tapa of the week: el trokanto, ciudad real
I passed El Trokanto the first day I took my new route to school. The place caught my eye because it looked a tad bit fancier than most of the other bars on the block. After school, I stopped in for a closer investigation.
I ordered a caña, and the bartender asked me which tapa I wanted to go with it (I love it when I can choose my own tapa). After I selected, she then asked me which 'frio,' or, cold tapa I wanted. Wait. I get 2 choices? Oh, hells yes.
My cold tapa was a simple tostita of tuna and tomato. And the hot tapa - a revuelto (scrambled egg dish) with potato and huge chunks of savory (not super-salty) ham. Delicious! I usually don't like scrambles, but this one was light on the egg and heavy on the tater and ham, so it was just fine with me.
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| Rear: tuna and tomato tosta; Front: ham and potato revuelto |
While I munched and sipped, I was pleasantly amused by the nusic selection playing over the speakers in El Trokanto. In the time I was there, I heard Madonna's 'Vogue', Mc Hammer's 'Can't Touch This', Michael Jackson's 'Man in The Mirror', and Donna Summer's 'What a Feeling'. It was when Vanilla Ice's 'Ice Ice Baby' played that I silently gave the soundtrack selecta a mental hi-five.
On a second visit, I tried pisto manchego for my hot tapa, and a pate tosta as my cold tapa - while neither were life-changing dishes, they were both enjoyable.
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| Rear: pate tosta, Front: pisto manchego |
El Trokanto, Taberna Selecta
Average Price : 1.80 for a cana - 2 free tapas with each drink.
My Rating: Decent tapas, and a nice selection of 90s throwback music. A good spot for a quick snack.
tapa of the week: la marimorena, ciudad real
The last day of Carnival (aka, Dia de Piñata) in Ciudad Real was festive-level 10. I'd been on my feet for a couple of hours watching the big parade passing through the center of town, and since I'd skipped breakfast, I was inching past hungry into 'howngry' territory. So, I set out in search of nearby sustenance.
I chose La Marimorena because it offered a quiet refuge from all of the parade madness and it had a sunny outdoor seating area. A sunny Sunday afternoon calls for sparkling wine, so I ordered, and my accompanying free tapa arrived a few moments later - migas. By now, I've had both good and bad migas. This one was the bad kind. It actually kind of made me sad. It being Sunday, I couldn't help but think that my folks back home were probably having really good Southern Sunday dinners, while I was here eating stale bread sauteed with pork. Oh, the inhumanity.
My second tapa was a serving of potato salad - I expected to be disappointed, but the addition of olives and diced veggies gave it some character. Not grandma's tater salad, but pretty tasty nonetheless.
One interesting note was that the tapas were served on flimsy plastic plates. Maybe it was because of the big crowds expected from the parades, but the place looked rather upscale, so plastic seemed out of place. Service was pretty good, but when I went to pay the tab, I was a bit shocked at the 2.30 euro price tag for a glass of sparkling wine.
Sad to say, nothing about my experience at La Marimorena would make me venture a return visit.
La Marimorena
Average Price : 2.30 euro for sparkling wine.
My Rating: Decent service, but not much else.
tapa of the week: meson de ocatvio, ciudad real
One day whilst sitting in my little apartment in my little town of Ciudad Real, bored as bored could be, I decided to take matters into my own hands. "What..." I asked myself, "...could I possibly do to keep myself entertained and inspired in this smallish city where I still haven't quite found my 'scene'?"
Before long, an idea struck. The weekend I'd arrived, there was a tapas festival, Tapearte, going on in Ciudad Real. Dozens of restaurants in the city were participating, and each restaurant had created a special tapa for the week of the festival. The idea was that residents and visitors could do a sort of 'ruta de tapas' by visiting all of the different participating restaurants and sampling their tapas. There was even a printed guide with a map of all the restaurants and their featured tapas that I'd snagged from the hotel I'd stayed in my first week. Unfortunately, since more pressing matters like finding an apartment and figuring out my school routine were higher priority at that time, I didn't get a chance to visit any of the restaurants, but I'd held on to the guide and map.
"Why not do your own personal ruta de tapas?" I thought to myelf. "You could visit all of the places on the guide and sample whatever they have on offer. It'd be a great way to get to know some new places while keeping your belly full."
Inspired by my idea, I whipped out the Tapearte guide, quickly perused the list to see which place sounded most appetizing, then decided it was best to just start at the beginning. And that's how I found myself at Meson de Octavio, the very first restaurant on the list.
When I walked into the restaurant / bar located just north of the Puerta de Toledo in Ciudad Real, there were only a few other people inside. I greeted the bartender and asked if there was anything to tapear. At first he acted as if I'd invented the word, Then after I'd explained that I'd found this place from looking at the Tapearte guide, he suggested a tapa of risotto. I figured if he knew what I was after, he'd recommend something good.
What I got was slightly undercooked, slightly oversalted rice in a creamy sauce with a little drizzle of oil.
I think the bartender saw by looking at my face that I wasn't exactly pleased with the dish, so he quickly recommended 3 other things. I opted for ternera (beef) en salsa.
Ah, that's more like it! The dish was simple, but the meat was very flavorful and very tender - like a really nice beef stew. It even went really well with the crunchy risotto.
Along with my caña, the two tapas came out to 3.60 euro. Not a bad deal. But not a great deal either, considering I wasn't pleased with my first selection. Ah well, there's always next time!
Meson de Octavio
Calle Severo Ochoa, 6, Ciudad Real, Spain 13005
Average Price per Tapa: 1.20 euro
My Rating: Meh. Probably not worth a second visit for tapas.
finding my place
It’s funny how things work out. Hardly ever like you expect them to, but almost always like you need them to. Well, I suppose that’s how my Spanish apartment search worked out. Before arriving, I’d pretty much put all my eggs in one basket. When I heard from Tonisha while I was back in the States, I was like, ‘Great! This is gonna be the best situation. Living with someone in the same program, who speaks English, and whose name is Tonisha… so she must be cool (yeah, ridiculous. I know).’ But, after I arrived, it seemed like her communication got worse and worse. I was starting to get the feeling that she was no longer interested, and that I should come up with some alternatives. So, I hit the interwebs and started looking for other roommates and rooms for rent. Not an easy task, given the on/off again nature of the wifi in my room. But, despite the difficulty, I managed to come up with a list of about 10 suitable places. I narrowed that list down to a ‘top 4’, and started making calls and sending emails.
Of course, due to my shoddy Spanish, I was really nervous about calling, but on my first one I stumbled a bit in Spanish, before asking if the person spoke English. She did, and we set a time to meet the following day. In the meantime, Tonisha got back in contact with me, plus, I heard back from a couple of other places. Secretly, I was hoping that I would meet with Tonisha and be completely done with the search, but I kept the other appointments just in case.
My first apartment showing was with an older lady within walking distance of San Pedro. I was a bit concerned about the place, since her ad mentioned that she lived with 3 dogs, but the price was right and she was pretty close to the beach… big plusses in my book. The room was a bit on the smallish side and she had another renter already in the place – a Polish girl who I didn’t get to meet during my visit – who I would have to share a bathroom with. After showing me around and explaining everything about the house and the neighborhood, my potential landlady’s tone of voice changed rather abruptly as she said to me, “I have just one rule for the house. No men. Ever.” What came out of my mouth was, “Ok.” But what was going on in my head was, “Girl, stahp. I’m grown! What if my boyfriend wants to come visit? I gotta find someplace else for him to stay? Sneak around like a high school virgin? Ain’t nobody got time for that.” I silently crossed ‘cheap beachy abode’ off my list of contenders.
My next visit was the next day with Tonisha. Like I mentioned before, I was sort of hoping we would meet, fall in love, and be best roomie-buds forever! Sadly, that was not the case. The place was nice and spacious, centrally located in a very cool area in the center of Marbella (about 7km from my school), but Tonisha’s whole demeanor seemed lackluster and really low-energy, almost ho-hum. I tried to engage her in conversation, “What do you do in your free time here?” “How’s your school / work situation?” “What kinds of things do you like to eat / cook?” But it seemed like so much effort to get an energetic response from her, and she asked me nothing in return. Plus, there was also the issue of a shared bathroom. As I left to head to my next viewing, I thought, “Well everyone has an off day. Maybe she’s still a bit tired from travelling back from the States.” I filed her in the ‘Maybe’ column.
I set off for my next appointment, which was a bit far from both my school and the center of Marbella, but I figured it would at least be good to see it for comparison purposes. After deboarding the bus, I started walking, using the directions that I was given by the potential landlady. Since the directions contained only loose landmarks (go past the Shell station, to the second roundabout, and take the 2nd exit), not street names, I quickly realized that I might be lost. I had already walked up 1 very long, steep hill, backtracked and walked up another. Since the weather was unseasonably warm, I’d once again broken a sweat and had to shed my blazer. After about 15 minutes of walking without any sight of the street or house I was looking for, I grumbled to myself, “I don’t care how nice this place is, I can’t live here. It’s too damned far!” I finally gave in and called the landlady, explaining that I’d gotten turned around. Thankfully, she was the one who spoke English, and after giving her a landmark, she said she knew exactly where I was and would come pick me up.
When Simin zoomed around the corner in her little car and stopped to pick me up, I don’t think either of us was exactly what the other one was expecting to see. But we instantly fell into easy, spirited conversation with each other. When we arrived at her house, I regretted my earlier statement about never being able to live here. The place was absolutely gorgeous. A traditional Spanish-style townhouse, with a whitewashed exterior, a nice little garden and a sunny, open terrace. Inside, Simin’s decorating style could best be described as hippie-chic. Nothing matched, but somehow everything worked. I instantly recognized some prints of Frida Kahlo, and noticed that many of her furniture choices were very similar to my own back home. And then, she showed me the room. It was huge! A queen-sized bed, writing desk, and a bookshelf with a closet that could easily be a whole ‘nother bedroom. And the cherry on top of it all? My own bathroom! As she showed me around the place, we continued our easy chatter – we discovered that we’re both into hiking and yoga, and she let me know that even though she was born in the area, she had just moved back after several years away and felt almost as new here as I did. As we wrapped up our conversation, I prepared to leave for my next and final showing. Simin volunteered to give me a lift to the place, since she was headed out in a few minutes. “How nice!” I thought.
The next place was literally a stone’s throw from the beach in Marbella. The apartment was shared by 2 or 3 students, and I would have my own room and bedroom. But when I entered, it definitely looked like students lived there. There was a mattress randomly thrown against the wall in the main living room, and the rest of the place looked like it had been decorated with somebody’s grandma’s leftover furniture. The oven in the kitchen didn’t work, and the sink was full of dishes. There was an absolutely amazing terrace, though. And I would have direct access to it from my room. Still, I knew I wouldn’t be able to live comfortably in the dorm-like environment. I crossed it off the list.
Slightly exhausted from all the walking and viewing, I decided to take a quick break at the beach to mull over my options. In my mind, I really only had Tonisha and Simin to choose from. While sitting and soaking in the sun, I recalled the prayer I’d said before setting out on the hunt today. I’d asked God to help me find a place that felt like home. After a quick phone chat with Bro. Johnson, I dialed a number.
“Hola, Simin! It’s Kisha.”
“I don’t think I’m going to find a place that’s a better fit than yours. If it’s ok with you, I’d like to take the room.”
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Pics of my new place:
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| my roommate, simin |
first impressions
As of last night, my official assessment of San Pedro was, “I effin’ hate this place.” But, honestly, I think I just got so spoiled by the grand elegance of Seville that I couldn’t appreciate it. It’s definitely small, and it seems to be just a little bit ‘hood. Plus, the street system is like a big pile of tangled spaghetti. Hardly any street runs in a straight line, and a street will change names without warning, so it’s ridiculously easy to get lost or turned around, even with a map.
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| if it weren't for the friendly name on this building, i would never have found my room again. |
Also – I think my assessment was severely tainted by a piece of graffiti that I saw on my walk. Scrawled on a wall in the middle of an empty plaza were the words, ‘No Moros’, along with a faded red swastika. Needless to say, it made me very uneasy and equally pissed off. Even on the other side of the world, the ugly spectre of racism cannot be escaped. I tried to put the image out of my mind, but it stayed with me (subconsciously) for the rest of the day, ‘cause I remained in kind of a bad mood. I’m already sensitive and aware of how conspicuous I am walking around such a small town; I really could have done without that.
Anywho, I’m on the bus to Marbella now, it’s a much prettier and warmer day than yesterday, and I’m hoping to get a better look at things. I may even meet up with Tonisha (potential roomie) as she finally got back in touch with me today.
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| view from the edge of town |
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| plaza de la iglesia - at night |
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| plaza de la iglesia - day |
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| avenida marques del duero - runs through the center of san pedro |
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| how'd they know i was here? |
making moves
The bus ride to my new town was comfortable and largely uneventful. From Seville, we traveled maybe an hour or so to Ronda. Along the way, I was treated to an up-close view of the southern Spanish countryside, which honestly looked rather hardscrabble and barren. Rocky ground with clumps of low shrubs and wild grasses. Low, rolling hills everywhere and every couple of minutes, large patches of land with neat rows of what I'm guessing were olive trees (some orange trees, too).
One interesting note is how many Japanese people were also on the bus. In Seville, one of our tour guides had mentioned that there were Japanese people everywhere, and he said it with a kind of distaste in his voice. Japanese people can be kind of obnoxious tourists, much like Americans, I'm sure. All the ones I've seen so far have way too much stuff with them and they seem to have a camera jutting from every orifice or hand. Once we made it to Ronda, most of them disembarked. Only a couple remained for the trip to San Pedro.
We had a brief 20-25 minute stop in Ronda - which seemed like a very charming traditional Spanish town. I made a note to myself to add it to my list of places to visit before leaving Spain. The passenger makeup of the bus changed to mostly abuelitas (grandmothers) for the Ronda to San Pedro leg of the trip. Soon, the low, rolling hills changed to steep mountains with lazy clouds drifting by. We were now passing through the Sierra de los Nieves.
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| a glimpse of ronda |
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| passing through the sierra de los nieves |
I've never gotten carsick before, but I was sort of glad that I hadn't eaten anything yet, since the winding roads and sharp turns through the mountains felt more like a slow-moving rollercoaster than a charter bus. With the chatter of old Spanish ladies (one of whom had brought a twittering parakeet along for the trip), and the bus' soundtrack of easy-listening Spanish style jazz muzak (including a sax-muzak version of 'Careless Whispers') as my background noise, I soaked in the gorgeous mountain views and tried not to get too excited as we got closer and closer to San Pedro.
Unlike in Ronda, where the bus stopped at a proper bus station, in San Pedro, the bus just stopped in the middle of the street (at least that's what it seemed like to me). Just to be sure I was in the right place, I asked one of the abuelitas, "Es San Pedro?" "Si, es San Pedro," she replied. I exited the bus with a handful of others, all of whom seemed to be heading to other destinations nearby. I followed them to the bus ticket window near our stop and asked where I could find a taxi, since there were none visible at the stop. With my 2 heavy bags, I was not intending to hoof it to my hotel. The ticket lady directed me up the street, literally.
A short walk up a steep hill with an extremely narrow sidewalk, and over 60 pounds of luggage caused me to break a small sweat by the time I reached the taxi line. The driver loaded my things, and I told him where I was going. "Cuanto cuesta?" I asked. He laughed. "Poco poco" (though it sounded more like Popo... Andalusians NEVER finish their words!). He added something which I understood to mean that everything in town was very, very close. Sure enough, it seemed like all he did was circle the block, and we were stopped in front of Hostal El Labrador, my temporary accomodation for the next 5 days.
El Labrador is a combination bar / restaurant and hotel, but a sign on the front door mentioned that the bar was closed until January 20, so the main entrance was closed and locked. I was peering in, trying to figure out how to get in the place, when I heard a woman shouting over my left shoulder from above. Some auntie was leaning over her balcony trying to tell me which door to go into. We played a quick game of pantomime Spanglish and at one point, I was sure she told me to hit the tiger (el tigre), but soon realized she meant push the bell (el timbre). I did, and got a crackly 'Quien es?' from the call box. After identifying myself, a woman opened the door, and started speaking rapidly and motioned for me to come in the other door around the backside of the building, before she retreated back inside.
Not quite sure I'd heard her correctly, I paused at a door just a few feet away, then heard another voice behind me, this one from an older male. He'd apparently heard my interchange with the balcony lady and the proprietress, and saw my confused brown face and could tell I needed all the help I could get. He gave me a firm signal that said, yes, i should continue around the back. As I walked, I thought, 'Wow, these folks sure are really helpful. I'd probably be well looked after in this town.'
After checking in with Inmaculada, the innkeepr, I entered my room. The place made my hotel in Sevilla look like the 4 Seasons. It was clean and neat though, and it IS only temporary, so... no pasa nada (still don't know if I'm using that right).
Unfortunately, though, it seems that the wifi does NOT want to cooperate, so I am on a communication island right now. Not good, as I need to get in touch with my potential roommate to meet over the weekend, and I’d like to see if my school coordinator has responded with when I should arrive on Monday. I tried to restart my PC to see if that would help, but good ol’ Windows decided it wanted to install 34 updates before restarting, so I’m sitting here waiting on that now. I think I’ll just head on out to take a look around for a bit while it finishes. But it being siesta, I’m not sure exactly how much I’ll be able to see.
solo in spain... for real.
Last night at the farewell dinner for my orientation, two of my newfound friends approached me where I was chatting with another colleague at the bar.
"We just had to say that you look like the most confident woman in the world. Look at you, leaning against the bar with your wine glass perched just so in your hand!"
We all laughed, and I assured them that it was only because I had about 12 years on them that my stance seemed so relaxed and assured.
Today, however, timidity is my travel companion. I have to keep reminding myself that I am in Spain, not on a hostile foreign planet. No one is going to eat me alive or yell at me, or do anytning bad. But whenever I have to open my mouth to ask, "donde esta...?" or "cuanto cuesta...?" I can hardly believe that the quiet, almost bashful voice is my own.
I am waiting in the bus station near downtown Seville right now, preparing to travel to my teaching destination of San Pedro de Alcantara. After almost 3 days of being in a group of about 25 other auxiliaries, I;m admittedly a bit spoiled. I haven't HAD to speak Spanish or even figure out what I'm doing, or what I'm going to eat or drink since I've been here. My schedule has been planned by the organization I applied through. And even during my free time, I've relied heavily on my colleagues with stronger Spanish speaking skills or previous experiences living in Spain to show me around or communicate when my barely functional Spanish elicits confused looks from the locals. But today, I'm officially solo in Spain, and last night's confidence has dwindled significantly.
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| 2014 spring semester CIEE teach in spain participants |
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| My two new friends: Liz (Pittsburgh) and Amy (LA) |
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| I photobombed this pic of Lyanne, Liz, and Amy - I think I made it better! |
2 days in seville
After the harrowing experience that was my journey to Seville, I was glad to finally reach the hotel and get settled in. For the next couple of days, CIEE (the organization that I applied through) had a series of orientation sessions planned for us. There was tons of important information covered, from setting up a bank account, to getting a Spanish cell phone, and dealing with day-to-day issues at school.
On the first day of orientation, we were divided into groups, and a CIEE tour guide showed us around many of the highlights of central Seville. Seville is an absolultely gorgeous city, and during the tour it finally started to sink in: I'm in SPAIN!!!
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| la catedral - sevilla |
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| tomb of christopher columbus. allegedly. |
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| view from la giralda |
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| la giralda |
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| las setas |
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| roman ruins beneath las setas |
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| miniature of las setas |
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| la giralda |
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At the end of the evening we were treated to an amazing Flamenco performance. Absolutely breathtaking!
lo perdí (i lost it)
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| subject to change. ain't THAT the truth! |
My flight to Spain should have been uneventful. But one tiny noob mistake turned an uneventful trip into something of a ridiculous saga.
The Realization
Maybe it was the excitement, maybe it was the jet lag, maybe it was meant to be, or maybe I’m just a bit daft. Whatever the reason, I managed to deboard the plane at my first connection point in Paris and leave my passport behind in my seat. How the hell I did something so ridiculously stupid, I’ll never understand, but I’ll probably be a long time forgetting the repercussions, namely, an extra 6 hours tacked on to an already long journey.
Once I’d discovered that I’d left my passport, I hurried to the airline help desk to see if I could get someone to quickly check the plane for my missing travel document. I explained my predicament to the desk clerk. She called the gate, spoke to someone in rapid-fire French (half of which I understood), and then hung up, turning to let me know that they were checking and would call back. When they did a few moments later, she relayed the message in heavily-accented English, “They deedn’t find eet.” WHAT!? Oh, Jesus, no. This is not happening. Of all the f*(#@n things to lose, I lose the 1 things that I barely got back in time for the trip!? This. is NOT happening.
I fought back encroaching tears and pleaded with the desk agent. “I know it’s there,” I explained. “I have been nowhere else, not even to the bathroom. I’ve already checked every inch of my bag, and nothing! And, I remember putting it on the seat next to me when I sat down.” She reconfirmed my seat number with the person on the phone, waited. “No,” she said. They saw nothing. At that moment, still fighting back tears and resisting the urge to cuss my own self out for being so careless, I just started praying under my breath. “God, I need you to come through for me. I know this can be resolved. I know you will help me find a way to resolve this. I know this cannot be how this is supposed to turn out - me, stuck in a Paris airport, unable to reach my destination.” Just then, the desk agent offered the only other suggestion she had, “Haff you reported eet to the police?” “No,” I said. She suggested I do so and pointed me in the direction of the airport police office.
The Station
So, at just past 5am, I find myself communicating my situation to a French policeman as best I can. He is listening as best as he can, standing behind an unnecessarily tall desk. I am eyeing both his face for the appropriate level of understanding, and the face of the clock on the wall next to me, noticing the minutes dwindle along with my chances of making my connecting flight. After communicating my issue, I am told to wait a few moments. I briefly consider taking a seat among the dozens of others waiting on uncomfortable-looking chairs, but I decide that standing in direct eyesight is the better choice. Much conversation transpires in French among the 2 or 3 officers gathered behind the desk. One, the most genial and the one who I have just talked to, seems to be pleading my case to another more stern, apparent authority-figure who seems to be rapid-firing back the appropriate protocol to Msr. Genial. Msr. Autorité appears totally unsympathetic to the silly, simpering American woman looking on helplessly at their conversation. I don’t think he even makes eye contact with me. A third officer stands by, mostly watching the exchange, his body and facial language seemingly saying, ‘Damn. That sucks. But I don’t want to get involved in this mess.’
After a few stomach-churning minutes, an officer approaches (was he 1 of the previous 3? In my flustered state, I really can’t tell.). He speaks to me in English, “Follow me.” I do.
"Have you asked the desk agent?"
"Yes," I say. "She called the gate and said they found nothing, but I know it’s there,” I tell him.
We go back to the help desk, this time to a different agent. She phones the gate again, gives the same details as before, listens, then speaks something in French to the officer. He turns to me. “They found it.”
YES!
A flood of relief washes over me. I notice that the previous agent gives a pinched look. What was that all about, I briefly wonder. But I have no time to pontificate. Officer Helpful is writing down the gate number, and escorting me back to pick up my passport.
The Reclamation
I chalked up the fact that no one really seemed rushed at all, or offered any help in getting me to my connecting flight to French / European standards of service or their overall lack of urgency about things. Still, I was hoping there would be a sliver of a chance for me to make it, as long as I moved very, very quickly. Well… I did move quickly, but the airport tram, the gate workers (who where nowhere to be found when me and Officer Helpful arrived. Really!? We just called and said we were coming. WTF?), and everyone else in the airport were not on the same page. After Officer Helpful had retrieved my passport and given it back to me (he also had to take a pic for his report), I dashed back through the airport terminal, on the tram again, then a quick customs stamp, a thorough undressing at security screening, and by that time I saw flashing on the monitors that the status of my connecting flight was:
Boarding - Last Call
I broke into a run, with my shoes barely zipped and my belt barely back on, and my approved carry-on liquids barely stuffed back into my bag.
Now, I’m already not a runner, but after an 8-hour flight with spotty sleep, a stressful ordeal and with a kinda-heavy carryon in-tow, I’m pretty sure I looked like the most awkward, disheveled, panicked, banshee-woman that Charles de Gaulle airport had ever seen. I was sweating, and panting, and thinking of stopping, but I had to push… just in case. When I made it to the gate, it was immediately clear that I was too late… by about 7 minutes.
Final Destination
I asked the gate agent what my options were and she pointed me to the AirFrance info counter just a few feet away. I approached, explained my situation, and asked what could be done. I was preparing for the worst - an extra fee, no more flights / seats available, etc - but hoping for the best. After a helluva lot of click-clacking, typing, sighing, and conferring with her manager, Mme. Info Desk uttered my new favorite French word, “superb!” And I was all set with a new ticket with no extra fees. My next leg would take me from Paris to Madrid, and the final flight would leave from Madrid to Seville… about 6 hours afterwards.
Though I was happy that I hadn’t totally screwed myself, I was completely dismayed at the idea of having to wait in another airport for hours. Plus, now that I would be arriving late, it meant I’d have to find my own way from the Seville aiport to the hotel (instead of taking the free shuttle provided by my program), and that I would likely miss the first part of orientation.
I was exhausted, disheveled, and it appeared that my too-thick socks combined with my too-tight new boots, along with all the running and walking had resulted in a painful blister on the back of one heel. Any hopes of arriving cool, calm, and collected were long gone.
By the time I finally boarded the flight to Seville, I was an irritated lump of sweaty, achy, tired flesh, and I still faced the possibility that my luggage might not be waiting upon my arrival. Fortunately, it was, and I sailed out of the Seville airport as quickly as I could, caught a cab to the hotel, and vowed never to repeat such a ridiculous mistake or experience again.
makes no sense at all
I’m flying to Miami this evening. And I feel like I’m going to throw up. My palms are sweaty. My stomach is in knots. My mind won’t stop racing. I literally feel like a bundle of nerves. I keep telling myself to just breathe. Everything is going to unfold as it should. You’ve done all you can do. The rest is just going through the process and waiting to see how everything turns out. But a few moments after I’ve taken some deep breaths to enhance my calm, my restless mind is back at it again.
Tomorrow I go to the Spanish Consulate just outside of Miami to apply for my visa. The application itself is a daunting process that might make anyone more than a little bit nervous. But my particular visa application experience is even more nerve-wracking since I only have 3 full weeks between my application date and my (alleged) departure date for Spain. For the life of me, I still can’t figure out how this happened, when I started planning for this so early.
Back in early October, I made my original appointment at the Consulate for mid-October. This, however, was before I realized that I would need to gather documentation from everyone and God to take with me for the appointment. It was also before I realized that I would have to travel all the way to South Florida to present said documentation. I decided to reschedule for a later date. A quick look at the Consulate’s calendar revealed that the months of November and December were wide open for appointment slots. “Cool,” I thought. “I’ll just check back in a week or two after I’ve made more progress with my paperwork, and reschedule for late November or early December.” Bad decision. When I did check back about a week and a half later, every date was booked up until mid-December, well after the date that my program coordinator had suggested was advisable in order to ensure the Consulate would have enough time to process my application.
Gulp.
I went ahead and took the next available slot, but over the next couple of weeks, I called the Consulate every other day asking if there were any cancellations or openings for an earlier date. There weren’t.
Gulp.
Ok, then. So this it’s how it’s going to be? Fine. Bring it. I recalled that Dominique and a couple of other program participants had said that it had only taken 2 weeks to receive their visas back from the Consulate, so I held on to that as my one glimmer of hope. 2 weeks. 2 weeks.
Since then, it’s become a sort of mantra for me. As I’ve crossed off every item on the list of documents that I needed to procure or provide, I’ve just kept saying it over and over to myself, as if saying the words will make everything alright. Despite the program coordinator’s advice to hold off on buying my plane ticket to Spain until after the visa appointment, I went ahead and purchased. Those prices weren’t going down any time soon. And besides… 2 weeks.
So here I am, with my overnight bag packed, my packet of documents printed, copied, stapled, and signed; preparing to head to sunny Miami with an invisible cloud of dread and trepidation over my head. I feel like a soldier heading into battle for the first time (kinda like Denzel in that scene from Glory); I feel like how I used to feel just before I had to go to confession, (Forgive me, Father, for being a procrastinator); I feel… like this:
“How in the hell do we get ourselves in these situations?”
Wish me luck.
k
it's official!
So, for those that don’t already know… it’s official! I will be following in the footsteps of those esteemed ladies of lexis and literature - Ms. Krauss (my middle school English teacher) and Mrs. Reaves (my high school teacher). Starting in January, I, too, will be a teacher of English… in Spain!
I’ll admit I was almost as surprised at the news as everyone else has been so far. When I applied to the CIEE Teach Abroad program back in late September, I remember thinking all of the following, in no particular order:
Wait. Are you sure you wanna do this?
But what about your job?
What about money?
You don’t know the first thing about teaching English.
Is your Spanish really that good?
You? In a classroom? With kids? Real, live… KIDS?
What about somewhere closer to home like Central or South America?
Are you SURE you wanna do this?
But in spite of my initial misgivings, I realized that I had a much bigger decision to make; a decision much more important than how much money or language skills I had. What I had to decide was: would I be the kind of person who actually DID the things she always talked and dreamed of doing, or would I be the type of person who kept putting off a dream or goal until it faded into dim memory or lingering regret?
So… I applied. And then I was accepted. And then I freaked out a little bit. And then after my fellow CAU alum Dominique (aka, La Morena de Andalucia) talked me off the ledge (she’s already in Spain now, and was my inspiration for this lunacy brilliant idea), I started planning for what I think will be one of the biggest adventures of my life.
There’s lots more to share about what’s happened from September to now, but here’s the basics:
The program:
I’ll be participating in the CIEE Teach Abroad Program as an English language assistant. I’ll be working in a secondary school with students from 12-15 years old. I’m not 100% sure of all my duties yet, but I know that I’ll be assisting with a variety of classes, not just English language classes.
Where I’m going:
I’ll be living in southern Spain, a region called Andalusia. During the application process, I was given the option of selecting 3 preferred locations for my school placement. I chose Andalusia because my first-ever Spanish teacher was an American woman who’d lived there for several years. She always told the most charming stories of the area which planted the seed in my mind that one day I’d visit. The other major factor was that Andalusia is characterized by smaller towns, or pueblos, that are not at all like the bustling cities of Barcelona and Madrid. The slower pace of life, the lower cost of living, and the more traditional Spanish lifestyle were all very appealing to me. No surprise there, really. I’m a Southern girl at heart.
My school is located in the province of Malaga, in a town called San Pedro de Alcantara, just west of Marbella. If you’ve heard of Marbella, it’s probably ‘cause it’s a popular resort town known for its picturesque beaches, its posh visitors, and active nightlife. San Pedro isn’t nearly as happening, but it’s still got the beaches and the activity of Marbella just a stone’s throw away. As one of my former colleagues from the UK would say, I’m chuffed. J
How long I will be in Spain:
I’ll be in Spain for the spring school semester, which starts on January 7 and goes through May. It’s a relatively short stay, but since I’d already missed the deadline for the 8-month program that CIEE also offers, I figured it was good enough.
Where I’ll stay:
For the beginning of my trip, CIEE will provide temporary lodging. After that, though, I’ll have to find my own apartment, which, given my history of sitcom-like life occurrences, will most likely be a ridiculous experience.
Welp, that’s all for now. I’ll be posting more details and stories about my preparation for departure in the coming days and weeks, so stay tuned.
Salud!
k