Holidays and life on both sides of the lawn

I spent my holiday season the only way I can possibly imagine it: with my family. I flew home to California for my two week break, spending a total of about 48 hours in transit, but it was worth every minute.

The holiday season started long before my December 23 departure date, so I was still able to experience and learn a great deal about how Spain celebrates Christmas. Being a Catholic country (Wikipedia puts it at 76% Catholic), the politically correct mentality of the U.S. that acknowledges all religious holidays of the season does not exist in Spain. My class of teenagers had never heard of Hanukkah, and I didn't even try Kwanzaa or Ramadan.

Spain does Christmas, and they do it well. Take a look at Málaga:

Poinsettias, or flores de pascua, are all over the city

 Spain celebrates with traditions closer to the original story of Christmas than the commercialized holiday in the U.S.. Children get presents from the three wisemen on Día de los Reyes (January 6) rather than from Santa Claus on December 25. Instead of leaving out carrots for the reindeer they leave water for the camels (The wisemen are on the same cookie diet as Santa). Most children are familiar with both traditions and some celebrate a hybrid of the two, receiving some presents on December 25 and some on January 6.

Some of the highlights of my holiday season in Spain:

• Teaching lessons using my favorite Christmas movie: the original How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I stopped the movie every few minutes to ask questions and make sure the class was comprehending. I knew I got through to them when, in the scene when the Grinch realizes the true meaning of Christmas, one of my kids exclaimed "¡Él tiene corazón!"

• Teaching my first grade classes to sing "White Christmas." (Sorry for the horrible picture quality, I had to save it in a smaller file size to upload. I'll try a different one later)

• The staff Christmas lunch at work, and all the teachers singing "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" to me when I had to leave. Hardly any of them speak English, but they all know the song.

Just two days shy of Christmas I finally worked my last day and went home (after a few nerve-wracking days worrying about flights and whether or not I would ever make it through the blizzards in Europe and on the east coast). I spent two lovely weeks at home visiting friends and family and eating copious amounts of the food and I deprived of in Spain. The number one item on the menu: Mexican food. My Christmas dinner consisted of homemade salsa, enchiladas, re-fried beans, and Mexican rice. When left-overs disappeared a few days later my Mom and I made more.

Going home for that short visit was just what I needed. When any little thing made me homesick the last few months, having that trip to look forward to put my mind at ease. It was a little pick-me-up, but coming back to Spain was still bittersweet.

Rolling my suitcase from the bus stop to my apartment felt like coming back home, but I was also leaving home. I didn't realize until leaving Málaga that this feels like home too. I have friends, a job, and an apartment here. I have two different places, a world away from each other, that I call home. When I am in Spain, I sometimes long for California. But when I was back there, I found myself missing Spain. I just finished reading a book called All Over the Map by Laura Fraser (which I highly recommend) and she sums it up pretty well: "It's not that the grass is greener, it's that you can never be on both sides of the lawn."

I may get frustrated sometimes at not being able to be on both sides of the lawn at the same time, but I asked for this, and I got it. I took great measures to make this happen, to come to Spain, get a job, and start a life here, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. I'm just learning that there are prices to be paid for getting exactly what you wanted.

My December Puente

The first week of December was a very lovely tradition that the Spanish call a puente. Puente means bridge in Spanish, but the term applies to more than just those things that get you across a river. If, for example, a holiday falls on a Tuesday, a theoretical puente is built from the weekend to that holiday so that everyone gets both Monday and Tuesday off from work and school. In the United States we move all such holidays to a Monday (Memorial Day, Labor Day, Presidents' Day) in order to minimize missed days of school and such. Not so in Spain. They use any excuse not to work.

December brought the puente of all puentes. Monday was Spain's Constitution Day and Wednesday was the Catholic holiday, dia de la inmaculada. Naturally the puente covered Tuesday, but it gets even better. My work week is Monday through Thursday, meaning that I would have only worked one day that week. I asked my school if I could take off that Thursday and make up for it in the future by working a Friday sometime. They were all for it. A simple change of schedule for someone to have a whole week off? Of course!

My friend, Caitlin, and I prowled the internet for cheap flights to and from Málaga and came up with an itinerary flying into Geneva and back home from Brussels nine days later. Sounds like a perfect plan, right? Wrong!

In all the traveling I've done I've been pretty lucky to never have any drastic delays or poor experiences. I guess all my bad fortune was being saved up for this trip. We showed up to the airport on Friday, December 3 for our 2:30pm flight. Geneva was working on clearing some recent snow so we were delayed 40 minutes. No big deal. They finally boarded us, we buckled our seat belts, and we sat and waited. And waited, and waited. The captain made periodic announcements that we were just waiting for confirmation from air traffic control and that we should be pushing back shortly. After sitting on the plane for two hours, they finally announced that there was a strike and that they didn't know when, or if, the plane would be able to take off. They had no idea what was going on, and there was an airport full of thousands of people looking for answers. Turns out it wasn't just Málaga, but all of Spain.

At 5:00pm, all of Spain's air traffic controllers went on strike; literally walked off the job. A few stayed to land the planes that were still in the air, but no planes were taking off. (I learned all these details later in news articles). These air traffic controllers, who are the highest paid in Europe and make an exorbitant amount of money, were crying about the fact that their employer was being partially privatized and they feared cuts in some of their benefits like maternity and paternity leave. They responded by holding the entire country hostage, disrupting, in some cases destroying, the holiday weekend of 250,000 people.

The first day we spent about seven hours at the airport, got no answers, and were told to come back the next day because the situation "should" have been sorted out by then. We showed up at 8:00am, found out there was a flight (!), checked in, went through security, the whole nine yards. We got to our gate (where the plane was still sitting from yesterday) and lined up with the rest of the familiar faces who we had spent all of the prior day with. But there was clearly no boarding going on. No planes moving, no one even getting on planes. We waited a few hours before the airline employees finally told us that today wasn't looking good either. Once again, I went to get our bag from baggage claim and Caitlin went to the customer service desk to see about scoring us a hotel for the night (They didn't need to know that I live in the city).

We both had waits of over an hour in our respective locations. Down in baggage claim hundreds of travelers were awaiting their bags, and it was here that I truly learned something about the Spanish frame of mind. All of these people, vacations ruined, not getting to go where they want (need) to go. But they're not yelling at any airport employee they can get a hold of. They're not clenching their firsts. They're dancing. Yes, dancing. You know the phrase "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."? I think a Spaniard had to have written it. I witnessed an impromptu flamenco show on top the luggage conveyor belt. There were people who knew how to dance, there were people in need of entertainment, and there was a makeshift stage. Why not dance?

To shorten the rest of this, EasyJet put us up in a five star hotel for the night, gave us a delicious three course dinner, packed us a lunch the next morning, and finally put us on an 8:00am flight to Geneva the next day, delayed 42 hours from our original schedule.

5 star hotel

The Spanish military had been ordered in and was escorting air traffic controllers back to work at gun point on threat of arrest because what they did constituted a crime, according to Prime Minister Zapatero. Some called his actions a step back towards Franco and dictatorship, but I certainly appreciated it. Otherwise who knows how long it would have been before any planes flew over Spain? They signed contracts to work through the holiday season with promise of renegotiation after that point.

Luckily we hadn't booked any hostels or trains or made any other arrangements, so our trip wasn't completely disrupted, we just had seven days rather than nine. We stayed with a friend and her parents in Geneva, who were gracious hosts and completely spoiled us. We spent two nights in Geneva, exploring Christmas markets in Montreux, Roman ruins in Nyon, and getting educated at CERN.

Lake Geneva

Playing with science at CERN

Roman ruins in Nyon

From Geneva we took a train to Strasbourg, France, where we ate a true Alsacian meal at a 500 year old restaurant, found more Christmas markets, and a beautiful cathedral.

This city had some of the most beautiful lights I've seen

Vin chaud, or hot wine, a lovely escape from the rain

Crème brûlée, drool

After Strasbourg we headed for Belgium, where our first day was spent in my favorite city of the trip, Brugge. This bias could come from the fact that we had sun for the first time on the trip. But nonetheless, it is a gorgeous city. It is known as the Venice of the North because of its canals, which were frozen over at the time, making them absolutely stunning. We toured a brewery, visited more Christmas markets (see a theme?), and I ate a real Belgian waffle.

View from the roof of the brewery

Our last stop and departing point was Brussels. We went to a bar that carries 2,004 different beers and another bar that has 46 on tap. We ate delicious sandwiches whose name means machine gun in Dutch. We saw a light show projected onto a city building that made me feel like I was in Disneyland. We went to a natural history museum and played with dinosaur bones (Did you know that a giant duck bill, when placed on top your head, looks like a French military hat?).

Despite a bumpy start, I would call that a well spent puente.

El Clásico

A poll taken in my 3rd grade class the week before the match

I'm still playing catch up here, but there's just one more thing (I think) that I must document before this blog can join me in the present. The Monday after Thanksgiving was Spain's semiannual Super Bowl, known as el clásico. It is the two times a year that league schedules dictate that Real Madrid and FC Barcelona go head to head.

For those of you who don't know, these are the two powerhouses of Spanish soccer. Some even say the two best teams in the world, and I suppose that's not much of a stretch because the World Cup winning Spanish soccer team is pretty much distributed between Madrid and Barcelona. From the time that they can pronounce the word "fútbol," all Spaniards are a fan of one of these two teams, and I really do mean all. I don't know a single Spaniard who didn't watch the game, and there's no elaborate half time show so everyone actually watches the game, not just the entertainment.

El clásico is compared to the American Super Bowl for the sake of having something to compare it to, but that doesn't even come close to describing the magnitude of the event. Absolutely every citizen of this country roots passionately for one of these two teams. Some also root for their local team, but that's kind of like rooting for the Red Sox before 2004; it's just wishful thinking and hometown loyalty. They know that in the end it will be Madrid or Barça, and there is no fence-straddling allowed in the matter. For weeks before the match no one can talk about anything else. The week before a fight broke out at recess at work. A full, fist throwing brawl between nine year-olds because they cheer for opposing soccer teams. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I really don't see this happening over any Super Bowl, World Series, or NBA championship. Following the fight my third graders spent an entire class debating who was going to win, taking a class poll, and suggesting consequences for the supporters of the losing team. These ranged from losing recess to doing the homework of the winning team's supporters for a week.

That leaves a very obvious question, who's my team? I think I had only been in Spain for about a week the first time a Spaniard asked me that. Notice that the question isn't "Do you have a team?" It's assumed that everyone does, and in most Spanish families team loyalty is passed down in the family, almost like it's genetic. Whatever team's jersey your parents put you in when you're six months old is who you will root for your whole life. Having grown up without this conditioning, I've had to examine what I know about each team and pick a side. I didn't put too much thought into the matter because I really just like watching good soccer and was picking a side more just for fun, but it boiled down to a few things:

• I've visited both cities and like Madrid much better.
• I watched Spain throughout the World Cup and think that Casillas, who plays for Madrid, is absolutely amazing. I always played either goalie or defense when I played, so I definitely appreciate a good goalie. He's gosh darn handsome too.

•  David Villa, the star of the World Cup team, has a funny looking soul patch, making him easy to dislike, and he plays for Barcelona

Therefore I am officially a Real Madrid fan. I have since found out that the fan base of the teams also divides roughly on a political scale, with liberals for Barça and conservatives for Madrid, which perhaps means I'm on the wrong side. But my understanding is that it's more of a historical thing (fun fact: Madrid was Franco's team).

 So after weeks of build up, game day finally came. The match is only aired on a pay per view type of channel that you have to pay more for, so most people head out to bars to watch the game. El clásico is the only thing that Spaniards actually show up on time for. If you're not in your selected bar an hour before kick-off, you're definitely not sitting, and there may not be standing room left either. I was lucky enough to not have to deal with this, especially since I was tutoring up until half an hour before the match.

My bilingual coordinator, Antonio, invited my coworker and me to his house where he and his wife were hosting a small party to watch it, and it was fantastically fun despite Madrid getting their asses handed to them 5-0. Antonio's son, a Madrid fan, got text messages from his friends after every goal, rubbing salt in the wound. The guests were actually divided between Madrid and Barça, so I had a good time arguing with Antonio's nephew about fouls and which goals were offside. At one point Antonio's wife, impressed that I actually knew what I was talking about, said "¡Tú entiendes bien!" Their nephew, who didn't want to admit that I was right about a bad call, replied, "No, ella no entiende nada."

The game ended with all Madrid fans eating their words, shaking their fists, and looking forward to the rematch next spring when they will have home field advantage. I'm just looking forward to watching good soccer and arguing with Spaniards again. I already have a seat reserved at Antonio's.

Thankful

I know I'm a little behind here, but I absolutely must write about a few other things before getting to my Swiss, French, and Belgian adventure this past week.

Two weekends ago I had probably the most memorable Thanksgiving of my life. It had quite a build up, as I spent the entire week telling my students about this holiday we have in the United States in which we eat ridiculous amounts of turkey and potatoes with our families. My friend, Caitlin, who lives in Almuñécar, a town about an hour east from here, was gracious enough to host the dinner. All I really had to do was make the sweet potato casserole (which turned out perfectly) and show up.

So on Friday that weekend (like all things in Spain, we did this a little late) two other friends from Málaga and I headed out to Almuñécar. The guests included three Americans and about eight Spaniards, who were mostly Caitlin's coworkers. For all of them this was their first Thanksgiving, and they were very curious to experience for themselves what they have seen in movies so many times. After helping with the final touches on most of the dishes, we served dinner to oohs and aahs.

The food was amazing, and Caitlin deserves a trophy for plucking the turkey (Yes, it came with feathers still attached. Not very many people ask for whole turkeys here). We had all the necessities: turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberries, banana cream pie for dessert, and plenty of Spanish wine to go around.

However, what made the dinner truly memorable were the priceless reactions from our Spanish friends. When I told them what the sweet potato casserole contained they were skeptical that a sweet vegetable dish would be good, but by the end of the meal they were sold. All agreed that Thanksgiving is a fantastic tradition that they would like to celebrate for years to come.

Anyone who knows me at all knows that I am not exactly the biggest patriot, but living outside the U.S. is gradually changing that. I was excited to have shared American pastimes with others, and whether or not the "family" I celebrated with is actually my blood family, I am thankful for the experience.

Little moments

Just a few of the little moments from my day today that are the reasons I love what I do:

Prior to making hand turkeys for Thanksgiving, I was explaining to my six year olds, in a mix of Spanish and English, "Tomorrow there is a holiday in the United States that we don't celebrate in Spain. It's called Thanksgiving, and there is a big dinner with lots of food." At this point one of my more outgoing students, Ana, interrupts me with (in Spanish), "I can't go, I'm busy tomorrow." What a shame, I had bought her a plane ticket to go to my parents' house and now she can't make it.

Fast forward to a private lesson this evening with a 27 year old. I'm telling him a much more accurate version of the story of the first Thanksgiving than I did with any of my kids, and I find myself explaining the meaning of the phrasal verb "to freeze to death." I explain that this is when you get so cold that you die. He exclaims, "Like Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic!" Yes, yes indeed. That is just what happened to dear Jack. He then flails his arms in the air, pretending to slowly sink as Rose lets go of his hand. He was now making fun of me because I had previously divulged just how in love I was with Leo when the movie came out when I was ten. Mission accomplished? Yes, he now fully understands the meaning of "to freeze to death."

Call me crazy...

I'm going to run a marathon. There. I said it. The words still sound crazy to me, but I'm going to do it. La Maratona di Roma on March 20, 2011 to be specific.

This race looks absolutely amazing, and it's just the excuse I need to go back to where I studied abroad. The course goes through the entire city, passing the Colosseum, Vatican, Trevi Fountain, Piazza Navona, Circus Maximus, you name it. I could not think of better scenery to keep me going for 42 kilometers. Check out these pictures from previous years:

Since being in Spain I've been gradually getting back into running, made easier by my new gym membership. For the past two weeks I've been to the gym five days a week (It's amazing what you have time for when you work less than twenty hours a week between two jobs) and I plan on sticking to that schedule. As my runs get too long to do on a treadmill I'll start taking them outdoors. Málaga is definitely lacking in running trails, but it does have a beach with a walking path that continues down the coast far enough to meet my needs.

One way that Spain has changed my running is how I measure my runs. The treadmills at my gym use kilometers, not miles, so I have adjusted. The metric system, of course, makes much more sense, but beyond the practicality of it, I really prefer kilometers. I feel much more accomplished having run 12 km than 8 miles.

I was a sprinter in high school, so getting serious about long distance running is new to me, but there's nothing that a good training schedule and a bit of determination can't tackle. I'm not looking to make some fabulous time, my goal is simply to finish and to not walk. I'm confident that I can do that.

If anyone would like to join me either in running the marathon or just for a weekend in Rome, all are welcome! If you need a little inspiration to get in the running mood, watch this:

I don't want to live in Spain

When I was in elementary school my best friend owned and rode horses. I went with her quite often and the two of us had a blast riding together. However, she and her mom always told me that I wouldn't be a real rider until I survived my first fall. Fortunately (unfortunately?), in all the time I went riding, I never fell off, so I guess I never truly became a rider.

I now find myself in a parallel situation. I am living in Spain, or so I thought. I have an apartment, two jobs, a gym membership, a cell phone, a bank account, and I'm even a legal resident. But a Spanish friend recently enlightened me that contrary to appearances, I'm not really living in Spain. He says that you haven't really lived in Spain until you've stepped in dog poop. Walking in the streets here is often quite an obstacle course, navigating your way around the lovely remnants that dogs leave behind, and that their owners don't think to clean up. I've been diligent thus far and have managed to avoid stepping in one, but if I must do so in order to really live in Spain, I guess I don't want to live in Spain. I'm perfectly content keeping up my facade.