In Translation

Even as I stood before them as their writing teacher, I have stood in awe of my non-native students over the past 20 years.  From Mexico, Poland, and Russia, from Pakistan, China, and Botswana, these amazing people had stepped from the linguistic comfort zones of their own countries and had come to American speaking English with varying degrees of agility – but they came, and in their new country, they bought groceries, worked at their jobs, and attended college. Their English wasn’t perfect, but they spoke it anyway.  Their first language wrapped itself around their tongues and their pens, taunting them with intricate thoughts and personal reflections that their English failed to express.  But every mis-spoken word and every misplaced pronoun brought them closer to English fluency.  And I, little more than a guide along the road these students had chosen, bowed to their bravery and conviction.  Although I sympathized with their struggles and shared their frustrations, I could never really empathize – because these people had the courage to do what I would not.  

And so, I came to Spain. I carried a moderate sense of basic Spanish verbs and vocabulary, a sliver of auditory comprehension, and very little ability to speak the language.  Compared to many of my non-native students, I was over-prepared.  But my first weeks in Spain left me completely overwhelmed and disoriented.  No matter how much I studied in my apartment, when I ventured out, armed with a tiny dictionary, a verb book, and phrases written on scraps of paper and carried in my pockets, things fell miserably apart as soon as I spoke. I knew my pronunciation was terrible – not to mention that I used the wrong words in the wrong order. Worse yet, I soon as I spoke, the loquacious Spaniards answered me.  And entonces, I was completely lost.  Although I muddled through from week to week, I walked slower and stood shorter with the weight of my incompetence.  Trips to the grocery store, the fruit market, and the local bar became daily tests in which I was always found wanting.  Sometimes, I just didn’t have the energy to make more mistakes, so we went without the fresh apples or spinach which would have required one more interaction than I was ready to handle that day. 

Not only could I not understand words spoken to me, the cultural differences left me feeling awkward and out of place wherever I went.  I learned to stand back and watch before launching into any interactions.  But no matter how carefully I watched or how much I practiced, I remained estranjero.  I couldn’t see the sign on my back, but clearly, the natives knew I was not one of them.  I was tolerated but never embraced.  And I began to welcome the bubble of anonymity that came with my otherness.  I spent a great deal of time alone.  Walking in the park, I could hear the Spanish around me, but without needing to interact, I felt safe and comfortable there.  When I was at the college and could speak English, I felt better, and then temptation was strong to huddle close to my American students and fellow professors where the water was shallow and the risks were few.  

Determined to learn this language, I took a Spanish class at the college.  The professor, Luis, performed feats of linguistic magic and helped us laugh through our challenges.  Like a good instructor, he expected us to speak to him only in Spanish. Despite his fine teaching, many evenings after two hours of class, I left without asking my questions, and I never sought his help outside of class.  I know he would have answered my questions willingly, but the challenge of speaking more Spanish, of saying what I don’t understand in a language still so prickly on my tongue overwhelmed my need to know.  Afraid to reveal the extent of my incompetence and dreading the verb-tense calisthenics I would have to endure before my question would be understood, I learned to shut out the questions that peppered my brain throughout the day. 

I hung in there, I finished the class, and I am thrilled to say my Spanish improved dramatically.     Shopping for my groceries, I can give and receive dinero accurately.  I can follow most conversations directed at me, and although my responses are still delayed and quite flawed, I have lost some of my hesitance and have accepted that without mistakes I will make no progress.  

In a larger sense, I have gained what I truly sought – a personal understanding of the struggles my students face.  I know why they smile and nod, and I know that sometimes, smiling and nodding is as good as it gets.  I understand why so many sit back in class and seem detached from the discussion, and I know why they cling to those who speak their own language.  And now, I know with my heart and my aching head and my pounding fists.   I know that living a new language is not just intellectually challenging; it’s a personal metamorphosis that’s both exhilarating and terrifying. 

And now, I understand how much of our selves is lost in translation.

A Back with a View

In an amazing feat of contradiction, the world looks simultaneously smaller and larger from the back of a horse.  Larger:  Like standing on  top of a mountain, sitting on the back of a horse gives the rider a whole new perspective:  the mountains, the blue sky, the clouds,  --  the branches of that olive tree that just swiped my face -- are all so much closer than when I was on  my feet.  Day to day worries, pedestrians, the ground, and safety are all so much farther away .  . . oh my.

Smaller:  My only thoughts are staying on the horse.  I feel every pull on my back muscles, and I tense at every rock on which Meggie's shoes slide.   If I don't forcefully pull it away to gaze at the scenery, my vision fixates on the horse's neck and ears as if by gazing intently in that cerebral area I can understand what this monster wants and where she is trying to go and how I can get her headed in the right direction.
 
Okay. I have never really gotten the "horseback riding as relaxation"concept.

But just when I thought I had the whole "I'm cool, I got it" horse riding thing going, my horse and AJ's settled a territorial dispute with some poorly timed bites and kicks -- resulting in Meggie  removing herself from the general vicinity.  Sadly, she left me right where I had been -- well, minus her broad back, of course.

Squinting up through swirling stars and between the olive tree under which I had been unceremoniously dumped, I saw Heike (the trainer) looking quite cooly down at me.  Her dark eyes revealing no emotion, she quietly suggested that since I had wisely let go of the reins, I get off the ground and go get my horse. 

Shaking my head -- thank goodness for that goofy helmet, but ooooh, head shaking was not a good plan -- I rattled loose the seconds-old memory: Hitting the ground and hearing Heike order me to "Let go of the reins," just as I was examining the very close and rapidly moving side view my horse's dirt and dung covered shoe.  Hmm  . . . let go of the reins, indeed!  Doing so had freed my horse, and probably saved several body parts from pulverization, but Heike seemed none too impressed that the horse was now happily grazing on the olives  several meters away.  She had asked, earlier that I not let Meggie eat the olives as they were green and tended to give her a tummy ache.  Besides, the famer might be angry if she hurt the tree in the process.

Okay.  Fine.  Save the tree, damn the body. Up I got,  grabbed the reins, hauled the horse from the olive trees.

Stop there. Now, boys and girls, you need to understand that Meggie was taller than me.  Not just taller head to hoof.  I could not see over her back without standing on a step stool.  And, like many of us in our mature years, Meggie's hips were well-rounded -- We made a good pair.  But she seriously outweighed me.  So "hauling her from the olive trees,"  required finesse, stubborness, and a certain brute strength.  It's not for nothing I convince traditionally unsuccessful students that they can and want to understand English grammar.  No big-assed horse in an olive tree beats me in the stubborn department.

Back on the trail, the tail of AJ's mount swishing safely two lengths ahead of us, I shortened the reins, gazed at the amazing mountains on the horizon, and guided Meggie away from the olive brances with my knees.  Although my blood pounded a beat just above my ears and the Picasso-esque sense of proportion through my bifocals suggested eye glass adjustment in the near future, I took a deep breath and enjoyed a moment of self-congratulation.  Maybe horseback riding would never be a relaxing past time for me, but I sat the damned horse, I rode the damned horse, and the view of the boy riding just ahead of me revealed the important things, great and small.

Thanksgiving Morning

 Sharp streams of sunlight slanted across the thin mattress of the “hide-a-bed” on which I lay.  A perennial early riser, even the previous evening’s late card game couldn’t tempt me to have a “lie in” this morning when a celebration of family and a feast of our favorite foods awaited me; I greeted the chilly Thanksgiving morning with great anticipation as my feet hit the cold floor.  Moments later, cups of steaming tea in hand,   Mom and I laughingly discovered this year’s “missing essential” – celery.  

Today, over twenty years later (???), I still cherish the memory of the chilly walk to the store that followed – the brittle leaf strewn ground underfoot, the glassy blue sky, and the laughter as we trekked in search of the essential stuffing ingredient.   I remember that walk annually as I prepare my own Thanksgiving dinners because --as all American cooks know – the “missing essential” will always make its absence known, and someone will have to make a run to the store before the Thanksgiving meal graces the family table. 

This year, even in a land where “el dia de accion de gracias” means nothing to all but the ex-pats and their friends, I awoke to the chilly morning air and the realization that I would soon by running to the grocery store.  Having no oven, I certainly had no plans to cook a turkey or any of the trimmings.  In fact, the college had arranged for a “real American Thanksgiving” dinner for us all, so I had little need to cook.  However, the anticipated menu del dia pumpkin pie left AJ longing for his traditional apple pie, and I had spent the night wondering how to create that sans oven.  Our amazing brains really do keep solving problems while we sleep, and mine, on this day, had discovered an exciting solution – the sandwichera.

Ah, my American friends.  The Spaniards wonder how we manage to live without this indispensable device.  (Think waffle-iron without the dimple-making protrusions but with four small triangles that mimic the three cornered halves of your mom’s grilled cheese sandwiches.)  My landlord brought one to my apartment in our first weeks here – and after my first tentative use, it has remained in the cupboard.  Quite honestly, I had not found a darned thing this gizmo could do that my skillet could not.  Until this Thanksgiving morning.  

Hopping on my bike, I headed to the SuperCor – the British owned grocery store chain most likely to have non-Spanish food.  It's not the "local" store, and we pay for the luxury of maple syrup and really clean floors.  I usually think it's cheating, but not today!  Initially, I was searching for shortening with which to make pie crust, but an even simpler  (and very Spanish) solution appeared when I stumbled on “empanada” crusts in the refrigerated section where Americans  think to find Pillsbury pie crusts.  Delighted with my find, I then zipped to the Fruteria for five crispy Gala apples, and then home to peel, cut, and slice.   

The familiar stickiness on my hands as I stirred in cinnamon and sugar brought back all the comfort of Thanksgiving preparations, and though you all were still snug in your beds across the ocean, I sent up a “Happy Thanksgiving” wish to all.  Wrapped in the empanada dough and toasted in the sandwichera, these little pies not only delighted AJ, they showed me a real use for the gizmo – maybe I do need one???

A "Real" Soccer Game

AJ’s European Tour Wish List:

•          See a European soccer game
•          Go to Greece
•          Ride a horse in Spain

Sevilla and Betis

So, how are we doing?  The real soccer game.  AJ was hoping to see “his team,” Barcelona, play in Barcelona, but the only Barca game that fits our school/work schedule  is Barcelona-v- Real Madrid (think Cubs-Sox, or Cubs-Cards) and tickets,  if you can get them, cost more than 500 EUROS each . . . Even AJ thought that was too much to pay.  However, Sevillanos, like Chicagoans, have two home teams.  Instead of Cubby Blue and Sox Black, we have Sevilla Red and Betis Green.  Like Chicago, the city of Sevilla is neatly divided into the Green and the Red, and like Chicagoans, Sevillanos carry their team loyalty close to their hearts – maybe too close.  Friends tell me they have seen Sevillanos literally have heart attacks over bad plays, and one doctor prescribed abstinence from even radio broadcasts of Betis games.  Of course, Betis (sorry, Juan, but it’s true) is a bit like the Cubs – die hard Betis fans cheer in vain for the green and white clad young men who can never really “get it together.”  Sevilla FC, however, is another story.  An “up and coming” team in the premier league, Sevilla may not rival Barca or Real Madrid, but the fans leave the stadium happier, in general, than Betis fans.  

So, early in October, we booked our seats for a Sevilla FC game.  We had seen the stadium earlier on a trip to the Nervion Mall.  Kid you not, right behind the mall, in fact attached to the Mall’s central courtyard, stands the Sevilla FC stadium.  But just as driving by Wrigley Field reveals little of the ambiance inside, our first views of the Sevilla stadium gave no indication of the passion and thrill we found on entering the gates.  I sprang for the good seats, so we didn’t have to hike the many steps into the arena, but instead found our way to the cement benches quite near the field and the players’ bench.  The curved walls rose around us like the ancient arenas and amphitheaters we had seen in Ronda and Italica and brought to mind those bloodier sports and ceremonies, ancient ancestors of the intense but less deadly battle we would watch that evening.  

"Scarf" worn by Sevilla fans

We arrived quite early – too excited to wait longer at home – and so we watched as the Spaniards I have come to love entered the arena -- girls in their tight, tight jeans and revealing blouses, young men with curling dark hair and shirts just a smidge too small, and the señors and señoras in their dress pants, button down shirts, and even some senoras in straight, knee-length skirts.  But the best part was the gentlemen carrying their Sevilla FC scarves.  These are “souvenir style” knit red and blue bands, not long enough to be real “winter” scarves, but just long enough to drape around one’s neck.  I had seen them in the stadium’s gift shop and wondered at their purpose.  As each gentleman did, in fact, drape the scarf around his shoulders, I smiled at another completely non-American fashion statement.  They carry these scarves to the game, neatly folded, wear them during the game, and then carry them back home, neatly folded until the next game.  Even the very dignified old men wore these scarves, the way a Cubs fan might wear a jersey or a cap, literally showing his colors and completely comfortable with what Americans would consider a fairly effeminate touch.  

Javi Varas:  Goal Keeper

The stadium filled with people and excitement simultaneously.   By far the most passionate fans crowded the goal end of the stadium – a writhing throng of red and black complete with bass drum, fireworks, and megaphones.    As this writhing mass filled the  stadium with the Sevilla FC Anthem  -- ” El Arrebato,” (click here to hear "El Arrebato") the passion and the excitement  moved even the most uninterested socialites, and the scarved senors belted it out,  “Sevilla, Sevilla, Sevilla! Aqui estabmos contigo Sevilla!” as loudly as their wives and daughters.  Even with all this Spanish passion, I think the most excited fan was the 13 year old beside me.  He watched the warm-ups so intently, I almost expected him to start stretching right there on the bench. When Javi Varas warmed up in the goal, I couldn't keep him is his seat!  As the game began, he shouted and cursed like a Spaniard, and I was interested to find common ground across the ocean.  With all the “terrible calls” and “one-sided refs, we could have been at an Elgin Kickers game!  Sadly (or happily depending on your point of view) AJ’s sense of violation and injustice was shared by the fans in Sevilla.  Given the outrage which met each call against Sevilla, I was quite relieved to find the game ending in Sevilla’s favor and without any bloodshed.  

Riding home through the cool October air, the adrenaline and joy of the game powered our pedaling feet as strains of “Sevilla, Sevilla, Sevilla” rang out from the streets.  For two amazing and energizing hours, we traded in our “visitor” badges and became part of the crowd.  AJ was right:  the "good seats" were worth the price.    

The Other Side

Behold the many contradictions of Sevilla.  Unemployment at 22%, and busy bars crowded with laughing, chatting, very well-dressed Sevillanos.  Glorious architecture and religious statues decorated with girls' phone numbers.  Teens nurtured and sheltered in ways Americans would find appalling openly drinking in the parks (prohibited but accepted).  Gift shops inside awe-inspiring cathedrals (seriously).  As one who searches for the bright side, I have hesitated to share our less idyllic reflections.  But, with the sounds of drunken teens practicing for Santa Semana (Holy Week) wafting across the Sevillan night, I embrace the duality of Spain share some of the downsides. 

A sense of adventure and other-worldliness permeated our first weeks in Sevilla.  Few if any obligations cluttered our minds.  Understanding little of the language around us, we floated in our bubble of "otherness,"  breaking through only by our own volition and observing Spanish life from a comfortable distance.   Time spread in waves around us-- time to explore the city, time to travel, time to soak in the sun and inhale the jasmine.  But time never plays fair.  In our second month, we struggled against conflicting sensibilities.  As much as we love and are grateful for the adventure, the longer we stay, the more "real" this  life becomes.

For AJ, foreign student reality comes with its share of disappointments.  Like the knife grinder who still pedals the streets of Sevilla shattering the cool morning air with his shrill whistle,  educational practice in Sevilla exists in a time warp.  Teachers stand at the front of the class and lecture.  White boards grace the walls, (and I hear that one school even has smart boards!), but few written cues appear there until students are called to the board, Little House on the Prairie style, to show their sums. Workbooks suffice for practice, and project-based learning and group work have never darkened the doors of these classrooms. Surprisingly, although the English is a required course, the teachers make little use of the "live demo" available in their classrooms. Even in English class, AJ dutifully fills in workbooks, selecting the proper British verb forms and drawing lines to connect images of dressers and vacuum cleaners in Column A to words like "hoover" and "chest"  in Column B.  Although talking during class is strongly discouraged, AJ's mimicry of his teacher's, "Puedes callar!" (Shut up!) reminds me that kids are kids around the world.  The teacher in me questions the decision to discourage rather than channel this chatter.

Tapas-loving Sevillanos let their trash fall to the street, and while their economy is crumbling, their taxes pay for street cleaners to pick up that same trash the next morning.  Somedays, Sevilla seems to be the city that inspired the phrase "the left hand doesn't see what the right is doing."  AJ has made friends at school and seems to be a bit of a celebrity there. But outside the school doors, those friends lead busy lives filled with soccer practice, English class, music lessons, and kayaking, and few have found time to engage with him outside of school hours. In a land where soccer teams earn more news time than politics and where the stripes on your jersey typecast you as quickly as Cubby Blue and Sox Black, AJ can't find a pick-up soccer game outside the school grounds.  Despite repeated attempts to organize a game, his school friends can't leave their X-Boxes for a futbol game in the park, much less to practice their English with an American.  Ironically, those families that can afford to do so have enrolled their children in private English classes.  And yet, these same parents insist that their children study at home rather than spending time with  AJ, a living, breathing, and FREE English tutorial.   As a result, even as AJ still happily soaks up each new experience and each language victory, he longs for his friends, his own soccer team, his band practice, and even his own schoolwork.

Gentle reader, please hear me. I am not complaining.  All is well,and we are happy. Real life, anywhere, comes with the good and the bad.

Flying without a Quilt

With her pink bikini and suntan lotion, Mom stretched her legs in the warm summer air, inviting the sun’s tanning rays.  Melanie lay on her share of the quilt, knees bent, feet flopping gently as she turned the tattered pages of Little Women.  I sat cross-legged perusing Little Lulu and Richie Rich, but my eyes were drawn to the multi-colored patches of the quilt on which we three lay.  Over the years, Mom occasionally shared a memory the quilt inspired – “I remember this was one of Dan’s shirts,” or “I think Mom (my grandma) got this piece from Mrs. Leightner.”  I loved to imagine the many lives of the patches, to pick out my favorite pieces, to find the colors that suited my mood,  and to study the intricate pattern that brought the kaleidoscoping colors together.  

Our picnic quilt offered the best seat in the house for the annual televising of The Wizard of Oz, and lucky sisters sitting on that quilt in front of the rabbit-eared TV enjoyed cheese popcorn as only Mom could make it.  For outdoor play, it made a dandy tent with swing-set poles and clothespins, and when we played Little House on the Prairie, it provided a most realistic prop. (Though not quite as impressive as neighbor Julie’s yellow pioneer bonnet after which Melanie and I lusted openly!)  Like the friends who move in and out and through our lives, the old quilt played a regular but almost unnoticed role in our lives.  It kept us warm, it shared our sunshine and our play, and it gave us a space in which to be ourselves.  

Here in Spain, AJ and I are flying without our quilt.  The sights awe and amaze us, and the opportunities challenge us every day.  We share laughter and frustration, victories and fears in our tiny pis. We grow wiser, stronger, and more fluent every day . . . and it’s all good. 

But at the end of the day, we have only our borrowed sheets to warm our hearts.  More than any food or any American convenience, we miss our friends. We miss those daily conversations about nothing.  We miss Billy and Elliot guarding AJ’s goal, we miss Don’s questionable fashion statements,  John’s endless knowledgeable chatter, and everyone’s hugs.    We miss school – where the halls ring with voices we know in a language we understand without thinking.  I miss the hallway conversations, the late night telephone calls, and the chats on the driveway.  Every friendship has a history linked to our own, and I miss knowing I can pick up the phone and find the friend to suit my mood -- Polly and Karen to advise, Liz to laugh, Mary to scream, Mom and Mel to be my family.    E-mail keeps us updated, FACEBOOK distracts us with trivia, SKYPE reduces the distance. But nothing  provides warmth and comfort like the intricate, kaleidoscoping colors of our friendships.    

El Edad del Pavo

"Hola Chico," I stand in the bedroom doorway where early morning moodlight barely reveals my once little boy, now that oddly man-like form whose arms and legs struggle for space on the remarkably tiny single bed. 

Nada. No response. No movement.
 
"HOLA CHICO,"  I call, still leaning in from the doorway, unwilling to cross the threshold into that realm where socks, AXE, and dust bunnies come together in a chemical compound known to mothers everywhere as "stinky boy smell."

Nada.

In the movies, this is where boys roll over, groan, offer up mumbles indicating, "In a minute" or "I'm coming," or "Ahhh Mommmmmm." 

En mi casa?  Nada. 

Dear Lord.  Am I going to have to go in there? Surely the Good Mother Handbook includes no such mandate.  Not even Mary-Mother-of-God had to walk into Jesus's stinky teenager room!

"AAAA--JAYYYYY,"  my soccer-mom voice rings through the tiny apartment as the bedroom's overhead light flashes in desperate warning.  "OWOOOGA!  Mother on the verge of crisis!  OW-OOOOGA!"

Nada. 

I am NOT going in there.  Not happening. Nope nope nope. 

With a disappointingly soundless crunch, my bare feet deflate a ball of spiral-notebook paper, the fuzzy edges tickling my toes as I do not walk into his bedroom, do not look at the pens, paper, headphones, gum, and Euro change scattered on his desk,  and definitely do not inhale. I also  trip on a ridiculously large basketball shoe before reaching the sweaty form (why doesn't he open the WINDOW???) and shaking him none too gently. 

"AJ, it's time to get up.  You have to go to SCHOOL!"

Discretion being the better part of motherhood, I quickly escape from the boy hovel, retreating to the kitchen where my coffee waits for  milk and the lovely carmel powder that converts Spanish coffee into something this wimpy American can swallow.

Eventually, the boy emerges.  Amazingly, I still have to remind him to take a shower.  Why do thirteen year old boys still think showers are optional?  And, oh, by the way, showers involve SOAP and SHAMPOO?  Carumba!  Oh, yeah, and those clothes -- from yesterday?  You can't wear those again today.  Seriously. 

So, how is school going for AJ?  Well, let's say it's not the best thing in his day.  He says that it's hard and most of the time, he doesn't understand what is going on in class.  He wanted to go to a school where everyone spoke Spanish, but now, he sort of wishes he has asked to go to an English school.  He likes his friends.  He has to be at school early so he can talk to his buddies.  The girls in the back of the room use their highlighters -- to color their hair.  The boys all play soccer during break, and that's the best part of the day. The Language teacher is crabby, he likes his music class but the teacher is kind of strange, and French is really hard. 

When I share this report with my Spanish friends, they all smile and nod and say, "My kid says the same thing -- and he speaks Spanish fluently!"  Here, this age is called "El edad del Pavo" -- the age of the turkey. The glorious years when our teens don't know which way is up, when they like almost nothing, eat everything except vegetables, and never have any clean clothes to wear.  The girls act dumb, and the boys . . .  well, in many ways, at this point,they really are dumb. We all pray that they come out of it, and my mother assures me that by age 50, those boys become pretty decent men. 

Often, I see a glimmer of the man to be.  This morning, showered, dressed, and breakfasted, he leans down (yes, down) to give me a hug, and he still has a bit of that sweet boy feel to him.  He hugs me hard, says, "Te amo, Mama," and heads down the three flights of stairs to the street.  As I turn back to the kitchen, I hear him nattering in Spanish to our landlady as he shuts to front door.  And then, I see his math book and his lunch, left on the kitchen table. 

El edad del pavo.

Ode to Sevillan Street Cleaners

Let us have a moment of silent praise for the men and women in blue pants and orange tops.  Let  us admire the orange and white bands under the knees, and let us mute our voices in the faces of  their brooms, dustpans, and rubbish bins.  I give you the Sevillan Street Cleaners.

. . .      . . .    (silence)
 

In Seville, street cleaners have job security my teaching colleagues would admire.  You see, Sevillanos don't seem to have an issue with trash on the streets. Or in the parks. Throughout Sevilla, industrial size dumpsters stand as inconveniently as possible along major roadways.  When we apartment (piso) dwellers take out the trash, we carry our bags to the dumpsters where we can sort it into paper, plastic, glass, metal, or just "trash."  Fairly simple and efficient, right?

Bear in mind that Spaniards live as if they were on borrowed time.  "Tomorrow may never come, so let's relax today and deal with all that silly paperwork tomorrow!" So,  if a Sevillano has something to toss that doesn't fit into one of these categories or into the dumpster, he just leaves the item (or items) somewhere in the general vicinity of the dumpsters.  Likewise, if a Sevilliana finishes a pack of cigarettes outside but at any distance from the dumpsters, she thinks nothing of letting the package drop to the ground where it apparenly disappears from her sight and her mind.  Honestly, in those shoes and that dress, we certainly did not expect her to pick it up, did we?


Seriously, these people are just too darned beautiful and too busy living to worry about what happens to the trash.  Besides, if they picked it all up, what would the street cleaners do?

I'm just asking. 



Adding to the street cleaners' job security, local grocery stores pay workers to deliver flyers (junk mail) to apartments like mine.  I have watched from my terrace as the delivery person tries doors and mailboxes.  If the flyers he is delivering don't fit in the box or under the door, he just leaves them in the general vicinity of the intended door-- on the sidewalk, on a door step, or even on a patio wall -- from which the flyers blow in the breeze, adding colorful clutter to the cobblestoned streets.

I have previously  discussed the dogs who hacen caca (poop) in the tree banks.  But bear in mind that just like young and old humans, sometimes young and old perros have trouble getting to the treebank in time.  As a result, a certain amount of caca adds to the adventure of walking and to the job security of the street cleaners.  To be fair, some dog owners do seem to carry plastic baggies with them on their dog walks.  As far as I can tell, the objective is to take said bag into a park, wait for a big breeze, and let it fly.  I've never seen a dog owner actually use the bag to collect any caca. 

On the off chance that Sevillanos learn to put trash in the dumpsters and the slightly more likely chance that their perro friends become potty trained, one last cultural phenomenon guarantees the street cleaners' pension -- the Bottelon.

Now, in Spain, the consumption of alcohol is prohibited for those under the age of 18.  True.  However, as any Sevillano will tell you -- It's prohibited but accepted.  Read openly accepted.  In practice, this means that while the under 18 crowd can't order beers in a bar or buy wine in a store, they can stand on the street or in the park and share their bottles with no fear of social condemnation or legal consequences.   Hence, the bottelon.

As far as I can tell, "bottelon" is both a noun and a verb. Young people will gather, to "bottleon" in planned or spontaneous groups, and pass a bottle.   When the "bottelon" is over (ie: the bottle is empty), the bottle falls to the ground, either bouncing harmlessly in the grass or shattering resoundingly on the brick roadways or sidewalks.  Given the number of whole and partial bottles I find in the street each morning,  I guess the botteloners prefer the crack of glass on stone  to the gentle thud of glass on grass. 

Thus, the flotsam and the jetsom, the caca and the glass, the discarded doors and plastic bags all fall to the industrious street cleaners who, armed with nothing more than brooms, dustpans, and rolling rubbish bins, make the streets of Sevilla safe for the next bottelon.

Wiser Today than Yesterday

"No matter how one may think himself accomplished, when he sets out to learn a new language, science, or the bicycle, he has entered a new realm as truly as if he were a child newly born into the world."  ~Frances Willard, How I Learned to Ride the Bicycle

Wake up, take a shower, make coffee, get dressed, go to work, eat lunch, call the bank, call the school, stop at the grocery store, go home, cook dinner, go to bed.  Rinse and repeat. 

As natives in a modern country, we often move through our daily routines on autopilot.  We’re busy thinking about all those important things – how annoyed we are at the man who cut us off, what to wear to the dinner on Friday, who will be our new boss.  But the little things -- our daily survival routines – play on in the background without conscious thought.  Until we lose our words. 

In previous entries, I have shared some of the challenges of shopping in Spain with limited Spanish skills.  Although I am sure the battle is not over, today, I achieved several small victories in my quest to speak Spanish.

First, Yonella, the landlady’s housekeeper, appeared on the terrace. She thanked me for taking last week’s laundry downstairs for her, and I explained that it had gotten windy, and I did not want the family’s laundry floating down the street.  She smiled and we laughed at that image (She may have also been laughing at my gestures since I did not know how to say “floating”). I asked where the landlady has been, and she shared that Virginia has been in Germany visiting her fourteen year old son who goes to school there but that she was returning either today or tomorrow.  As she was leaving, I asked if I could borrow the vacuum cleaner when she was done with it, and she agreed that would be no problem.  Later in the morning, she brought it up stairs to me, and I asked her to show me where to return it.  She showed me the closet on the main floor of the villa.  I asked her for the word for the room (storeroom) where the cleaning supplies were kept.  She did not know the word either.  Yonella is Romanian;  Spanish is her second language, too.  But, since she speaks no English and I no Romanian, Spanish is our common ground – as are the challenges of living in a new culture.

Leaving the apartment later in the day, I stopped at the Estanco (tobacco store) to buy a bus pass for AJ.  I learned that the Estanco lady can renew bus passes but can’t issue the initial pass.  I asked the same question at the kiosk and learned that bus passes cannot be bought anywhere in our neighborhood and that I had to go to the Prado San Sebastian.  That didn’t sound too hard; I had seen it before, and I had a vague idea that it was near the cathedral.  (Of course, I never did find it.) 

On my search, however, I realized I was near Calle Franco where I had been told I could find knitting needles.  After several false turns, I asked at another kiosk and learned that it was the next street over.  Sure enough, tucked in between bars, shops, and apartments:  Calle Franco.  I need to work on my “a” sounds.  I definitely said “Ki-yay Frank-o”  like an American.  But, the woman understood me, and my Birkenstocks now trod the ancient bricks of Calle Frahnco.  

Cool spools, but no yarn

Amazingly, I found a shop with lots of spools of stuff – string, wire, thread, who knows what.  Like most Spanish shops, the good stuff is behind the counter.  Ha-ha to those who thought they could find what they needed and carry it mutely to the cash register.  Silly! This is Spain where one must be assisted by the shop keeper – always.  My fear of looking like a tourist left me several weeks ago, so I dug out my pocket dictionary and explained to the lady that I needed double pointed needles for knitting.  “Aguja de teger.  Doble punta.” Of course, I would have to use both "j" and "g" -- more sounds I struggle to make in Spanish.   Thinking of the many English phrases that don’t translate well (imagine shouting “Duck!” to a non-English speaker at a baseball game), I am always hesitant to string dictionary words together like this, but between my poor pronunciation and my theatrical gesturing, she seemed to get the idea.  Sadly, she didn’t carry the needles, but said I could get them at the “merceria” on the corner.  Ah!  Bells sounded in my head.  The first woman who suggested Calle Frahnco has said “merceria” too.  Dictionary says “merceria” is a haberdashery.  Lord. Wasn’t that definition helpful? 

Wouldn't I like to touch it???

Happy happy day, indeed, the merceria was on the corner. Although the word ”merceria” appeared nowhere, the yarn and fabric in the window promised I was in the right place. There, I found the needles I needed, and I oogled the yarn --mostly cotton, but some lovely colors, lots of lightweight cotton for baby things.  (Another entry coming soon for the Spaniards and their baby outfits!)  Of course, all the yarn beckoned from behind the counter, denying this tactile knitter the opportunity to touch, but my needles were right there on a rack within reach! And of course, I flubbed the system by taking the needles from the rack and walking directly to the “cajero” (cashier).  He gave me the “dumb American” look and called one of the clerks, to whom he handed the needles.  “Lo siento” I say (sorry), and he smiles, waves away the apology and gives me my favorite Spanish, “No importa.”  I pay, and the clerk brings me the needles in a bag, and hands the cajero a handwritten “ticket”.  Who knew?

OMG.  The Giralda!

Thrilled to have negotiated that simple transaction, I wander out of the merceria, birkies barely touching the ground.  I stopped once to realize that, right there, at the end of the street, stood the awesome Girlada.  This is an amazing city.  

My last stop was a cheese kiosk in the market.  I have yet to find Parmesan cheese.  I’ve found good substitutes (queso grana padano works well and grates nicely) but I keep thinking I should be able to find a lovely hunk of the real stuff.  So, I asked the cheese man, but his cheese only comes from Northern Spain.  He showed me that he had Manchego cheese (LOVE IT) in special wrapping so I could take it on the airplane.  (Oh dear.  I guess it’s obvious that I am not from Sevilla!)  I assured him that although I am American, I am living in Sevilla.  He thought that was cool.  I said my Spanish was not very good, and he said his English was worse!  We decided we could both learn if we talked to each other!  Maybe I will have an inter-cambio with the cheese man!  

This exciting morning took much longer to live than to read or write. But, I did it all in Spanish! I am left thinking that America must seem so socially "cold" to Spaniards. In America, I could have completed this entire expedition without saying a word.