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

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

"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

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

Adjusting to Spain

I knew going into this experience that there’d be some cultural clashes. After all, I’m admittedly quite stuck in my American ways at times. I figure a lot of you, dear readers, are curious about what differences I’ve noticed between the States and Spain thus far. This post might seem terribly ethnocentric. I apologize for that in advance, but the easiest way to illustrate what life is like here is to compare it to the familiar back home.

- In Spain, stores that sell groceries primarily sell groceries. For random, non-grocery items, many Spaniards go to “chinos,” which are stores that sell, well, random stuff. They’re often run by Chinese people, hence the name “chino,” but that’s not always the case. I can’t make an educated estimate of the typical chino square footage, but the average size reminds me a lot of a Factory Card Outlet or Party America, if that helps. In the chinos, most products are in their original packaging, but some aren’t. 

Chino in Don Benito

 I was able to buy lotion, a lint roller, toothpaste, a trash can and dish scrubbers at the Mercadona grocery store. But I had to go to multiple chinos to find a fan, towels, power adaptors, an extension cord, hangers, a full-length mirror and a key ring. I must admit I miss the one-stop-shopping in Lincoln, Nebraska. But, considering I have to walk everywhere in Don Benito, the multi-store pursuit of goods is great exercise. There is a Carrefour (a France-based superstore chain) near my town, and that has a pretty good selection of necessities, but it’s no Wal-Mart (it’s compared to Wal-Mart sometimes, but they don’t carry a lot of the things Wal-Mart does. For example, they don’t sell any mirrors.)  

Got Crocs? This chino does.

I couldn't find a proper basket for my things, so I settled for a bread pan from a chino. 

Remember what I said about a lack of selection?

-         On a different note…I can’t write a post about Spanish culture and not mention the infamous siesta. I’m going to come right out and say it: I’m not yet a Spanish siesta fan. Here, virtually all businesses and municipal agencies close down from roughly 2 to 5 p.m. Afterward, some people return to work for a few hours. From my limited experience thus far, many banks and government agencies, however, don’t open again until the following day. On Sundays, virtually everything is closed. I know the Sabbath was once viewed in the States with reverence, but let’s be honest, it’s more or less become another day for many Americans to get things done. I mean, you’ve been to Wal-Mart on a Sunday, right?

-         Spanish culture is very social, perhaps because it’s less about working and more about enjoying family, friends, food, wine and cañas (small beers). The streets are almost always alive with people (except, of course, during the siesta). During the evenings, when most Americans are either on the couch or still at work, Spaniards are sitting on park benches, walking the streets or sitting at cafes. I’m quite serious about the park bench thing: In the evenings, handfuls of older men congregate on benches to chat. It’s lovely, really. It’s funny how fast I’ve adjusted to this – when I’m in my apartment in the evenings, I just want to get out and do something. 

-    I'm still very awkward with the double-kiss-on-the-cheek greeting. So far, pretty much everyone has greeted me that way. I've gotten used to that, but I don't understand yet when it's appropriate for a goodbye. It's almost like there's an uncomfortable dance for me at the end of dinner or drinks, in which the Spanish person wonders if he/she should give me dos besitos (two kisses) or if we should just leave with a smile and a wave. Are there concrete rules for this sort of thing? 

-    Lastly, my tummy is angry at Spain. See, Spaniards generally eat a light breakfast, a large lunch and a small supper. I bought cereal and milk at the grocery store (my next post will highlight that adventure), so I eat breakfast just like I did back home. However, Spaniards don't eat lunch until 2 p.m. or after. Students and teachers aren't served lunch at school, so I have to wait until I get home around 2:30 or later.  By then, my hunger clock has been ringing since noon. Supper isn't until 8:30 or 9, when I'm usually settling down for the evening in the States.

Perhaps in a month or so I'll be glowing about how happy I am that I've adjusted to these relatively

small-but-significant differences. For now,  I'm not sure what to think. 

Buenas tardes, 

Teresa

Perspective

(I'm posting this a day and a half after I wrote it because of time constraints. But the lack of immediacy doesn't make it any less relevant, I promise!)

There’s no turning back now. I’m mid-flight, probably somewhere over Jersey, as I write this. My eyes aren’t burning anymore from salty tears, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that this move abroad is happening, so I figure I’m at a good place to write. (United Airlines has pretty solid movie selections – think “The Lucky One,” “Brave, “Mirror, Mirror,” "Dark Shadows" and “The Avengers” – which I’m putting off to jot down some thoughts.)

I’ve been called “brave,” “courageous” and “gutsy” for embarking on this months-long adventure. And I suppose by some measures, I am those things. But, essentially, I’m on a 9-month whirlwind vacation from the real world that I would otherwise be entering as a college graduate.

I guess I’m saying that I don’t deserve so much credit. Don’t get me wrong – the support and encouragement from friends and family has been amazing. I am incredibly thankful that I have so many people interested in the next nine months of my life. I couldn’t do this if you all weren’t along for the ride. But I’m not doing anything noble over there. 

Young Americans make temporary moves abroad every day. The difference between them and me? Well, thousands of them end up in combat boots in the desert for a year or more. Others end up in scrubs in dilapidated hospitals in impoverished, remote corners of the globe. Those people are brave in a way that I will never be. In Spain, I’ll be fighting immigration paperwork and language barriers. They’re fighting al-Qaeda and AIDS.

When I start to feel sorry for myself, when I start to pout about leaving home, I think of those people – the soldiers in Afghanistan and the Peace Corps volunteers in Rwanda. I will have virtually unrestricted access to Skype, email and Facebook. I’ll be officially working a mere 12 hours a week and will do private English lessons on the side at my discretion. The rest of my time will be spent diving head first into Europe. Is that bravery? I don’t know, but I do know I’m in a better spot than a lot of young people who’ve recently packed their lives into 65 linear inches.

One final, admittedly unrelated thought: Wouldn’t theater-style arm rest cupholders be a great invention for airlines to adopt? How am I supposed to type with a cup of water in my hand?

Buenas noches,

Teresa

The integration challenge

We all know there's some animosity in America toward immigrants, in some cases even toward legal ones. Some of that negativity, it seems, stems from some immigrants' resistance to culturally integrate. It's not uncommon for them to gather in pockets and seek out the familiar - Latin music, German food, Asian markets, etc. Some Americans are bothered by that; some aren't.

Here's where I admit that, at times, I'm just like those immigrants when I'm overseas.

Sometimes, there's nothing worse than being the minority. In Costa Rica, I hated being the only white person on the bus or the only foreigner in the supermarket. Locals often assumed I couldn't speak Spanish (I can). The constant cat calls (a Hispanic cultural quirk that I just can't get used to) drove me crazy. So when I was feeling especially alien-like, I sought the familiar. Speaking English was strangely comforting. Eating the closest thing to American food made me feel closer to home. Country music soothed my unease.

Being a two-week tourist doesn't count. A foreigner's discomfort lies in the daily grind of public transportation, routine purchases, bank visits, etc. Those are the true test. During my first stint in Spain and my semester in Costa Rica, I failed those tests many times (I remember a particularly awkward incident at a Costa Rican grocery store when I simply could not, for the life of me, understand the cashier's explanation that people sell back empty glass bottles). Sometimes I had a hard time figuring out how much I owed the bus driver. After each uncomfortable encounter, I curled up into a ball, clinging to the American subculture around me. (Don't get me wrong here, people. I loved Costa Rica.)

I'm going to try my best to do things differently this time around. So, here's to integration. Here's to keeping a smile when I want to cry. Here's to reaching out to the chronic bus starer. Here's to watching Spanish television and drinking local wine - even though I hate wine.

Buenas tardes, Teresa

Tick, tock, tick, tock

To be entirely candid, I'm getting a bit scared. My departure date is really, really soon. And seriously, who is the menace responsible for suddenly speeding up time? I swear a minute has gone from 60 seconds to 30. Days are passing like never before, I'm sure of it.

I feel ill-prepared. I have a long list of items to pick up before I leave. I wonder if, at some subconscious level, I've been intentionally delaying those purchases. My final must-haves run will just make this trip seem all too real. I'm most worried about teaching English. The closest thing to teaching that I've done was tutoring, and I'm not even sure how effective I was at that (I didn't get much feedback). So, I just show up and start shaping young minds without any legitimate credentials? We shall see, I guess.

Buenas tardes,
Teresa