Wednesday, July 15, 2015

It's very hot in Madrid during the summer. No one told me this, or rather, I never researched this before choosing a return flight for mid-August.

This is not your average 80+ degree days. The temperatures have rarely dipped below 100 F the past three weeks and the heat is of the dry variety - you don't realize you're dehydrated until your urine turns a disconcerting golden yellow/brown.

Spain being Spain, buildings are very old, therefore often lack the ability to hold central cooling. Most windows open outwards, not upwards, prohibiting the use of AC window units. Heat swelters in apartments, and CashConverters fans serve no purpose other than pushing around said hot air, so you're stuck.

There are few solutions, and I've tried them all. Drinking caña after caña in Malasaña or Lavapies helps somewhat, but as soon as that cheap-as-hell San Miguel is in your system, it's sweated out again. It also results in getting accidentally drunk, which has happened to me more than I care to admit. The municipal swimming pool at the Canal stop is a decent place to cool down, plus it's totally kosher to go topless. The downside are bare-chested pre-teens and octogenarians, who make up about 80% of the bathers. Count me out.

The only other solution is to travel somewhere coastal, which myself and two friends did last weekend. We headed back to Lisbon, which is even more enjoyable during the summer - the way the sea breeze rips through Bairro Alto at night is intoxicating and the street drinking is just a little more frenzied (.5 L of beer for €1.10 is stealing in my book). Not to mention, it was about 30 degrees cooler in Lisbon than Madrid - for once in my life, 80 degrees felt refreshing.

Unlike last time, we travelled further out of Lisbon to the nearby beach town of Sintra. Surfing - or attempting to surf after three years out of the water - was something I missed dearly. We packed a picnic consisting of jamón, sausage, Portuguese cheeses, champagne, cherries, campesino-flavored chips and much more. Watching the sun set over the castle ruins seemed almost too good to be true, and it was, because we had to return to Madrid's scorching bullshit.

 I'm headed to Barcelona two weekends from now, so I have no reason to complain. I'd just really like some quality BTUs blasting in my face as I type this.

Friday, June 19, 2015

Wednesday afternoon was my 4th year students' graduation. The event marked the split between students going to bachillerato, or what's considered 11th and 12th grade in the States, and trade school. They stay in the same class from elementary through their 4th year of high school, so being separated was an emotional experience for a lot of them.

It was a small ceremony held in the school's auditorium -- I think only one or two kids' parents came and the entire event lasted all of 45 minutes. The administrators read a few nice, yet predictably vague and optimistic speeches. One of my students sang a duet with another girl accompanied by a guitarist, covering a few pop songs arranged by the music teacher. They then crossed the stage, shook hands or kissed cheeks and received their diplomas. There was a brief montage (I made a handful of cameo appearances) and that was it. My teaching career, finished.

Looking on from the crowd, I couldn't help but notice how far they'd come in just the past year. What struck me most was how grown-up they looked and acted -- their ripped jeans and graphic tees were traded in for dresses, suit jackets, bowties and rompers. The girls wore makeup and the boys combed their hair. They were nervous, excited, nostalgic and everything between. They thanked me individually, gave me a card, chocolates and a standing ovation. I wished them a teary goodbye, not out of sadness or the passing of time, but out of how proud I was of the people they're becoming.

We met up again later at a local tapas bar, which served up massive platters of delicious, cheap bar food. We hung out, took dozens of photos and had a lot of laughs. It felt like the perfect sendoff -- the other professors and I kissed them goodbye, exchanged contact info and wished them the best as they ran off to buy beer and bottom shelf vodka from the convenience store to drink in the park. It was a re-affirmation that, yes, moving on sucks, but that what lies ahead will be as good as what we've left behind -- a figurative push for them out the door into adulthood.

Though I'd only spent 9 months with them, I'm proud the job I did. I mean, if the sendoff had been easy, it would've signified an inability to connect with the students, a problem that some of my co-workers experienced, and to me, a complete waste of our potential as positive role models. Sharing this precious stretch of time with them has changed me, as it was probably the only time in my life where the work I did had felt truly rewarding. Watching them apply themselves daily, overcoming the limited expectations placed on them and making learning fun (jeez, what a concept) was rewarding unto itself.

I hope they'll continue to learn and push themselves as they had this year, because they are a genuinely smart, hardworking, friendly and supportive group of students. I wish them boundless happiness and satisfaction in their adult lives and look forward to hearing their success stories in the future, of which there'll be many.

Enhorabuena, chicos. Os echaré de menos.



Monday, June 1, 2015

Querido Quevedo...en Español

At the behest of my lovely/talented/miracle-worker Spanish tutor, I am finally confident and competent enough to write and post pieces in Spanish. Here is my first piece: a light read about 'Serial,' podcast culture and its potential use as an ESL teaching tool. Not a perfect article and not something I'll do consistently, but I'm still decently proud of it nonetheless.



Estoy pensando en Baltimore, una ciudad en la que vivía, pero no por las razones normales – la pobreza asfixiante, la brutalidad policial ni por nostalgia – sino por un asesinato que ocurrió hace 15 años. Estoy escuchando el podcast más popular del mundo, Serial, que trata de la muerte de una chica Coreana-Americana – Hae Min Lee – de los fallos del sistema judicial de los Estados Unidos, y así como de  su ex-novio – Adnan Syed – quien fue acusado del crimen, y  lleva 15 años la cárcel. Al día de hoy, Adnan todavía se declara inocente.

Sarah Koenig, una periodista, es la guía de este mundo turbulento. Su interés en el crimen fue iniciado al recibir un correo electrónico sobre la abogada de Adnan – su licencia fue revocada después de unas acusaciones de corrupción y Adnan era su ultimo cliente. Por curiosidad pura, Koenig indagó un poco – nadie había encontrado evidencias que conectaran Adnan con el asesinato de su ex. El único testigo era un narcotraficante, y su testimonio se contradice con el de Adnan.

Adanan siempre era un estudiante popular y dedicado a sus estudios, actividades extracurriculares y sus amigos. Dice que estaba en la biblioteca después de las clases y antes de su entrenamiento con su equipo cuando ocurrió el asesinato, pero nadie le creía salvo sus amigos inmediatos y sus compañeros de clase. Entonces, el trabajo de Koenig es buscar la verdad – que ocurrió durante una mera hora después del instituto hace 15 años. Como podéis imaginar, es una hazaña muy difícil.

La voz tranquilizante de Koenig narra las entrevistas, conecta las pistas y ofrece momentos de claridad, y a veces, humor (aunque un humor muy negro).  Habla cuidadosamente y elige sus palabras para que su audiencia le entienda mejor, y es perfecto para estudiantes avanzados de la lengua inglesa. Todo el mundo le escucha en el metro, en sus coches y en la oficina. Es una verificable estrella de la radio – un titulo escaso en el año 2015 – y una historia inolvidable.  




Thursday, May 7, 2015

Málaga


 Málaga is a city located on the Mediterranean and viewed by many Spaniards as being a little unspectacular. I didn't find it boring per se, but there was certainly far less to see than there was in Granada - though the city was walkable and certainly pretty, the real Málaga, or whatever ideal I held for it, had either ceased to exist or was unattainable to tourists passing through for only a few days. The food was only decent and pricey when compared to Granada's truly incomparable cuisine. There was history as well, but nothing as electrifying as laying claim to being the capital of the Muslim Al-Andalus period in Spanish history. I suppose that Málaga wasn't disappointing as much as it was a step down from Granada's glowing example of perfection. It was to serve as a waypoint between Spain and Morocco, chosen due to its relative proximity to Tarifa, the Spanish city where ferries run the channel to Africa constantly.

There were, of course, spectacular moments. Malagueta, the name given to the city's beach, is maddeningly beautiful. One can follow the soft curve of Andalucia's shoreline and its snowcapped mountains sloping gently upwards - doing so while snacking on charcoal grilled sardines helps to elevate the experience that much more. The Picasso museum left a large impression on me as well - seeing these wholly unique works from his later period, like crude portraits on white tiles, was hypnotic though my favorite was The Gymnast. The castle at the top of town also offered some incredible views of the harbor and the outlying areas.

There were also the Semana Santa processions, which to me made the whole stop worthwhile. Starting at around 5 p.m., the processions tunneled their way through the city's old quarters like ancient, despondent conga lines. The floats were all beautifully and meticulously adorned with religious figures (mostly Jesus and Mary), bedecked with candles and incense. Unlike Granada's float-bearers who lug the immense weight from beneath the religious totems obscured from onlookers, the float-bearers in Málaga supported the weight from the sides with long poles. These massive displays were both proceeded and followed by scores of men and women dressed in hooded robes, looking not unlike 'high-ranking KKK bitches' (according to one J.D.), whose occult, if not sinister, spell was broken only when they removed their hoods to deliver a peck to a significant other who followed along or watched from doorways. And trailing behind those hooded marchers were the musicians, playing their processional numbers -- whiny brass and thundering drums that cut through all street conversation.

The apartment we rented was located in the old neighborhood and the processions would pass below our windows well past 3 a.m. There were several occasions when we had to physically force through the seemingly interminable processions to continue on our way. 












Sunday, April 12, 2015

Granada

Granada is the kind of place that will infuriate you - the mere fact that you can visit for a fews days, only to head back to the chaos, noise and pollution of the city will tear at your conscience. It will make you want to let the lease on your apartment run out and to buy a cave house in hills of Sacramonte, never to return. But it will always remain just outside your grasp.

That's where myself and three friends stayed - two to a bed - for a four day weekend, leading off our Semana Santa trip. The views from the hippie-crammed hills are breathtaking, a mere 2-minute walk in any direction to an open vista of the Alhambra. The walk to the center of town is down a riverside path dotted with cafés and hippies selling all kinds of hand-made junk. The women are beautiful and impeccably well-dressed, reinforcing the Andaclucían stereotype and making all onlookers feel contemptuously ugly in comparison. The tapas in Granada are free and come with every drink. The more time you spend at any given location affects the quality of the tapas you receive - by the third or fourth drink, plates tower with seafood, charcuterie and cheeses. We rarely purchased food outright, save late-night kebabs, which were, incidentally, the best I'd ever had. Granada, in case you hadn't picked up on it by now, is the promised land.

I serendipitously ran into an old caddying co-worker, with whom we spent much of the weekend. He was visiting Granada for the month to see his sister, who'd lived there for the past two years. The meeting was as accidental as it gets - the bar we were looking to go to was closed, so we ducked into the place across the street where we ran into him. As a result, we saw a side of Granada rarely offered to tourists - parties in the mountains, botellónes with local friends and recommendations for tapas bars that have been staked out and sampled over years.

No matter where we went, the air was pungent with incense either from mystic hippies or church processions, and heavy with marijuana smoke. I was feeling all sorts of vibes, and as a result, Alhambra and the Semana Santa processions were...spiritually significant, and I'm not one to use that term lightly. Waiting in the springtime sun to watch a human-carried float of Jesus emerge from the cathedral seems like a pain in the ass, but it was truly one of the more breath-taking phenomena I've ever seen - I was almost moved to tears, actually.

I went to Granada once before in 2012, but did it all wrong. It rained, we picked shitty bars and ate shittier food (hell, I don't think we even had tapas once...). This time, we were firing on all cylinders and it was one of the best trips of my life, hands down.








Wednesday, March 18, 2015

American foods that I'd commit at least a misdemeanor for (in no particular order)



  • Shake Shack (you're whacked if you don't think the fries are excellent)
  • Pizza
  • Bagels
  • Pastrami (shouldn't have done that whole inquisition thing)
  • Italian sausage (fennel isn't really a thing here)
  • BBQ -- ribs, belly, brisket, pulled pork
  • Wendy's
  • Onion rings
  • A decent, if not greasy, Greek diner
  • General Tso's Chicken, the gloppier the better
Alright, so I'm dying for some shitty food. I will say this though: I've had pork at least one meal a day since I've arrived, sometimes three times a day and I can't complain. Alberto, the pork butcher (yes I have different butchers for different types of meat), works in El Mercado Vallhermoso next door -- his lomo, chorizo and legs of jamón iberico are off the charts. Everything is cut to order -- he fillets cuts with a wide, curved knife right in front of you on what resembles a pedestal petrified wood. I'll try to sit him down for an interview before I leave.


As if I needed another reason to love this country, Simpsons-shaped pasta exists (and is readily stocked at your neighborhood Carrefour) in 2015.