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?

On being an American introvert in Spain

After a weekend in a mountain house with 12 Spaniards, this post seems timely...

Spanish is a social culture, which makes it an anomaly of sorts when compared to individual-based America. Spain is all about evening walks on the crowded city-center sidewalks, where old men are dapper in cardigans, slacks and leather shoes. Here, friends go to each other's homes for mid-afternoon coffee and company. Spaniards meet on weekend afternoons to tapear, in which they sip beers and order dishes to be picked over by the group. They talk, they laugh, they kiss hello and sometimes goodbye, too. They thrive on the communal experience, on shared moments together and conversation over long lunches and drink dates. To not be social is to not be Spanish.

I love this picture I took in Avila because it sums up Spanish culture so perfectly. 

Which puts me, an introvert and an American to boot, in a tough spot sometimes. Let me begin this spiel by noting that being introverted and being anti-social are not the same. The latter is a personality disorder, actually. Introverts don't hate people or parties or talking or groups of three or four or five. Like most humans, we enjoy revelry, banter, fun and togetherness, but we reach a point in which we are simply drained by the beauty of it all. We replenish our energy in the most glorious way possible, I think: by being alone. I love the silence and the tranquility of being solo, and quite frankly, I need it.

My need to be alone doesn't necessarily defy American cultural norms. Sure, some of my friends think I'm a weirdo when I am noticeably delighted to be holed up solo, but it's not widely frowned upon. Here in Spain, from what I've gathered, at least, being alone or doing things alone isn't quite as acceptable. There are times I want to eat alone. There are times when I'd rather not have coffee at her house or my house. Because as a teacher, I'm surrounded by people and energy and commotion and chatter and screaming every day. So after work, sometimes I just want to go to my room and let my thoughts fight each other for my attention. There is no better noise to me than deafening silence.

Even so, I try to accept any invitation offered to me as a way to embrace Spanish culture and experience everything I can during my short time here. But you can't fight nature. Sometimes I feel like a gorilla in captivity because like him, I've grown comfortable in an environment that's entirely unnatural for me. But there are times when I bang my head against the glass or mindlessly spin in circles, thus showing there's a part of me that still knows I'm going against the grain here.

The emphasis on relationships and community and living life with people instead of just around them is something I admire about Spanish culture. And I envy the people who can embrace that each and every day. For me, it's a challenge, but I'm making the effort and making friends. So here's to different cultures challenging us, teaching us and changing us.

Stuff I eat: Rabo de toro

I'm going to keep citing Anthony Bourdain until I run out of references. His quotes are like strings of sometimes-vulgar-but-always-poignant poetry: “That without experimentation, a willingness to ask questions and try new things, we shall surely become static, repetitive, moribund.” It's with that Bourdain-inspired mindset that I've tried blood sausage, pig ears, liver and...

Source

Name: Rabo de toro

Translation: Oxtail (the name used to refer to the tail of an actual ox, but it seems to have stuck even though what is served presently is the tail of cows and steers.)

So what is it exactly? Just what it sounds like. It's a traditional dish in Cordoba, served with the meat on the tail bone and bits of solidified fat. From what I'm told, it's traditionally seasoned with garlic, onion and vegetables to form a sort of stew. I tried it (for the second time) at a traditional Cordobese restaurant, assuming that if it was going to be life-alteringly delicious anywhere in Spain, it'd be there.

Where I ate it: Cordoba, Spain

Before trying it, I was thinking...: "I'm all for parts conservation and getting the most out of a slaughtered animal, but this really doesn't look good."

Texture: The meat is extremely tender and moist, and that's typically one of the dish's most lauded qualities. No chewing is required. Normally tenderness is the mark of a good cut, but I found oxtail to be so tender that it lost substance and so moist it bordered on slimy. (Keep in mind this is based entirely on my unenlightened culinary opinion. Many people love this dish.)

Taste: From what I could taste of the meager amount of meat on the bones, the meat was similar in taste to ribs (again, I warn you of my untrained palate). You're thinking, "Teresa, ribs are delicious." You're right, but the potential deliciousness of oxtail, which I think of as rump roast's ugly cousin, was drowned out by off-putting texture and yellow gelatinous fat.

Verdict: I wouldn't order oxtail in a restaurant because it'd cost me an hour's worth of private English lessons, and I'd rather spend that 10 to 15 euros on blood sausage or squid in ink than on oxtail. However, if someone else was paying, or if I was a guest in someone's home, I'd eat it again without quarrel.

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

"Stuff I Eat" - Spanish morcilla

I don't intend to reference Anthony Bourdain -- the "celebrity chef/world traveler/pithy quote machine/professional wise ass," as I described him last time -- in every food post, but it's just inevitable in this one. The dude loves "black pudding" for reasons I never quite understood. Coagulated blood and lard stuffed into intestinal casings just didn't pique my appetite. Any food for which you can say "the fresher the blood, the better" scares me a bit.

Even so, for a long time, I was admittedly intrigued by Bourdain's affinity for a food that looks like a bloody stool. When in Spain, do as the Spaniards do. That's my motto, and I'm sticking to it. In my inaugural issue of "Stuff I Eat," I mentioned that I'd be willing to eat a "bulging, deep-red intestine casing stuffed with throwaway mammal parts" if the opportunity presented itself. I meant it as much as a figure of speech as a legitimate vow, but I soon found a bulging intestine on my plate.  

Name: Morcilla de Guadalupe

Translation: Blood sausage, or "black pudding," from Guadalupe, Extremadura

So what is it exactly? Ingredients vary by country and region. As is obvious, blood is the star ingredient that gives the dish its off-putting name. Fillers can include barley, pork, beef, rice, onions, fat, cornmeal, chestnuts, potatoes, oatmeal or whatever else tickles the preparer's fancy, I suppose. I tried various kinds in Guadalupe, a small Extremaduran town that's famous for its blood sausage. One type had potatoes, I remember. But the one I'm featuring here is the most traditional; it had pig lard, cayenne pepper (or something of the sort to give it kick) and pig blood for sure. There may have been onions, garlic and cabbage, which are all typical ingredients, but I can't confirm that.

Where I ate it: At a small cafe near the monastery in Guadalupe, Extremadura

Before trying it, I was thinking...: "I've already eaten way too many typical-of-the-area sweets today, so if I'm going to pack my belly even more, this stuff better be dang good."

Texture: Very soft, even crumbly. Some people say "pudding-like," hence the name "black pudding," but from what I experienced, that's a misnomer. It's not creamy in the way I imagine pudding, but to each his own. Neither is it like the inside of a hotdog or typical sausage, which are more solid, less moist, and they don't fall apart in a dissolve-in-your-mouth kind of way, like morcilla does.

Taste: I'm not a food writer. I have no idea how to describe tastes and textures and presentation in an eloquent way that really conveys my experience. I can tell you what morcilla didn't taste like, though. It didn't taste like ground beef or pork; it didn't taste like sausage; it didn't taste like lard. It did have a strong flavor of cayenne pepper or whatever the spicy bit was. And given that there's blood in the sausage, it did have a hint of metallic-ness.

Verdict: Delicious and filling. It's not something that I could eat a lot of because it's got a unique flavor that could quickly become too much of a good thing. But given the chance to try it again, I wouldn't hesitate.

Other types of morcilla de Guadalupe that I tried. I don't remember what the darker one was, but the orange one was blood, mashed potatoes and something spicy.

"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

Where in the world was Teresa Lostroh?

It's been a while since I've penned a travel dispatch. I'm trying to move away from the whole chronological "this is where I went, this is what I did" formula, but in case you're asking, "Where in the world was Teresa Lostroh?"....Stick with me. I promise there's an entertaining line or two.

1.) Tenerife, Canary Islands, Spain.
Went there for Los Carnavales, a Mardi Gras-esque liquor-fueled free-for-all. Was a tourist by day and a martian/some sort of Asian by night (we dressed up for Carnaval, in accordance with the custom). Felt like I landed on the moon when I visited the Teide Volcano, the world's third largest. Declared my panoramic shot of Los Gigantes (massive rock formations) the most epic ever. Ate three times my stomach's capacity at a typical Canarian eatery - and enjoyed every second of it. Got two Spanish friends to ask for a take-home food box for the first time in their lives. Broke my camera during an ill-advised self-timer attempt, therefore losing my beloved "vivid" setting forever.

Lunar landing?

The "Los Gigantes" panoramic

2). Mallorca (Majorca), Balearic Islands, Spain.
Was hoping for a glorious, snafu-less return trip to my favorite place on Earth. Went to the Cap de Fomentor peninsula on the island's northeastern tip, where I captured more epic panoramics and several Awkward Family Photo shots with my roommate. Also went to Sa Calobra, a remote cove reached by a mess of winding mountain roads. Went out, got my iPhone 4S and wallet stolen, effectively losing all photo evidence of the trip. So much for snafu-less. Thank goodness for memories. Ate fresh oranges from my friend's orange tree. I think the saying goes something like, "Once you go fresh oranges, you never go back." Let Mallorquin food win my heart even more (snails, bread, squid, vegetables, frito mallorquin, etc.) Spent Sunday in the obnoxiously Anglo neighborhood of Magaluf, where Spanish is a foreign language, Brits run amok shirtless and sunburned and Happy Hour starts at sunrise. Dipped into a bar at 7 p.m. that was packed with hammered middle-aged Brits reliving Spring Break. Jammed to lots of oldies and continued jamming even after the Brits' bedtime struck at 9:30.

Cap de Fomentor, Source

Magaluf, Source

3). Cordoba, Spain.
Split my heart in sixteenths as I fell in love with yet another colorful Spanish town. Got my mind blown by the Mezquita's wondrous mix of Christian and Muslim architecture. The place is huge. Went to a flamenco show in a nondescript basement on some Cordobese side street. Ate oxtail and flamenquin, a traditional dish of pork loin wrapped in ham, breaded and fried. Both dishes filled my belly but didn't change my life. Decided I must return when the city's ubiquitous residential courtyards are flush with May flowers.

Mezquita

Mezquita

4). Sevilla, Ronda, Trujillo, Granada, Malaga, and Nerja, Spain
Parents came to get a taste of la vida espanola. Cried when I met them at the train station in Sevilla (hey, it'd been five months). Launched a 10-day tourist blitz on this fine country. Did a generally terrible job of sharing with them the delights of Spanish cuisine (the best meal they had was at the hotel restaurant, without me). Made the mistake of ordering a fried seafood platter at a restaurant in the interior of the country. Acted as translator at a Case International implement dealer in Don Benito for my dad, who has an insatiable curiosity about agriculture no matter where he is. Took parents to Sevilla and Ronda, two places I'd already been. Forced my parents to be in more pictures together than they've been in over the past 35 years combined. That's not hyperbole. I'm serious. Went to a flamenco show in a kitschy tourist haunt in Sevilla. Enjoyed it despite its kitschy-ness. Fell in love with yet another pair of Spanish coastal towns, Malaga and Nerja. Pretty sure my parents are still talking about Malaga's marble sidewalks. Despite my love for Malaga and Nerja, thought both towns would be infinitely better if we could expel at least 70 percent of the northern Europeans and make the towns more authentically Spanish. Dad drove through snow - in southern Spain, of all places - to get to Granada, where that damned white powder covered the city for the first time in 25 years. Mom about lost her feet to frostbite while we tried (kind of in vain) to enjoy the Alhambra in the cold. Most importantly, was reminded of how awesomely loving, generous, fun and supportive my family is.

Plaza de Espana, Sevilla

Snowy Granada

Alhambra in Granada

Malaga from the fortress

5.) Toledo and Guadalupe, Spain
Have to wonder if my superlatives lose their weight when I overuse them: favorite, prettiest, most Spanish. But each trip manages to equal or top the previous. Loved Toledo's sublimely medieval core, which is on a hill reached by arched stone bridges. Toledo doesn't have the bright-colored buildings (much of the city is sandy stone) or the it-feels-like-this-entire-city-is-smiling vibe of Cordoba, but it's as genuinely Spanish. Guadalupe is what every small town should be: quaint, walkable, endearing, enchanting. It's all of those things despite the omnipresent tourist shops and carbon-copy signs hawking Guadalupe's typical blood sausage. Must admit the blood sausage is worthily hawk-able, though. Town's massive monastery has perhaps the loveliest courtyard I've seen yet. There I go with the superlatives again...

Toledo

Toledo

Guadalupe monastery

Guadalupe

Toledo

 That's the quick-and-dirty version of my life as of late.

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

Politically (in)correct

We Americans are sensitive creatures. We're a culture that analyzes, over-analyzes, misinterprets and twists words. An innocent comment becomes a vicious, racist, elitist, insensitive, bigoted or inarticulate attack in one swift cycle through the media wringer. 

Source

We have an intricate and delicate PC code that, when violated, gets you 1). fired 2). blacklisted or 3). praised. In America, “rich people” are “people of means,” “illegal immigrants” are “undocumented,” “trailer parks” are “mobile home developments,” “crazed extremists” are “activists”, and “Easter eggs” are “spring spheres” (that really happened).

In America, we’re weird about ethnic terms or nationalities, so we generalize to the point of ridiculousness. In our attempt to be politically correct, I’d argue we become incorrect, or at least unclear. Instead of referring to Spanish-speaking people by their precise nationality, we call them all Latinos. Yes, let’s just lump them together because they’re all the same, right? What's the difference between a Mexican and a Costa Rican anyway? (*sarcasm*)

I don’t mention all of this to sound like I hate being sensitive to discriminatory speech. Rather, my point is this: While we try to find an acceptable way to say exactly what we don’t mean in English, Spanish-speakers don't beat around the bush so much. 

In Spanish, it’s not uncommon to refer to an Asian as a “chino,” to your somewhat chubby girlfriend as “gorda” (fat), to an obvious foreigner as a “guiri” or "gringo" and to a man as a “maricón” (a derogatory term for a homosexual).

It’s dangerous to translate these words literally into English because the words don’t carry the same weight in Spanish. It's not that Spanish-speakers are bigots who litter their colloquial speech with epithets, although when thought of in terms of English it may seem that way. 

It's just that language is perceived differently. They don't give words so much gravity, and therefore they're not as upset when potentially offensive words are used. Heck, insults in English ("gorda" (fatty), for example) can be terms of endearment in Spanish (my Spanish roommate tried "gorda" once with his girlfriend, who is my English roommate, and it didn't go over so well).

An anectdotal example of directness in Spanish: A Spanish-language podcast I listen to is hosted by a couple – the guy is British (but speaks in Spanish), and the woman is Spanish. On one episode they were discussing how Madrid has changed since Ben moved there nine years ago. As he describes the evolution, he is tiptoeing around saying there are more people of different races, especially black, in the city than when he arrived. Marina, the Spanish wife, tells Ben in Spanish, “Ben, they’re black. Just like you’re white. It’s OK to say that.”

But perhaps the most convincing anecdotal evidence is this, which admittedly made me cringe a bit:

This is a real page from a Spanish publication (thanks to my friend Sam over at Segun Samantha for showing it to me). It says, "Why don't Chinese people party?" ("hacen botellon" in Spain actually means drinking outside.) It continues, "They don't like to party, they work 12 hours a day, they start businesses with wedding money and they don't want their kids to be like Spaniards because they think we're lazy."

Wow. Sometimes straight-forward Spanish is jarring, like the example above. Sometimes it's comical. Sometimes it's uncomfortable. Sometimes it's mildly disconcerting.

But perhaps we uptight folk should recognize it as at least a little bit refreshing, eh?

Un saludo, 

Teresa

A Spanish lesson

I came to Spain under the impression that I had a pretty good level of Spanish. I was far beyond basic survival Spanish. I knew enough to have a conversation more complex than the classic "what do you like to do?" and "tell me about your family." I knew more than simply enough to get me in and out of trouble; I could talk about politics, natural disasters and poverty.

Source

I'd grown accustomed to the Costa Rican accent (or lack thereof), Central Americans' more formal way of speaking and their vocabulary. There, car is carro, place is lugar, drive is manejar, juice is jugo and everything is lindo (cute, pretty, adorable, nice).

Then I came to Spain, southern Spain to boot. I've passed through periods here when I've lost all confidence in my Spanish. There have been multiple conversations in which I haven't understood a single word because the accent and colloquial usage of Spanish here is impossible at times. It can be soul-crushing.

Story of my life. Source

Here, car is coche, place is generally sitio, drive is conducir, juice is zumo and everything is bonito. 

But it's recently started to get better - right on time. Former auxiliares in Extremadura had warned us that it would take until Christmas to start feeling comfortable. Before coming, I didn't believe that.

Now I do.

So, while we're on the subject of Spanish, I'll give you all a quick lesson.

Read this list of words and while doing so, think of the appropriate English translation.

Compromiso
Fatal
Embarazada
Confidencia
Disco
Molestar
Constipado
Caramelos
Preservativo
Club
Actual
Jersey

Your translations are wrong, I would guess, unless you've studied Spanish at a level more advanced than middle- or high school language courses. The words above are "false cognates," meaning they look similar to English words but have different meanings.

Compromiso = commitment
Fatal = this can be "fatal," as in "deadly," but it's more commonly used to describe something terrible or awful

Embarazada = this is a classic Spanish 101 newbie error. Not "embarrassed," but rather "pregnant."
Confidencia = a secret

Disco = nothing to do with flower power or flared pants anymore. Disco is short for discoteca, a nightclub. It is a true cognate with "disc."

Molestar = nope, not referring to sexual abuse. This means "to bother."

Constipado = I learned this one here in Spain, as it's winter at the moment. This means "congested." "Constipated" is extreñido.
Caramelos = this doesn't necessarily mean caramels, although it can. More often, in Spain at least, caramelos are "candies."

Preservativo = in Spain, this is not what enables canned soup to last for centuries. That would be a conservante. This is a condom. My British roommate once said in an oral exam that she doesn't like how many preservativos are put in food. Laughter ensued.

Club = not a regular nightclub, but rather a place to see lady parts.

Actual = I commit this error often. This means "current," while "actual" would be real.
Jersey = You won't find names and numbers on this - it's a "sweater."


That's just a sampling of tricky ones. There are many more.

Here's to learning and improving every day.

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

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

Reflections on Madrid

 I’m safe, sound and somewhat settled in Spain. I’ve been here for almost two weeks now – it’s hard to believe it’s already been that long, to be honest. My bout of homesickness has subsided slightly, but it comes in fits and starts.

Anyway, let me share some tales and observations of Madrid. I got there Monday, Sept. 25 at about 10 a.m. On my flight, I knew four girls, three of whom were coincidentally placed in the same autonomous community (basically the equivalent of a state) as I was. One of the girls is from my high school, another was from journalism school, another is a friend from study abroad in Costa Rica and the other girl is my Costa Rica friend’s friend. Got that?

Familiar faces made me less uneasy about my move. The five of us planned to meet up in Madrid with some other auxiliares whom we met on Facebook. My fellow journalism school-er didn’t end up staying in Madrid, but the rest of us did. We stayed at Las Musas Residence hostel, a young-people-centric hangout near the center of Madrid. The place had wi-fi and no bedbugs, so I give it a thumbs-up. The workers were great, as was the location. However, I’ve never seen a smaller shower than the one in our room. The beds were like boards, and the comforters were stained, but hey, that’s hostel living, right? Man, I really know how to make a place sound terrible. Mom, are you reading this?

The offensively tiny shower

The eight of us clicked immediately. Now that I’m in Don Benito, the town where I’ll live for the next eight months, I miss them dearly. I think part of me sees those girls as a sort of lifeline or safety net because we were together when this whole adventure started, and they know what I’m going through as a displaced American 4,000 miles from home. We’ll stay in touch via WhatsApp, an über popular texting app in Europe, and Facebook.

Our group, minus Mandie from Kansas

We didn’t really do much in Madrid. We did a lot of wandering, getting lost and putting our collective memories together to figure out which direction we went in or came from. Anybody who knows me well can probably guess I wasn’t a valuable contributor to the group’s navigation.

Right after we arrived at our hostel, we took a free walking tour. Our tour guide, Harriet, was a pithy Brit with bright-red dyed hair and an eclectic vibe. She took us and a bunch of other hostel dwellers around the city, noting people and places of historical and political importance along the way.

Below is the Palacio Real de Madrid (the royal palace). The palace, which has 1.45 million square feet and more than 3,000 rooms, was completed in 1755 and was first occupied by Charles III in 1764. The current king, Juan Carlos, and his family don’t live there; the building is only used for government events. 

The Catedral de la Almudena is next to the royal palace. It’s a very pretty church, but it’s not particularly decadent compared to other European holy places. Harriet said the theory is that it was built “plainly” so it didn’t upstage its neighbor, the palace. The side facing away from the palace is more intricate.

Facing away from the palace

On our tour, Harriet took us by a home, shown below, called a “malicious house,” because the people who lived there in the 1500s deliberately put windows in between floors to throw off the assessors trying to figure out how many spare rooms were inside. See, when the capital of Spain was moved from Toledo to Madrid, there wasn’t enough housing for the royals and nobles. Madrid, at the time, was a small, forgettable town. It wasn’t exactly good politics to evict locals from their homes, though, so the rule was that the locals in Madrid (people in Madrid are called madrileños) had to move into a spare room in their home, while the nobles and other important folks relocating from Toledo could occupy the rest of the house. So, madrileños built homes with windows in odd places to make it hard for assessors to determine from the outside if there were spare rooms, based on how many people were in the family (assessors weren’t welcome inside the homes). Neat, eh?

Doesn't look malicious to me.

Plaza Mayor, shown below, is kind of the “it” gathering place in Madrid. If you haven’t been to Europe before, you probably don’t have a sense of what a typical European plaza looks like. If you have visited Europe, though, Plaza Mayor is similar in appearance to cualquier plaza en cualquier ciudad (any plaza in any city). However, it is quite large. The plaza in its current form was built in 1790. The original plaza(s) was constructed of wood, and it went up in flames not long after it was completed (using open fire for heat in a wooden building isn’t a good idea). Apparently, madrileños didn’t learn quickly. The plaza was reconstructed out of wood after it burned down in each of the subsequent four winters (I think it was four). Eventually, the king decided stone was a better idea, and the stone plaza still stands today. Harriet said a piso (translated to a “flat,” better known in America as an “apartment”) in the plaza will set you back 1 million euro.

This is getting long, so I’ll wrap up. With eight girls each hauling eight months’ worth of luggage, one can imagine how epic our stash of suitcases was. After a full day and a half in Madrid, we packed our hired van with our goodies, rode to the Estación Sur de Autobuses (the bus station for people traveling south) and headed toward our Extremaduran adventure.  

I couldn't quite capture its epic-ness.