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.

¡qué vergüenza!

If you noticed my blog description, I mention there that you, dear readers, will be following my adventures and misfortunes in Europe. I've already chronicled my disasterous trip to the grocery store when I first arrived. But my latest misfortune is worse.

This morning I was waiting for the math teacher so that we could go to class together. I was poking around in the hallway, and I saw her come out of an area I hadn't been before. I figured it was a supply room or something of the sort.

As it turns out, that area I'd never seen before was the women's restroom.

By deduction, you can probably figure out that I have been going in the men's restroom for the past month and a half. How mortifying. ¡qué vergüenza! All of the sudden, it makes sense why the male teachers were always urinating with the stall doors partially open. It's a man thing, I suppose.

Ambiguous, no?

Now that I think about it, the fact that the toilets in most of the stalls were missing seats should've been an indication I was in a men's bathroom. After all, male restrooms are never in the same condition as ladies' rooms. But there aren't urinals, so there were no blatant signs the place wasn't meant for me. Speaking of obvious signs, there's no sign saying it's for men; it just says "teachers' toilets."

I can't imagine how awkward the male teachers felt when we were standing next to each other washing our hands. Or when they realized that they were peeing with the door open while I was in there. Both students and teachers have seen me go in there. I'm not sure why no one mentioned I was in the wrong place. I guess it's like when you and your friend are eating garlic bread, and he has junk in his teeth but it's too uncomfortable to mention.

Here's to blunders and the many laughs that follow.

Un saludo,
Teresa

You're asking, "What the heck is an auxiliar de conversación?"

If you're reading this, you're probably wondering why I'm moving to Europe in the first place. Late last year, I applied to be an auxiliar de conversación, or conversation assistant, through the Spanish Ministry of Education. I really didn't know what the assistants did, where they did it or how they lived. As I mentioned in my previous post, I applied to postpone my long-term future as much as to actually land the gig. But lo and behold, I got accepted (it's not that hard as long as you don't have a lengthy criminal history or a communicable disease, I'm told). So what will I be doing?

That's a good question, one I'm trying to answer myself. I've been placed in two schools in Miajadas, Extremadura, Spain, a small town of about 10,000 people in the southwest. One school is Catholic (which is no problem, considering I'm Catholic) and one is public. I don't know much more than that. I've been in touch with a teacher at one of the schools; she's the director of the bilingual department. I'll be helping her with English classes and other teachers with math and history in English. I'm neither a math nor history buff, but I am relatively strong in English, so hopefully I'll have something to offer. I've heard some assistants are treated as such - assistants - while others are expected to take over entire classes by themselves. Considering I have no teaching experience, I would certainly prefer the former, but I will embrace whatever role I'm given. At the public school, I'll be working with 11- to 15-year-olds. We'll see how that goes. I haven't heard anything about my responsibilities at the Catholic school. I do know I'll work 12 to 15 hours a week, split between the two schools. I'll also do private English lessons, which I'm told there's incredible demand for. But I'll have plenty of time for travel, which I'm excited about. I leave Sept. 24 and return sometime next June.

To be entirely candid, Extremadura is about as far from what I envisioned - and wanted - for this experience as possible. I applied to teach in Valencia, a bustling cosmopolitan city on the opposite side of the country, along the eastern coast. When I got my placement, I wondered if I should accept the position. But, with reservations, I accepted, and I couldn't be more glad. Valencia would have been lovely, don't get me wrong, but my primary reason for going to Spain was to improve my Spanish (my mom will tell you I'm fluent already, and I suppose by some definitions, I am, but I have a lot of room for improvement). Valencia is a hotbed for tourists and expats looking to learn Spanish. It may have been too easy for me to lean on other foreigners there. Extremadura doesn't register on a tourist's map, and I'm beginning to think it's a good thing. So I'll have to travel a bit to see "postcard Spain." So what. Extremadura looks charming and welcoming, albeit a bit rural and obscure. In my opinion, it's best described as the Nebraska or Iowa of Spain - the people are unwaveringly proud, but Extremadura isn't a destination. I'm told locals often ask foreigners, "How'd you end up here?" Nebraskans and Iowans can relate - we're naturally curious why people pick our oft-overlooked pockets of the Midwest over Chicago or New York. But we have great people with a friendly disposition, and I expect the same is true of Extremadura. I'm a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, so I just have to trust that this is best for me. On the map below, "A" is Don Benito, a town of about 30,000 people where I'll likely live and commute with other teachers for work in Miajadas, "B" on the map.



Auxiliares have to find our own housing, so that ought to be interesting. There are numerous websites with apartment listings, so it's not hard to find options, but finding viable options and good roommates is another story. Apartments - called "pisos" - aren't what we expect in the U.S. Many of them don't have ovens, dishwashers, dryers, air conditioners or heating units, all of which are staples of comfortable American life. I've heard horror stories of auxiliares living with Spaniards who refuse to turn on the heat in the winter (it does get quite cold in Extremadura - cold enough for snow) and instead live decked out in gloves, stocking caps and coats in their pisos during the winter. Admittedly, I worry about that. But I'm not crossing the Atlantic to live like I do here, so I will live like a Spaniard without complaints (OK, without too many complaints). Ideally, I'll live with a mix of Spaniards and English-speakers so that I'm speaking Spanish at home but at least one of my roomies will understand my challenges as a foreigner. I have some good housing leads, so I'm not panicking just yet. I did come to the frightening realization recently, though, that I have no idea how I'm going to eat because I can't cook. Given that eating is essential for survival, perhaps I should be panicking after all. I can't even cook American food, let alone Spanish fare. Hopefully my roommates can help me with that. Life in Costa Rica was quite different than in the U.S., but my host family and study abroad program shielded me from many of the discomforting realities of foreign life. My amazing host mom cooked for me, I didn't have to find my own housing and I had a built-in support system of other "gringos" who were also dealing with uncomfortable stares on the bus and whistles on the street. Although there will be several other English-speaking auxiliares near me in Spain, there won't be the same organized safety net, but I look forward to the challenge.

That's all for tonight.
Buenas noches,
Teresa
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