionarios (government workers) will make you think twice about joining the mess. This blog outlines late payments and lies from the government. This one details lots of the quirks of Spanish culture from an American's perspective. I just stumbled up on this one today, but it looks like it's packed with useful tips and engaging writing.

6. Follow the application instructions 
Because you'll need them. Without them the application is downright nonsensical. Even with them the process is downright nonsensical but to a lesser degree. If you scroll toward the bottom of this page, you'll find a link to a "how to register online" document and a "program manual." Both of those are invaluable. But you'll likely still be confused.

Source

7. Only submit necessary documents
Because you want to work smarter, not harder. There's a lot of misinformation spread among auxiliars regarding what you do and do not need to send in with the application. Supposedly some things are going to change regarding this year's application. I can't confirm or deny that, but I can tell you that last year we didn't need to submit a background check or doctor's note with our program application (you do need a state or FBI check and a health clearance for your visa application if you get accepted, but WAIT TO GET THOSE!) I sent a background check from the city police and a health form because word on the street was that I needed to, even though the instructions didn't say I did. It turned out that I didn't need them. (Keep in mind I'm American and don't know how it works for auxiliars from other countries.)

8. Send in your application on Jan. 8
Because that's the first day you can do so for 2013/2014. Last year, the app opened Monday, Nov. 7, I believe. I started the application Nov. 8 and submitted it Nov. 11. I was applicant No. 642, meaning 641 people got location assignments before me because placements are first-come, first-serve. Submit the online portion before getting the letter of reference, if need be, because you can send that in later. Also, don't waste a lot of time filling in information about merits and work history because that stuff has no influence on your acceptance/rejection. Your application number is what matters, and you want a low one, so the sooner you apply, the better.

Source

9. Don't expect to find out where you're placed by the date the government gives you
Because the government doesn't adhere to deadlines. The application closed in March, and I believe we were told we'd get our placements in late April or early May. On May 22, I got an email saying I'd been accepted and placed in Extremadura, but I wasn't told specifically where. I had to accept my ambiguous placement as a prerequisite to getting more information. I accepted May 26 and was given the names and addresses of my schools June 5.

Source

10. You don't need to speak Spanish to teach English, but you should
Because this is Spain. Officially, auxiliars are supposed to have an intermediate level of Spanish, but many don't because our job is to speak English, after all. But being able to speak Spanish helps immensely at school when you're trying to make copies or find the restroom (although the restroom situation was a bit spotty for a while for me.)

11. Lastly, join the Facebook groups
Because it's good to commiserate together. You'll need a forum to curse the system and make a friend or two. This year's group for my region is Auxiliares de Conversacion 2012-2013 Extremadura, and yours will probably be named similarly. It's a valuable resource; I met one of my roommates on there.

So, that's that, applicants. Scared yet? Don't be. This program certainly has its want-to-pull-my-hair-out qualities, but putting up with the bad stuff has been worth it thus far, for me at least. I've had an amazing time teaching, learning and traveling, so realize you'll have to take the bad with the good.

Are you a current or past auxiliar with wisdom to add? Are you a potential applicant with lingering questions? Let me know in the comments section. 

Un saludo,
Teresa

It's getting a wee bit chilly

Everyone here keeps reassuring me it won't snow, but at the same time the refrain "the cold really hasn't started yet" seems to be on repeat around here. Apparently December and January are worse, so I'm trying to mentally brace myself. To be sure, it's really not that cold here at the moment. There have been a few mornings around 40 degrees, but the afternoons are usually around 60 or higher. I know what you're thinking: "Teresa, you're from Nebraska. Forty degrees is nothing." You might be right, but the difference here is the lack of insulation from the cold. And the lack of heating.

I live in a lovely apartment, but we don't have central heating (that's not entirely uncommon around here). The average low during Extremaduran winters is 39 degrees, which is pretty chilly. My apartment windows aren't double-paned, either. I live with my landlords (a British girl and a Spanish guy) and they've provided a heap of blankets to keep me warm, so I'm all sorts of comfy when I'm in my bed. But I kind of wish I could go the whole winter without showering. Seriously, there's nothing worse than showering when it's cold.

The solution around here for homes without heating is the "brasero," which is basically a space heater that goes underneath a special table specifically designed for that purpose. Some braseros are gas; some are electric. Ours is gas. I keep telling my Spanish roommate that the brasero scares the heck out of me. It really does - I just can't understand how it's a good idea to put a gas-powered flame underneath a table and then cover it with a blanket.

The table and the aforementioned blanket

The brasero underneath the table

The "bombona," or the gas tank

Sorry that I kind of sound like a whiner. My landlords really have made every effort to make sure I'm comfortable, so hopefully this doesn't sound like I'm complaining about my home. I have a great living situation, but that doesn't keep Extremadura temperatures from dipping toward freezing. Here's to a long, cold winter.

(As a sidenote: Recommendations for any auxiliars placed in Extremadura: Pack a few pairs of really warm socks, sweatpants and sweatshirts. You'll be glad you did.)

Buenas noches,
Teresa

I guess I'm a teacher now

So, as you likely know by now, I'm here to be an English language assistant. I work at two schools in a town called Miajadas, which is about a half-hour drive from Don Benito, where I live. Because I don't have a car, my transportation situation is quite complicated. Even complicated might be an understatement. My mentor has organized a network of five teachers, including herself, who bring me to/from school throughout the week. I also take the bus a couple of days a week, when I don't have to be at work until late afternoon. I only work 12 hours a week, technically speaking, but I spend many more hours than that at school, hanging out between classes or waiting for a ride.

You're wondering, "What does she do when she's in class?" Good question. Because I'm an assistant, I have no hand in developing curriculum, determining what we'll cover in class, grading or disciplining students. That fun stuff is left to the teachers. My role, in its simplest form, is to talk to the kids and get them to speak English. Sometimes it's like pulling teeth - understandably so, because it can be intimidating to converse with a native speaker. I know the discomfort. 

At the public school, I teach English, social sciences and math. I've got a pretty good handle on English, but the other two subjects are by no means strengths of mine. However, I prepare and improvise quite well. My students are in their first, second and third years of ESO, which would loosely translate to sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth grades in the U.S. My youngest students at the public school are about 11 years old. I think my oldest are 15 or so. To be candid, when I was assigned that age group, I cringed. They're getting acne. Starting to like girls. Getting clique-y. Reaching puberty. However, I'm happy to say I've been pleasantly surprised. The kids in the first-year ESO classes are actually quite cute, and they're under the impression that I'm funny. They might even think I'm slightly cool, but I can't say for sure. The older students are pretty good, too. In general, they haven't yet hit the "too cool for school age," although a few of them make it clear they'd rather not be in class.

At the Catholic school, I work with elementary students mostly, but I have a couple classes with first-year ESO kids. I only help with English courses there. It's hard not to notice the difference in maturity and behavioral control between the ESO students and the elementary kids, who are between 7 years old and 10 or so. The youngins have a pretty good understanding of English (much better than most children their age in the States), but they simply don't behave as well. It's hard to keep them focused, especially when they're just so curious about me. They don't want to read about Javier and Maria's trip through the forest. Rather, they want to ask me, the blonde alien, questions about where I'm from, my favorite sports teams, my favorite color and whether I have a boyfriend (I've been asked those questions a lot thus far in all of my classes). They want to tell me about their dogs, their cousins who live in England and their dad's cousin's uncle's cat's trip to the United States. I'm sorry for the sarcasm here. The kids are adorable, really, but they're just that: kids, and kids will be kids, whether they're in a public school or a private one in Spain or America. They're exploding balls of energy, and if their fuse gets lit, duck for cover.

My degree of control over the lesson varies by class in both schools. In most of them, the teacher tells me what is on the docket for the day, and I decide how I'll teach it. In the English courses, there's usually some sort of reading material to look over and discuss. The formula for the non-English classes varies a bit more.

In the social sciences course, for example, the instructor one day said she wanted me to teach about the geography of the United States. The textbook, which is in English, had a world map but no specific information about my country. So, I improvised. For an hour, the students and I looked at the map, determining where different points of interest were and how they related directionally to each other. I showed them California, Nebraska, New York and Washington, D.C. and explained how California was west of Nebraska, D.C. is east of Nebraska, etc. They told me what they knew about each place, which admittedly wasn't much We talked about the Rocky Mountains (I explained the mountains gave the Colorado Rockies their name), the Appalachians and the varying regional climates. I kept it interactive, making sure the lesson was as much a conversation as a teaching/learning opportunity.

In that class, I've also taught about feudalism. Yes, medieval feudalism. You can imagine how hard it would be to get these kids to care about hundreds-of-years-old work/live situations in Spanish, let alone in English. But it went quite well, actually. I asked for volunteers to read, and I corrected pronunciation along the way. I also stopped whenever I saw what may have been a tricky word, and I had students who understood the word help me explain it to those who didn't. After we read, I put the students into small groups - each group was assigned the role of medieval lord, priest or peasant - and they told me what their place would've been in society. Did they own land? Did they pay taxes? Did they work the land? It ended up being a great learning activity, and they had to talk. That's the most important part.

For a math lesson about multiplication, division, addition and subtraction, I used word problems to practice vocabulary and math at the same time. To teach about digit placement (ones place, tens place, hundreds place, etc) I wrote a MASSIVE number on the board. That number was the U.S. debt. I wrote each individual digit from the debt on a card and gave one card to each student. I then asked, "Who has the digit in the billions place?," "Who has the digit from the ones place?", etc. The kids had to recognize where the billions, ones, tens, thousands place was, bring their number to the front of the class and write "billions," "thousands," "ones," etc., above their digit in the correct column. It turned out to be a great interactive activity - and a quick lesson on American debt.

Next week I have to teach about medieval trade relations and the area of triangles and squares. Wish me luck, and let's hope a bit of creativity and inspiration hits me soon.

Anything you want to know about Spanish schools or about my job specifically? Ask me!

Buenas tardes,
Teresa

I just can't think of a befitting title

Could this quote sum up my scattered, nomadic lifestyle any better? I think not.

“Anything I've ever done that ultimately was worthwhile...initially scared me to death.” - Betty Bender

Spain is terrifying, glorious, want-to-pull-my-hair-out frustrating, breathtaking, homesickness-inducing and disheartening all at once. But that's adventure, right? With adventure comes that anxiety of "Is this the right bus?" With adventure comes that satisfaction of, "Yes, that was the right bus." With adventure come those tears when you can't find the milk at the grocery store. And with adventure comes that "did that really just happen?" feeling when you accidentally say you're pregnant instead of embarrassed (yes, that happened once). 

Let's raise a glass (figuratively, of course) to adventure, whatever that means in your life. Cheers. 

Buenas noches, 
Teresa

"Home"

I’ve grown comfortable calling Don Benito “home,” so I take that as a good sign that I’m adjusting well, both physically and emotionally. The fact that I have a good “home” here makes it easier to be away from my real home – the home that doesn’t require quotation marks.

For some auxiliares, Don Benito would be quite the adjustment. It’s small (about 35,000) people, and it’s rural, surrounded by a golden fortress of soon-to-be-harvested corn. It’s not a primary destination for arts, culture or tourism (some tourists do come to a select few Extremaduran cities), but I prefer it that way. You see, as a Nebraskan, I appreciate what the rest of the “sophisticated” world does not. Simple living. Proud people. Small-town dynamics. A lack of traffic. A lack of crime. There’s no world-class ballet or five-star hotels here, but I’ve never been one to give much weight to such things.

"The Good Life"?

For the most part, I was spot-on when I described Extremadura as the Nebraska or Iowa of Spain. It’s a great place to live but not necessarily an ideal place to visit (in my 500+ page guidebook, Extremadura was given a measly 20 pages). Like the American Midwest, agriculture reigns supreme here in Extremadura. Extremeños – the people of Extremadura – harvest corn, olives, tomatoes, sheep, goats, cattle and pigs. (Miajadas, the town where I teach, touts itself as the European tomato capital. I saw it on a sign as I rode into town on the bus this morning. I’ve yet to have a local tomato, however.)

This yellow stuff looks awfully familiar.

About those harvested pigs…Spaniards are obsessed with ham, I kid you not. I’ve been told it comes from the days of religious persecution, when everyone in Spain was forced to eat ham to weed out the people pretending to be Catholics (Muslims pretending to be Catholics so they could stay in Spain, for example, weren’t too keen on eating meat). I can’t confirm or deny if that’s really the driving force behind the national ham obsession, but I can confirm that ham is a big deal. Nebraskans are proud of our homegrown beef, sure, but it doesn’t rise to the level of obsession. Anyway, here’s a Wikipedia excerpt about the ham. I know Wikipedia isn’t always reliable, yadda, yadda, yadda, but for the purposes of this blog post, it shall suffice:

Wild Black Iberian pigs roam in the area and consume acorns from oak groves. These pigs are caught and used for the cured ham dish jamón ibérico. The higher the percentage of acorns eaten by the pigs, the more valuable (and expensive) the ham. Iberian Ham that can boast an acorn-fed average of 90%+ of the pigs diet can be sold for more than twice as much as ham whose pigs ate on average less than 70% of acorns, for example. In the US, Iberian Ham directly from Extremadura, bone-in, was illegal until around 2005. At that time, enough U.S. restaurants were in demand for the delicacy that Spain decided to ship it bone-out, which the U.S.D.A.'s health codes would (and continue to) approve.

Despite its obvious similarities to Nebraska (it’d be an unusual day if I didn’t see tractors roaring through Miajadas, and I saw a young guy wearing a Case International t-shirt at the gas station there yesterday), Extremadura is different in some respects. Although some areas of Extremadura are quite flat, mountains are usually within sight. The area’s geography is more diverse and interesting than Nebraska’s, I can say that with certainty. Here, valleys become mountains. Mountains merge with plains. Hills interrupt flatlands. That cadence is on repeat throughout the region. 

All of these are photos of Extremadura. Got diversity?

And, oh yeah, there are random castles on random hills. I mean, c’mon. 

Aforementioned random castle on hill

Additionally, the weather is better here. Sure, the mercury soars past 100 in the summer, but it’s unusual for it to dip below freezing in the winter. I’ve seen photos of my school covered in snow, but I’m told snow is super rare. I was teaching my students about American geography and climate the other day in class, and when I mentioned that -17 degrees Celsius (about 2 degrees Fahrenheit) wouldn’t be that crazy, my students were shocked. So, while it’s been below 40 in Nebraska recently, it’s been between 75 and 90 here in Extremadura, so I have no complaints.

For lack of a better transition…Let me share a bit about Don Benito. The main part of town can’t be more than a few miles across, from east to west. I can walk from one end to the other and still have leg strength left, if that’s a better illustration for those of you who know me well (I’m not much of an exerciser). The town is meticulously maintained; the avenues intersect at roundabouts with fountains and palm trees. It’s quite cute, really. 

Avenida del Pilar

The locals believe there are “bad areas” in Don Benito; I disagree. I’ve never felt unsafe, and I’ve never felt that I’ve ended up on the “wrong side of the tracks,” as we say in the States. I wander a lot here, and because I have no sense of direction, I never know where I end up. Perhaps I have trotted through the so-called bad areas and didn’t realize it, but the worst thing I’ve seen so far is a house lacking a recent paint job. I’ve yet to see a police officer doing anything resembling work. I can’t imagine there’s much for them to do around this peaceful plot of Spain. 

Avenida de la Constitución, the main shopping drag

Parque Municipal "Tierno Galván"; city park

On the outskirts of town, there’s an olive oil factory and a chocolate factory. I’ve yet to try the products from either company, but the olives I had here so far are to die for. But I’ll leave that for another blog.

I’m content and settled here in my new land, but I worry my comfort will erode into complacence. Here’s to making a conscious effort to keep making discoveries. 

Buenas noches, 

Teresa

Beautiful Cáceres

The 150+ auxiliars placed in Extremadura gathered in Cáceres, a charming town of about 90,000 people in west central Spain, for orientation. The orientation itself wasn't very helpful, and our accommodations at a local high school were sketchy at best, but the town itself was stunning.

Cáceres is the epitome of Spain. The town's medieval core is a maze of narrow stone streets winding through Roman and Moorish buildings. Outside of old town, Cáceres becomes a modern city with large stores and two American must-haves: Burger King and McDonald's.

We only had a couple of hours to explore Cáceres, sadly. I'll surely be heading back sometime for a closer look, but I wanted to share some photos.

One of the many adorable streets

San Francisco Javier Church.

The main town plaza

Entrance to old town from the plaza

My first wine thus far in Spain. It was from Extremadura.

That lengthy combination of letters and numbers is the most ridiculous wi-fi password I've ever seen.

A sad tale

Let me preface the following pathetic tale with a little disclaimer: I was terribly homesick last Friday, which was my first day in Don Benito. It was my first day without the great friends I’d made at orientation, and I was trying to come to terms with the fact that Don Benito is by no means Madrid. Anyway, I went to the Mercadona around the corner from my house to buy some food.

It didn’t go well. Blame it on emotions. 

For starters, I wasn’t familiar with hardly any of the brands or foods, so I had no idea what to buy. I didn’t know where things were or what they were called. I wandered up and down the same aisles five or six times, staring blankly at the shelves. I couldn’t find milk anywhere. I closely examined the products in the refrigerated section. I found some juices and a common drink here that I compare to liquefied yogurt, but I couldn’t spot milk. After several minutes and some tears (I managed to keep the tears contained in my eyes), I remembered that milk isn’t refrigerated here. I went to a different aisle and found what I thought looked like milk, but the packaging didn’t explicitly say what the product was. Keep in mind that milk doesn’t come in the translucent plastic cartons like it does in the States. It’s in opaque cardboard cartons here, and the tricky thing is that other drinks also come in similar opaque containers. I grabbed a carton that I figured must contain milk, and I continued on. I realized a couple of days ago when I pulled the milk out of my fridge for breakfast that I had purchased specially fortified milk for young children. At least I’ll have strong bones.

At Mercadona, I was craving fruit, so I put some apples in a bag, placed them in my basket and headed to the checkout. When the cashier pulled them out, she was confused by my stupidity, and I was confused by her confusion. This would’ve been quite the confusion-infused stalemate if a fellow auxiliar hadn’t been with me. The auxiliar explained that I had to weigh the fruit myself before taking it to the front (I’m sure you have to do that in some American stores, but I just couldn’t understand the explanation in Spanish). I surrendered and told the cashier I no longer wanted the apples.

Then it came time to take the products I did buy to my apartment. By then, I had no confidence in my Spanish or my ability to shop in this foreign land. The cashier was asking me if I wanted “bolsas” (bags), but I couldn’t understand her (the accent here in Extremadura is incredibly thick, like an accent in Texas or West Virginia). The auxiliar explained that there’s a charge for plastic grocery bags here, and the cashiers generally assume you don’t need them. Discouraged, I told the lady I wanted bags, and I walked out of the store with my head down.

Needless to say, I went home and cried. 

Things are better now (not that it takes much to be better than that). 

Buenas tardes, 

Teresa

More than just Spanish

For me, this experience isn’t as much about teaching as it is about diving head-first into Spanish culture and language. But what I’ve quickly realized is that I’m not just learning about Spanish culture. So far I’ve learned about life in Canada, England and Ireland. Most of the auxiliares (if you haven’t read my previous posts, my title is auxiliar de conversación, which basically means language assistant) are American, but there are several from outside of the States. One of the girls I stayed with in Madrid was British. Another one was Canadian. On the bus to orientation in Cáceres, we met a “lad” from Ireland.

We often overlook cultural differences between English-speaking countries. But sharing a language doesn’t mean we share everything. A few quirks:

-         Police in the U.K. and Canada generally don’t carry guns unless they’re dealing with a riot or something of the sort.

-         When reciting the alphabet, Canadians and Brits say “zed” as the last letter, instead of the American “z” pronunciation.

-         Brits from northern England call tea “brew.” And when they say they’re having evening “tea,” that actually means they’re having supper, not drinking tea.

-         The British higher education system is completely different than in the U.S. They don’t say that they “major” in a subject, and they don’t follow the structure of a typical American semester, which is traditionally characterized by intermittent exams, midterms and finals. According to what I gathered from my aforementioned British friend, Brits establish their undergraduate course of study – Spanish, for example – and they work on that for three years, usually. At the end of those years, they take a test (or a series of tests, I’m not sure) to determine if they get their degree. As I’m writing this, I realize I need to learn more to fully explain the differences. But just know that it’s different, OK?

-    Of course Brits use all sorts of different words and phrases, but one that sticks with me: If Brits say they're "going to be at the restaurant for 8 o'clock" that means they'll get there around 8 o'clock. If they say "at 8 o'clock," that means they'll be punctual. 

Those are just a few tidbits I can remember. I won’t try to claim that this list is exhaustive. 

Buenas tardes, 

Teresa