Let's put a little Gift Wrap on 2008

And so, we put the final details on 2008 and prepare to move into the next round of 364 1/4 days. I feel pretty good about this past year. I graduated from college, got to work in Alaska, and moved to Spain. On top of that, I continue to be blessed with family and friends who love me and support me. Yes, life has been good. And it has been scary. I can feel my perceptions quickly altering as I begin to see the world through these new adult eyes. I have a deeper grasp on the significance of the passing of time and it makes me want to cling to the here and now because I know things can be so different in a matter of months. Just look at stock markets around the world. Yes, we may go down, but at least we will all go down together. I can think of no better time for us to all join hands. And keep a loaded shotgun under the bed.
So, here is to 2009, possibly to be one of the toughest years to have been faced in generations.

~~~~~~

This past Friday I aired up a borrowed mattress and my dear friend Matt showed up on his 'tour de Spain'. The weather turned amazing; right on cue.
I had spent the past 2 weeks sloshing through heavy Mediterranean rains. Every morning I go up and looked out at the dismal clouds, but resigned myself peacefully to them, in exchange for the weather promising to turn perfect for my visitors. And it did.
We spent Saturday riding the Paseo Maritimo enjoying the sun and the brisk winter breeze was invigorating. It was lovely and I wondered if my Papa Morris was somewhere on the other side of the Ocean, riding his bike too.

On Sunday I got up and got excited. Today was my big Christmas present. I almost didn't believe it until I actually saw Granddaddy striding through the glossy airport. They had made it! Something we, sadly, could not say for their luggage.
We took a taxi to their hotel and had a choice between rooms overlooking Cathedral La Seu or the Passeig Mallorca, the roads which escort the largest torrent on Mallorca into the Sea.
They quickly settled in and we took an afternoon walk down the road past where Dorothy seemed to have found herself rather far from Kansas. The next day we ran into a man in the U.S. army, stationed in Germany, from Joplin, Missouri but spending Christmas in Mallorca with his wife and their baby. We come from everyewhere. Even, sometimes, the same place.
The next day grandmother, granddaddy and I intended to take the old train to Soller but the rail was closed for repair so we took the bus instead. It was beautiful and fun. We were on a quest for Gelati but to no avail. We took the old wooden tram down from the town of Soller to the port of Soller.
There is an interesting story behind why the towns in Mallorca are set up at a distance from the ports. And that story is...PIRATES. Before tourism caught Mallorca up, the coastal lands were the most useless. Not fit for crops and succeptible to piracy. The towns would set up ports and the housing along the water was often that of poor fishermen. A few kilometers inland they would build their churches and stone houses and shops. The people here really just don't want trouble. I suppose that is the best perspective when embracing a history of conquests and reconquests.
We ate lunch on the dock in the Port de Soller and enjoyed the sun and the pan amb oli and sodas served in petite glass bottles. We then ambled down to the beach and picked up ocean smoothed rocks.
Another day we took a trip to Valldemossa where we walked throught the sleeping gardens of the church where Chopin had spent a winter. It may not be its most beautiful season, but it was this climate which had nurtured Chopin's music, and so we sat in the maze of shrubs and let it fill us as well.
We walked back into the cobblestone center of town and into a cafe where we ordered hot chocolates and an assortment of Mallorcan pastries. Something improtant to remember is that over here hot chocolate is made with milk and is truly more akin to melted chocolate than we Americans are used to. The pastries, from bottom to top are ensaimada, torta de pina, coca de patata. They really hit the spot and sent us off happily, back to Palma. To give me an opportunity to have a face-off with a certain pumpkin pie and to allow the grandparents to truly appreciate the Spanish culture by enjoying a siesta.
I am not going to go into the gruesome detials of my pie-scapade, but all in all, I would say it came out a success. It at least did not scare the Mallrocans off and the Americans who knew seemed impressed that it had come out so well considering the dimensions of the pan were much wider and shallower than at home.

On Christmas day we all gathered together over quite a spread of food. Jamon Serrano and melon, cheese and grapes, salmon, and then, a turkey, stuffed with pork and bacon and dates and apricots and hard boiled eggs and who knows what spices. The turkey had been completely emptied so we cut him in half, in large slices. It was delicious and unlike anything I have ever seen. We chatted and communicated, Granddaddy quite holding his own in conversation and Matt doing his mallorquin to french to english interpretation of the world. We passed around gifts and I looked around and fell in love with my impromptue family. After we had all eaten, grandmother and I were watching A Christmas Carol and I began to wonder where granddaddy had gotten to. I found him downstairs in the garage, sitting astride a rusty red 1970s Vespa scooter, talking with Marga's dad. I do have a picture, but I think I am going to hold on to it as potential black mail.
And so, that was my unconventional Chirstmas.

Social Observations, You are Not Alone

Living in a foreign country is an interesting experiment in the process of realization. When I first got here, I collected bits of data about the place from everything from billboards and adverts, to the architecture, to people’s attitudes and so on and so forth. With time that picture accrues depth, people open up and talk to me and I begin to notice repeating trends and patterns around me. What can be jarring is when exploration into these depths reveals that the face of the picture is not what you interpreted it to be.
Today I was giving a lecture to a high school class about Protestantism in the United States. When I opened the class I asked for a show of hands of who was Catholic. About as I expected, some 7/8ths of the class responded in the affirmative. I went on with my talk and it seemed to be received well. At the end of the class I had a few minutes left over and I decided to indulge in my curiosity. I began to ask the class questions at large.
My first question, “how many of you go to Church once a week?” They sat there and looked at me, and looked around. Not a single hand went up.
“How many go to Church once a month?” Again, no one. As it came out, most do go to Church on Christmas and Easter but that is about it.
I was a bit taken aback by this. I mean, this IS a Catholic school and these kids did just open the class by telling me they were Catholic.
The question which came from my surprise and protestant mentality was, “well, how do you consider yourselves Catholics if you do not practice?”
“Our parents had us baptized when we were babies.”
Here, Catholicism is not a choice made by the individual, it is made by their parents. It is a condition for life. Having just spoken about fluctuations in Church membership (specifically the declining percentage of Protestants in America versus the increasing number of Catholics) I felt there was something unfair about the whole thing.
Catholics are so just because of something their parents did to them when they were babies and they accept it as a condition for life (and will answer any statistician who asks that they are Catholic), whether they practice or not. On the other hand, Protestants are so because they practice Protestantism. The mentalities behind the answers are so different that it is almost like asking different questions. This makes me even more dubious about statistics and polls.
My picture of Spain was painted by soaring, monolithic cathedrals and from hearing everyone call themselves Catholics. I put these things together and interpreted them through my Protestant lens as meaning that every Sunday these cathedrals and churches were filled with Spaniards. It seems this is only true on religious holidays. Lesson learned.

As a result of my college thesis I brought a curiosity and interest in the immigrant culture here. From the articles and studies I read in the library in Liberty Missouri, I had put together an academic understanding of what immigration from Africa to Europe looked like. In my studies though, I focused primarily on detention facilities and those held in legal limbo there. It is interesting to reconcile my narrow theoretical picture to this grander physical one.
I always explained African immigration to the EU as having the same dynamic as Mexican immigration to the US. And in doing so, I was more correct than I knew. However, my focus on African immigration caused me to miss the fact that South Americans also comprise a massive number of immigrants in the EU. But, as I said, the picture is strikingly similar. Construction sites are predominantly manned by African workers, house cleaning ladies are from South America; small businesses and city jobs are for the Spaniards.
This dynamic bleeds into another notable similarity between here and the US. In the 1960s Mallorca began to become popular amoung tourists. There was a sudden and huge demand for large scale construction projects and, therefore, cheap labour to man these projects. Thus restrictions against immigration were lax. Today, Spain is facing similar housing issues as we are in America and attitude towards the immigrants is turning as well. As people become afraid for their own jobs in the face of something so huge, complicated, and difficult to understand, the reaction is the same. Interesting.
The word CRISIS (pronounced creesees [say it out loud. It sound funny]) is everywhere. I hear it at least 10 times a day on the news. People mention it in conversation. I even saw a store sale add the other day which, in giant letters, announced that they offered prices so low they would turn the crisis around.

So, I suppose what we can draw from this is…
Don’t feel bad America, Europe is gagging too.
And
Sometimes, statistics and numbers can make us think things are happening a certain way but you should take a real pulse yourself to be sure before you go burying anything.

Okay, so, I know this is nothing more than an internet blog and you are probably just reading this out of casual interest, but I would like it very much if you would do something this week. When you are out and about in your world, look around and watch, see if you can’t blow some assumption you have been carrying around out of the water. I know you will probably want to think this will be harder for you than it is for me because you have been living where you are much longer but I suspect that your situation actually may very well have just lulled you into complacence and there are plenty of assumptions just waiting to be questioned.
I am very interested in hearing about what you notice.

Post-script- A few days ago the bakery lady said something about being constipada. I thought this a highly innapropriate thing to inform me of, especially over my loaf of bread; but I let it slide. Then I was talking to some people at the school and someone mentioned that one of their students was constipada and wouldn´t be surprised if everyone was within the week. I was more than a little horrified by this idea. Contagious constipation really is a frightening thought.
Today I succumbed to a raspy throat and sniffles, and after several comments aimed at me involved the word constipada, with a general gesture at the nose and sinus region, I have realized the error in my thinking.

Reflections on Weaving, Turkey, and Americanism

The analogies of life to weaving and thread have been going around for centuries; from the Bible to philosophers to normal people walking down the street, trying to understand why they are there. The latter was me this past Wednesday.
I was walking to school from my house, I passed our street´s dumpster and the old lady who leaves mushed rice out for the wild cats was at her post, setting out styrofoam trays of the ucky looking stuff, right across the sidewalk from the street dumpsters and recycling bins. We smile at each other because one of my first encounters with the various giant, differently colored and differently shaped recycling bins was not a simple one and she helped me through it.
Another block along and I pass the portly little mechanic, always standing at the door of his garage, watching life go by and fixing cars in between. We, also, have established a "hello"ing relationship which has now grown into small comments and laughs about what groceries or books I may be carrying. It was right here that the realization hit. These people have been woven, in small ways, into my life and I into theirs. It made sense and my mind´s eye could see us each as a thread.
I thought of all the other threads of life with which I come into contact. There are my friends and loved ones. Who, although we may not be physically interwoven right now, I can feel, running parallel to me, reinforcing me, and hopefully I am doing the same. There is the nest of amazing women who have so graciously welcomed me into their lives and homes. There is the bakery lady who always responds to my inquiry as to her health with "bien, gracias a Dios" and who knows that I prefer my barra de pan a little on the white side, rather than too toasted. These people, who make up the living waypoints of my day, who pass through my life in this regular and rhythmic pattern. Creating for some grander design for all of us.
It was a stabilizing realization for me. For as strange as I may feel being in such a different place, it is impossible for me to fall off the grid, because I have these connections and they have me.

This past week was Thanksgiving. I know, SURPRISE! I got to talk some about the holiday to a few of the classes and my mention of pumpkin pie was generally greeted with looks of incredulity and disgust. The kids didn´t even know about home-made chocolate chip cookies (they sell neither chocolate chips or canned pumpkin over here), all they had ever heard of were Chips Ahoy!
Thanksgiving was a rainy day which I spent thinking of my family and sending as much love as I could to them. Trying to imagine what they were all doing at certain times, as well as thinking of all that I have to be grateful for. The list is a long one. On that day the closest I came to a Thanksgiving meal was a turkey sandwich.
On Saturday an American mother from one of the schools I work at invited me to the "American women in Mallorca" club´s Thanksgiving meal at some schnazzy restaurant on a cliff over the sea. On our way there I realized this was to be my second encounter in two months with other Americans.
We certainly were an ecclectic collection. There were embassy people, international business people, Burberry clad children and their matching parents. Most were international couples
"I was a shipping merchant from the US to Mallorca and I met my Italian wife here."
"I am in international shipping and I met my Sweedish wife in Germany and we keep our summer house here."
"I just graduated from college. I am here because I want to grow up to do everything in the world."
"I studied Spanish in University, I came over here on holiday and fell in love and have lived here 20 years now."
We each had a story and they were all interesting and I enjoyed the exchange. The political debates, the funny things we miss, why they dub movies over in Spanish with annoying voices, where do you land a personal jet on Mallorca, etc.
It took quite some effort, I learned, to get the cooks at the restuarant to understand what we wanted to eat. The women who had coordinated the meal had come in a week earlier to show them recipes and ideas as to what we eat on Thanksgiving (again, they were appalled by the idea of pumpkin pie so we had some kind of berry pie instead).
Over here, one of the major points about a meal is its presentation. Small portions arranged in such an elaborate way as to make one unsure how to approach desecrating it. Thinking about this brought another interesting obeservation to mind. The simplicity of the foods we eat on Thanksgiving (please don´t hate me all you folks who worked so hard to prepare the meal, hear me out). The foods are simple. Meat, potatoes; no colorful displays, no exotic ingredients. A turkey and mashed potatoes, as a founding feature of a national holiday. These are the same foods that people armed with muskets and ploughs ate. Something like that could not have come from European people. The truths of America are best seen and easiest understood in these subtilties. But they are difficult to explain. Especially in Spanish. So mostly these observations are just for me. And now you.

Happy December everyone!

What if the Hokey Pokey really is what it is all about?

Man, life flies. I have been around for 22 years but I still have no idea how to reconcile that into anything. I mean, I have gained experiences, I have learned and grown, but to most other humans I am still young, and being faced with mountains and buildings which have spanned centuries, well, I just have a hard time fitting the context. In this same way, things can happen, big things, that can throw us off kilter. Like, moving to a foreign country, for instance. But sometimes those things seem more managable than say, a double booking over the holidays or a sickly laptop. Humans are so strange.
So, as I am sure you can tell from what I have already said, I have been spending a lot of time outside, just thinking, because my laptop is on the fritz (I am using Marga´s) but I have yet to find anyone to look at it, so I don´t know. It is largely due to my dislike of the foreign keyboard that I have not posted. That and the fact that I can´t upload pictures. Again, something tiny having a disproportionate effect...
So that is my apology for not having photos with this posting.

Since I last posted, I have been living on much as I have in the first month of coming here. Exploring, learning, loving.
I went on a ladies picnic last week with 4 of the women from school and their children. We went to Isabelle's country house, settled into a hillside outside Valldemossa. I helped get the food started and chatted with the women as the kids played in the expansive yard, spanning three terraced levels of earth. I soon set off to explore the trails around Valldemossa, as I am planning a cross-island hike that goes through here. I set off with my little backpack, in my hiking clothes with my map and I was on top of the world. Turns out I became incredibly lost and, at no point do I think I actually had any idea where I was, but it was fun and the valley and hills were so beautiful. I always knew how to get back to the town and that was really all I needed. I watched the differing phases of daylight move across the town and the trees and made it back by 2 for lunch.
We ate in the traditional old kitchen, with the fire burning in the corner. And I was totally in on all the grown up talk. And, listen, this is to all you adults who ever told me "I´ll tell you when you are older" or any other such dismissal, I want you to know that you guys made adult talk seem a lot more exciting than it actually is. I mean, jeeze, most of the time you just talk about your kids and stuff. I thought the secrets of the world would be laid out flat and clear. Turns out you guys are just as confused about things as we were. Except you worry about serious things, we kids were mainly worried aobut who had the better fort.
But it was fun, I felt like an explorer into this new territory of `adult womanhood.´ Sitting and talking and bustling. I think I am getting pretty good at it, but I do still have tons of work left to do. As evening approached we packed all the kids and dogs and food up and went home. It was an awesome day.
Then on Sunday, Marga and I met up with the big group of teachers again and we went on another excursion. This time we walked the cliff tops of Cap Blanc, to the south west lip of the bay to Palma. The cliff faces waved off into the distance, eventually giving way to a glimpse of the largest city on these islands (comprising half the population of the entire territory) as a tiny haze of buildings. The cliffs were orange and warm, like the sun that day. So different from the gray and white of the cliffs in England. An entirely different feeling and alluring in its own way. We walked in the sun and the breeze along the incredibly flat brink of the cliffs. Stopping to look out to the sea and chat. We quickly came across some old soldier bunkers. Some little mounds dug out with views out to the sea. To defend against pirates. Seriously. Anna. Pirates.
We found a tunnel between bunkers but no one wanted to go through it because it was so dark. Being a Hughes, I of course had a flashlight on me. Three of us walked through the tunnel. It was very tunnely. Long, dark, cold, echoey. Cool.
We went on about another hour and then sat on the cliff for our lunch. A few of the women were incensed that some had suggested we only spend an hour eating lunch so we could walk more. It quickly became clear that this was generally regarded as impossible. So we settled to. Same elaborate lay out of food, same lounging and constant preoccupation with keeping me from going too close to the ledge, same mutual joy in sharing in such an amazing place.
The seagulls drifting on winds below us, the low shrubbery that hid delicious mushrooms under their branches (the women were teaching me about which are safe and which are poisinous). It was a brilliant and tiring day. Just my kind!
Since then it has been back to classes, starting to do a little tutoring so that is good, and today, on our weekly adventure, Cristina and I went to a village called Sant Elm, that looks out over this nature preserve island called ´sa dragonera´. The place was a literal ghost town, as it was a cloudy and chilly day, but Cristina and I had a coffee and talked about life and watched the water and enjoyed the peace and silence.
And now I am sitting here, sharing it all with you, thinking about dinner and starting to do a little lesson planning, but I had actually better get to it.

I love you all, thank you.

Field Trippin'

A few days ago Marga invited me to join in on an excursion for the third and fourth graders to the village of Orient and its apple orchards and mountains.

We arrived at the school early today to help make the bagged lunches and then I got to observe elementary school teachers at work, organizing 50 some odd squirming, excited children into something resembling enough order before the buses showed up. We headed north and east of Palma on one of the few autopistas on the island before pulling off into a village where we promptly got the larger of the two buses stuck on some back road.

Now, let me explain something about European buses, their fronts are completely flat and their turning set up is far different from cars with 'bonnets', so if you are sitting in the front row, as I was, you watch through the giant, flat pane of glass and feel yourself moving directly toward, say, the wall right in front of you, before cutting off and turning. In this exact arrangement we came to a T in the road, facing a wall, with a wall to our right and a stone fence to our left and after several attempts which brought us to within centimeters of the wall in front of us, we maneuvered backwards down the street (much to the amusement of the capped old chaps having their morning 'meet me at my garage' discussions) and came at it from a different route.
Suffice it to say, the drive into the mountains was breathtaking in several senses of the word. We followed a narrow, winding road up between two mountains called Castell d'Alaro (left) and Alcadena (right) between which, according to native lore, witches nightly string a tela de araña on which to play and dance until sunrise. They were beautiful, striking and screamed "get on your climbing shoes, find some ropes and climb us!"

We drove through impossibly lush fields nestled into and along the necks of mountain valleys, all the while singing the standard 'kids on a field trip' songs.

We soon were pulling into the tiny village of Orient, comprised of some 10-15 huge old stone edifices, surrounded by plots of green fields and apple orchards. As we arrived at about 10:30 the first order of business was to get all the kids seated at old wooden benches at tables and for everyone to snack. This gave me the opportunity to explore the two streets of the village and to locate the tiny restaurant which, according to one of the teachers, serves some amazing, stone oven baked dishes (something to bear in mind granddaddy and grandmother=)). I was struck by the isolation and peacefulness of the area. It was a nice counterweight to flurry of activity that was my miniature companions.

We then set out into the warm sunlight toting tiny backpacks with uniform sweaters tied around waists or carried awkwardly over arms, heads, tied to hats and backpacks and any other strange arrangement which might strike a 4th grader as a good idea. We passed through a couple low fields around the village, stopping several times for our tour guide to teach us about the village, the industry and history of the area. He did all of this speaking in a Mallorquin dialect which Marga told me she had not heard since her grandfather. I was able to understand and process about 25% of this but seriously enjoyed the sounds as well as the pleasure of focusing and straining my mind to capture what I did know and to compound onto that, picking up what I understood and putting together what I could infer from gestures and the likes.
We made our way into an apple orchard where we were each allowed to pick an apple to take home to show our parents...so, check it out mom and dad! Look what I got on my field trip today.
From there we began to climb into a shaded wood, thus requiring the re-employment of the fleece I had earlier packed away. Along the trail we came across families carrying wicker baskets full of mushrooms they had picked on the mountain-side, as well as a flock of curious, bell toting sheep.

We passed a tree which they calculated to be over 300 years old and on to a recreated site the traditional method of making coal here on the islands. This process took from late spring to early fall and required full time maintenance. To begin with a large pile of solid logs were stacked close together, covered by a layer of samller wood, thatched with a heavy grass and then encased in dirt. The middle was left open as a sort of smoke stack and could be covered or exposed according to the temperature of fire necessary to enable the process. The aim being to reduce the wood to coal. The process required constant supervision and as such a small hut was built close to the fire ring where a man lived through all the months of burning. To my right you can see the recreated burn pile (only about half the size of the historical burns) and in the background to my left you can see the low hut in which the watcher resided, sleeping on a mat of reeds supported on rocks.

From there we ambled on up the mountainside, collecting acorns, rocks and whatever else struck anyone's fancy. Each, naturally, requiring some sort of proud display to anyone who would pay attention. All the kids were quite taken with the idea of using the acorn tops as finger hats and of the double snap and palm to fist horse sound that dad has taught me. We came to a dynamited pass where the herds were moved between villages. We passed several other old burn sites and found a large poop which the children decided probably belonged to one of the witches who must hide in those mountains during the day, waiting to play during the nights.

We stopped again to learn about native insects and birds before moving on to our lunch site/battleground/princess castle/enchanted wood/free for all toilet. While climbing in one of the trees I silently witnessed the passing of a roving soldier battalion of 3rd grade boys trying to decide which tree they should, in their words, 'poison.'

From there we passed down, back out of the woods, through a dried up 'torrent' bed and on down a long, muddy sheep path with striking views of the surrounding meadows to our pick up point. I then stared happily and mindlessly out the window as we departed the peaceful valley and was soon sleeping all the way back to Palma.

I loved seeing such a secluded area of Mallorca, existing quietly in its own epoch and time frames. I also enjoyed watching the children and how engrossed they could become with objectives such as filling an empty water bottle with nuts, stones, exploring for bugs, working together to secretly carry a 10 ft. branch over a mile, just for the joy of manly teamwork and eluding teacherly detection.
Quite a joy.

Here we are, there we go

So much has happened since my last post that I have been intimidated out of posting for a few days. But I suppose 'the times they are a changin'' and it is better to keep up as well as I can. So let us begin with Halloween.

Marga and the English teachers orchestrated a big Halloween bash for the kids. It took the whole afternoon period (3pm-5pm) and involved bringing 150 kids into a gym where we had set up 6 stations for them to visit. Card making, Halloween mask decorating, magic potion station, story station, mystery box and 'bobbing for apples.' I was in charge of the story station so I put together 2 stories to read to the varying levels. For the older kids I told a simplified version of Sleepy Hollow, complete with pictures and the galloping horse sound I learned from my Dad when I was little. For the younger kids it was a story about an old woman at her spinning wheel and the arrival of a strange visitor who came in pieces (feet, legs, body, etc. [vocab they knew]). The magic potion station was a big hit b/c the kids got to drink the Ghoulish Punch which resulted and they also got to try pumpkin seeds. Something which they found interesting. They also liked the mystery boxes, where they put their hands into boxes we had decorated that were filled with things such as a hairy pretend spider, bones, jello, noodles, etc. By far my favorite station, if for nothing else than the amusing 'lost in translation' nature of it was 'bobbing for apples.' When I first suggested the idea the teachers were all gung-ho for it, but they then decided it was too dangerous, so instead they decided that hiding candies in vats of flour and letting the kids nuzzle it out would get the idea across. I must admit I was a bit worried about flour paste suffocation but it worked out with no side problems aside from a flour fight at the end. All in all it was a great success. The kids had fun and we spoke to them in English for most of it. At least half the kids donned some piece of a Halloween costume and were quite pleased with themselves. There were a lot of witches and vampires and such but it is clear that an American conception of Halloween is catching on over here.

After this exciting Friday activity we had a 3 day weekend to play with so I opted for a walking visit to the grounds of Bellver Castle which sits on a hill overlooking the city of Palma. I am including a video I took from the top of the castle.
I then explored the grounds, which I pretty much had to myself as the rainy weather had scared almost everyone else indoors. Afterwards I engaged in one of my favorite exploring activities which involves taking various city buses out to their furthest point and then getting off and wandering around. The one I chose on that day took me out to Isletas to the farwest side of Palma where I watched the sea waves overtaking the beaches and walk ways and enjoyed the sea breeze and watching the locals delighting in the unusually active waters. I sat for about an hour, eating my bread and cheese and mandarines wondering at the temprament of the waters and enjoying the occasional sea froth which managed to jump the 10 foot wall on which I was perched and splashed my feet. At the end of the day I was surprised to touch my face and find it coated in salt. Proof of my outing and a very good day.

I have found there is something to the weather here. Whie various small cloud cells bring varrying degrees of rain, they are also broken up by spots of brilliant, piercing sunlight and blue skies. Watching the shadows of the clouds glide across the water and the mountains and the inevitable rainbows that result is utterly lovely. And it is a celestial blessing when, on an otherwise wet day, the sun breaks through and shines directly and exclusively on you as you are going about your daily business. A little kiss from heaven.

On Tuesday Cristina and I took our weekly outing and went to visit the village town of Deiá, located on the west coast of the island in the Tramuntana mountains between Valldemossa and Soller. It is a tiny village known for being the village of the artists. Once there it was easy to see why. The town sits on a smooth little hill settled in a deep valley, surrounded on all sides by steep mountains with a perfect V shape view out to the sea. Houses were burning their fall leaf piles and I watched as these few columns of smoke rose upwards before being scattered into thin hazes by the winds which caught them just as they crested the mountain tops. We climbed to the top of the hill of the town to find the old cemetery where Robert Graves was burried. Being the day after the Day of the Saints, it was full of freshly deposited flowers and mementos. It was a beautiful peaceful place to spend a few moments of quite reflection on those in my life who have left this earth and to send thanks to them for their contributions to this earth and the people around me and, as such, making it possible for me to be here now, enjoying these moments in the capacity that I do.
Unlike most towns here, where the cemeteries are on the outskirts, the graveyard and adjoining church claimed the very top of the hill and center of the old village, commanding a gorgeous view of the surrounding mountains and the gorge which leads out to the sea. The hills were covered in mandarine and lemon trees, the ground carpeted by bright green undergrowth. The mountains rose into the deeper green of the larger trees and above that stood the windwept tops where the rocky earth stood out, spotted with low growing trees and shrubs. The sun set over the town, casting the old stone houses in the warmest hues of yellow and red and orange before relinquishing them to the cool shadows of evening.

Since then I have been busy in procuring clothing which befits the cooling weather. Turns out that just because these are Mediterranean islands does not mean it is always warm and temperate here. Apparently the winters here get down to around 10 degrees C of a very humid and bone chilling nature. As such I have been on the hunt for on sale sweaters, long pants and purchased a warm coat. All of this being brightened by the prospect of visits from a number of my most goodest favorite people ever! I am loved and blessed and more than thrilled to share it with you in any way possible.

~~~~~~~
Aside from these reflections and stories of my life, we are facing monumental changes in our own American culture. The election of Senator Obama to the position of President has been a matter of great excitement over here. Strangers on the street and in the supermarkets stop me to congratulate me on the election of Obama, so much so that it makes me wish that Presidential elections were international popularity contests because if so, we just won a big gold star. It will be interesting to see what this really means for us. Regardless of our individual sentiments on the matter, I think it says a lot about our country that we have elected a black man to the role of leader and face of our country.
And so again I say, 'the times they are a changin'.'

No Matter Where in the World I go, the Rain is Still Wet

What a week. I have been working on plans with the English teachers at La Purisima to put on a Halloween party for all of the primary classes. It takes a lot of planning to come up with what to do with 150 kids for 2 hours! But we have also been having a lot of fun doing it. Picking out what we are going to dress as, planning activities, etc. It will be fun, especially since this will be the first 'Halloween experience' most of these kids have ever had.

Besides that, another interesting recent event was a rain storm. I have learned that Mallorcans are not a people well equipped for such cataclysmic events. For starters, they clearly did not build their sidewalks with rain in mind, as they become incredibly slippery when wet. Secondly, I was to be working with the kids this fateful Wednesday but instead we all watched Toy Story in Spanish b/c we could not go outside. Fortunately the rain had stopped before we got out of class.

Probably my most eventful day of the week was Tuesday. I spent my morning standing in ques around the police station waiting to get my NIE (Numero de Identificacion para Extranjeros). It was lovely. The building was in the middle of a huge construction site and I had to get there 45 minutes before the place even opened so that I could even stand a chance to get in. I got to wake up gently to the sound of jack hammers. Every woman's true passion, as any man knows. It actually was not so bad but my inherent loathing of waiting in lines predisposed me to dislike the process. However, due to the fact that I am a real live grown up, I sucked it up and took it. I think I got it pretty easy though b/c once we were moving and I got inside they directed me elsewhere. I was dubious because the place they were pointing me to had no line, and in a place like this, if there is not a line, it probably means you have gone wrong somewhere. But I moved in the general direction the man had pointed me in, ducked under a few stretches of tape, peeked through a few doors and happened into the room where you get to take a number to wait to be served. Naturally there was a line but apparently if you stand and look like a confused white girl in just the right spot you get to take a number before everyone else. So then I waited in a small lobby and noticed that the woman sitting next to me had a Cuban passport. Being a good American, I have never seen a Cuban passport so she let me look at hers. That was pretty exciting. My number was called and I walk to this young man sitting behind a desk and took a seat. He seemed to translate "good morning, how are you" as "please flirt with me" which I decided could not hurt my chances at getting the proper documentation so I let it be. 2 headshots and a black fingerprint later and I was out the door with instructions to return in 40 days to pick up my number which will allow me to open a bank account and get on with life in general. So hooray.

I then made my way through town and back up to La Purisima to meet with Cristina for our Tuesday afternoon outings. This particular Tuesday we went to a town called Soller. It is apparently the chilliest place on the island, as it is in a valley. but its being in a valley meant we got to go through this super long tunnel through which I could not even hold my breath half the way! As we drove through the mountains I noticed it getting ever greener and the hills were steep and littered with old stone fences in the most improbable places. We arrived in the town and maneuvered a parking spot some blocks out of the way. It is a pretty big town with many very narrow and winding streets. It was very pretty, with a striking old church in the middle. It was a pretty town with all sorts of alluring mountains around it. One of note rose above the rest. The trees cut off about half way up and the top half was absolutely bare. It looked much like a tooth. Although not Tooth of Time quality white. More of a reddish off brown gray. (Yeah, wow THAT makes sense). But anyway it was beautiful and looked challenging, and I noticed people walking around town in hiking clothes with trekking poles and backpacks and now I can't stop wondering if maybe it is climbable. I will be looking into this.
Either way, We ambled about for a bit and then caught the old wooden trolley out to the sea side where we walked on the beach and ate artisian orange ice cream made from oranges grown there in Soller which are renown for being the tastiest in Mallorca. I have never had ice cream quite like this before and really found the entire experience delightful. Everyone we saw was relaxed and half of us were contentedly having at ice cream cones, each in our own way. There were the bottom feeders, who nibbled the bottom of the cones off and drank it from there, there were the perfectionists, licking around the ice cream, keeping it always in perfect symmetry and avoiding any dripping, there were the One-siders who really only seemed aware of the ice cream facing them, allowing the other side to drip deliciously all over their fingers, and many other such variations. I was musing on this diversity of characters when Cristina pointed out that it was all but impossible to feel stress in a place like this. It really did seem that everything about the town was structured so as to make stress and hurry an impossibility. I liked this observation very much and gave myself over to it in all ways possible. The roads were really to narrow to speed on, there were no office buildings anywhere, I did not see a single suit the whole day, everything was slow and content.
As we walked along the water the harbour turned into a beach turned back into a boat harbour where I made my acquaintance with two forms of local boats. The first is associated with Menorca (another of the islands) and is called a Menorquin Yacht. They are more plesure oriented and most come, like the one pictured, with a back deck to hold a prop boat to take in to visit islands and such. The second boat is a Mallorcan fishing boat and I am just kicking myself because I was so determined to remember its name for you guys. I will ask again tomorrow and figure it out. Either way, it is not so much of a pleasure boat and is used for fishing and other such practical endeavours. These boats populate the harbours by the hundreds and there is something about looking down a length of dozens upon dozens of them that remind you that no matter how touristy a place can be made, people still have to eat, and people work for their food and the idea of locals doing it on small scale, fishing for their families and the fish market gives me a deep sense of pleasure.

We caught the trolley back in to the city and maneuvered the labyrinth of its streets with very little event and only a little bit of backtracking. It was an awesome day and I now know of a city where I am going to have to go again.

If you are reading this, then you are probably a person that I am missing. But I love you even more than that, so live well and please carry me in your hearts b/c I am carrying you in mine.

Silvestre- something that grows naturally without being planted or maintained

Yesterday I was invited on an excursion with a group of 12 of the teachers from La Purisima. We met at noon in the school parking lot and carpooled up into the Serra de Na Burgesa. 12 women, fit into 3 European cars is quite a to-do in and of itself, throw in the hairpin mountain roads heavily populated by road cyclists and you have the makings of something akin to a comedy routine.

The day was overcast with high clouds and a steady haze which made my attempts at landscape photography painfully inutil but once I let go of that endeavour I was free to just enjoy it all through my own eyes. While some of the women were a bit put out that we could not see quite so clearly, I rather enjoyed the effects the haze had, and not just because I am a white girl who sunburns easily. From the mountain roads we looked out over the city of Palma and out into the Sea where the water faded into the haze faded into the clouds, creating a continuity betwee water and sky which I found fitting and lovely. We walked along a wide dirt road for an hour or so, out to a lookout over the city. We stopped and watched the sailboats in the distance and I could see native pride manifesting itself across the faces of so many of these women whose families have called this place home forn generations.

The organizer of the expedition and general fearless leader (pictured far right in the photo above), who used her walking sticks with some amount of authority allowed me to amble along with her, hearing her stories and learning from her. Some words of note were, first of all, that Mallorca does not have tides. As we are sitting in a sea, with only a tiny outlet to the ocean, the moon's pull is not as significant. I had never considered this. Lesson learned. Secondly, we had a discussion as to the personality of the Mallorquins and I thought it particularly poignant when she told me, "First I am Mallorquin, second I am a Spaniard." She is another of those who have a long history on these islands and again I was struck with just how blessed I am to have encountered and been allowed to join this group of women. i truly am and I thank God every day for allowing me this insight to such a proud culture. Their maintenance and pride in their own language is, I think, a mighty testament to this. Like when I was hiking in Wales and witnessed a grandfather teaching his 6 year old grandson Gaelic. I am struck by these tight knit communities, maintaining their traditions and culture in such a mighty way as language.

To those who have not had the fortune to work with a herd of cattle nor who have had the opportunity to witness their dynamics, please understand that the following is not meant as any sort of derogation to the women:
Often times as we walked along the women were chattering amoungst themselves in Catalan and I could understand precious little of what was being said. As such I spent most of my energy observing the movement and attitude of the whole of the group and I was struck by how similar they were to the cattle I worked with on Gay's ranch. A large collection of only women, moving along. Gathering into small groups and chatting for some time as we continued on the same course. Stopping and waiting for one another, regrouping and then separating back into small groups, the components of each cluster changing each time. Hearing their community voice was striking and amusing. The hum of constant conversation, some rising above others, sometimes lulling, sometimes stopping altogether as we just walked and enjoyed the scenery. Hearing the swell of general protest when we encountered difficult terrain and the sounding of an alarm when one of the number fell or dropped behind. The happy sounds as well settled down to lunch, the after lunch murmur as some of us napped and others discussed amoung themselves. The general group mentality made me miss the cattle and, I felt gave me an insight that might help me better understand the animals if I ever have my own herd. It was an interesting insight.

At about 2:30 our now narrow trail came to an end at a crest atop which sat a ruined stone edifice. No roof, three walls and filled with rubble, but with benches all around the outside and a fantastic view. We had reached Mirador de n'Alzamora, built in 1931. We sat with our backs to the building, looking out over the Mallorcan landscape. To the left a deep valley wandered back into the mountains. The opposite wall was scattered with trees, accented by veins of sheer white rock cliff. The cliffs and ridges dropped into a low valley populated by olive tree farms, patches of cleared dirt, waiting for next year's harvest and every here and there a villa or farm house. Beyond this the sea sparkled in some spots under the odd patch of clear skies. Other spots were a steady murky while still others were disrupted by so many small peaks and swells, roiled by the wind or perhaps some current that only the sea itself and some knowledgeable fishermen knew about. then again, off to the right, the land rose again into those irregular hills and mountains that make this island so different from other places I have been rose up, rounding back to where we sat and ate and lived and felt peace and happiness and the general wellbeing of sharing such an experience with others.

The immediate order of business for us was to get lunch laid out. Everyone began diving into their packs to produce any of a variety of meats, cheeses, breads, crackers, cakes, pastries, etc. Everything was laid out on a blanket which we had spread out between us all. A number of the women fell to cutting up meat or slathering tomato juice across pieces of bread. I was so pleased to see this sharing mentality before the "get me some" attitude I had gotten used to hiking with the young boys at Philmont or eating on the glacier. After everything had been divvied up, we all set too, and it was delicious. It turns out that for these women, lunch is a 2 hour affair, involving a lot of sitting and talking time, many a chance for a nap on warm stones and even some time for me to slip away and explore. I saw a little group of mountain goats, one black, one brown, and one white, playing and eating and exploring out on points that I could only wish to have the ability to climb to.

Once we had had our fill of food and napped and chatted, as if on some silent cue, everyone began cleaning up and packing things away and off we went again. We walked back by a different, shorter trail and everyone began picking bouquets of fruits and flowers to bring home. By the time we reached the cars and began fitting our things into them I would say we had almost twice the amount of stuff as we had had when we took off. It was funny to see these tiny trunks packed with so much greenery. Todas nos despedimos with many kisses and hugs and the general consensus that we would would have something grand to share when we see each other again in classes on Monday.

A very good Saturday.

Sometimes we all have to learn the Hard Way

For example. yesterday I walked out to meet the 6 year olds for gym class. As I walked into the open gym area they were all running around, chasing each other and playing. One of the little girls started running at me and as she did so I swooped her up and flipped her over, squealing and laughing. It was like some sort of alert. I saw half the heads snap in my direction and identify that yes, I had in fact just done something very fun looking to one of their peers. This initiated some sort of attack sequence in their little brains. It was on par with a scene in Jurassic Park. I had to overcome my own instinct to run away when I saw a good number of them from all corners of the room head straight my way. They hit me like a wave and crowded around me with their hands up jumping and squealing "ahora mi! ahora mi!" So I fell back into my super English teacher defense mode saying "I don't understand you. English please." HA! It worked; they all looked to one another trying to figure out what I was asking of them, although they continued to jump against me with their hands up, trying to climb me. Just at that moment the Little Miss Know it All of the class ran by and informed them all in Spanish, "she says for you to all stop touching her ta-tas." They all fell back and stared at me. I had to restrain myself from laughing and quickly made my escape to the other side of the room with the teacher to await instructions for the games we were to play. Lesson learned.


I am also experiencing the learning by doing technique on another level. While this teacher exchange program has been happening in Spain for some years now, this is the first year of it being in the Balearic Islands. As such, instructions are still rather convoluted and are coming from all directions. Sill little details and questions arise, such as "do I have health insurance? Is that what that form was about?" "who pays me, the schools or the government?" "If I do get a Spanish bank account to have my checks sent to, who do I tell so the checks actually get sent?" "Exactly what other types of paper work do I have to fill out to be legally here and to work?". I have resorted to directing these questions to the American consulate here and to the facebook accounts of other kids in the same program, asking them how they are going about things. This is proving to slowly be helpful and I should hopefully get it all worked out soon.
Marga was sent to a teacher's meeting regarding we Auxiliares de Conversacion and she too was struck by the inefficiency and weaknesses in the system. Such as, why are they having the teacher's orientation meeting weeks after the Auxiliares are already at the schools?
I was starting to get frustrated with the whole ordeal but then I realized that if I break it down, the government is just like us, doing its best to move forward and learning through doing (or that is the idea at least. . . I think/hope).

I suppose these are the kinds of things we get frustrated with but with a little bit of grace and a whole lot of persistence we can get through and hopefully make things better in the end.

I would like to conclude this post with sharing one of my new most favorite things. Today I did some neighborhood exploring. Identifying all the various tiny shops within blocks of my house that might cater to my various needs. Post office. Paper shop. Bakery. The bakery is just around the corner from my house and I walked in and bought a fresh baguette, still warm from the oven. I took it home and made myself a sandwich and sat out on my deck and watched the darkening clouds roll and roil overhead and enjoyed my sandwich, all of the components of which were made within miles of where I live. It was pleasant.

One final bit, I have an address, feel free to use it at will:
c/ Margarida Xrigu, 31
Palma de Mallorca, Spain 07011

A Day in the Country

In celebration of Columbus Day, there was no school today. I am not going to go into how confused I am regarding which countries celebrate this short little man, but I certainly have nothing against the free time he has bought us. As such, today Marga brought me out to her family's country home. It is just around the mountain from the city of Andraxt ( pronounced An-drach). We took the autopista to Andraxt then wound the narrow lanes of the city, getting stuck once behind a car which kept stalling at the hands of a driver who could not seem to decide where he was going. He was immediately identified as a 'turista'. We turned off the city roads onto an uphill climb where we almost immediately encountered a family in a horse drawn buggie. After dropping back to give them right-of-way, we began a steady climb out of the extremely populated city on an impossibly narrow road. At each hairpin turn Marga tooted the horn, notifying any potential downhill driver of our endeavour. We soon ran into a group of about 6 folks on horse back coming down and again gave way. I could smell the horses and the freshly rained on green around us and I could hear the assortment of birds singing to us of the Mallorcan country life from the shrubbery that encroached on the path/road. It was a lovely and eventful drive. I can assure you all that driving here is nothing like driving in America.
We pulled up to an old stone building on the left where Marga's parents' car was already parked and full of jugs of the water drawn from the house's own well which we drink (as the city's water is not so tasty). I got a variety of responses when I inquired as to the age of the building, ranging from 150-300 years. I did, however, learn that it used to be an old windmill used for grinding wheat into flour and that it has been in the family for more than 4 generations.
There is a large room which they had recently renovated which was where the mule used to walk in circles. working the wheat. While the roofing and floor was new, there was still a trough in the corner where the four legged labourer used to take his union break.
The house is a matrix of what used to be grain storage rooms, now filled with antique furnishings. They recently updated the bathroom from a hole in the ground to a flushing toilet. While still not connected to the main grid for electricity, there is a generator which they use when necessary. The kitchen involves a large fireplace and a hearth around which are stone bench seats where generations of people have sat to cook, chat and work. Making stories, sharing stories. It is an amazing house with many a low doorway, Marga informed me it was not built with 'tall' people, like myself, in mind. Dad, I suspect you may be able to relate somewhat?
A second part of the kitchen was a covered room outside, one entire wall blackened from the wood burning stove built into it. This is where Marga's mother, also named Marga, was cooking up some sort of magic.
We took a walk along one of the country roads and by the time we got back there was time for one chapter in my book and then lunch. A lettuce and tomato salad (covered with salt and olive oil of course), grilled red peppers, bread and pork chops. We had been 'merendiendo' (snacking) all day, but somehow I found room not only for the lunch but also for some dessert which grandma had made. It was all so delicious.
Afterwards Josep Maria, the 10 year old son, and I went and explored the trees on the property. One of which the government had officially decided to protect due to its significant age. I thought it should probably be protected, if for no other reason, than that it is one of the best climbing trees I have encountered since arriving here. Once we wandered back to the house there was quite a commotion over the 'culebra' that was found swimming in the rainwater in the bottom of an empty paint bucket. I thought it was quite a commotion for a 4 inch long little guy but apparently snakes are not very common around here. Apparently St. Patrick's influence reached farther than expected. Either way, they were very impressed to hear about the sorts of snakes encountered by my cousin and even more amazed to hear how they are dealt with (so you are internationally known Brian, just a heads up). I then went out and wandered by myself for a bit, taking in this new countryside, adjusting my perception of what a 'farm' looks and functions like, and taking in the old building ruins, the stone walls, built by hand and just the general ambiance of the place.
I feel an almost constant inclination to try to make this new place fit into old perceptions. To reconcile it to the way I think it 'should' be. To fit this round peg through my square hole. But sometimes I can just sit, and let go, and let the place wash over and through and around me. I realized today that places and people aren't made to fit conveniently into perceptions, they just are, and we are free to absorb as much or as little of them as we believe we can handle. In this light, I strive to make myself an empty vessel, without a top or a bottom. To just let these things flow and to teach me. But I also realize I am not channeling any significant portion of this world; rather, I am submerged in a sea. I am so small that all I can do is try to learn as much as I can and tell the stories, and do my all to share the best of me and contribute as much as I can.

Food

It is a quite Thursday evening. We just finished eating supper (which we usually eat together at around 9) and doing dishes. I went in to La Purisima today to talk to one of the older classes and the kids were shy at first but once we got going it was pretty fun. On Wednesday I had my first really full day of teaching, the longest one of the week for me from now on. I go over to Llado in the mornings, as I have to be there at 9 I have to start maneuvering the bus system at about 8. There I move through the classes with the English teachers. Then at 12:30 I get back on the buses and go to La Purisima where I work with the 6-8 year olds. But it is pretty fun because I get to do PE with them which entails playing outside. All in all I think work will be fun. I am hoping to get some private tutoring work though so I can actually afford living in this city!
I have been being introduced to all sorts of cultural information and food and I am pretty proud of myself (turns out my parents' years of trying to teach me to eat what I am served has panned out rather well).

As far as the food here goes, well, it is quite different from in America. However, their cafeteria food at the schools is pretty standard. We eat off of metal trays with 4 compartments. My first day I was served noodles in a broth. I sat down in the teacher dining hall and started forking the noodles. Marga, one of the English teachers asked me just what I thought I was doing eating soup with a spoon. Realizing that this was soup and feeling rather silly I went for a sarcastic joke, saying, "oh, this is how we do it in America." Turns out that did not translate well and now every time we eat soup Marga offers me a fork. We have now established that Americans do not, in fact, eat soup with forks but she still teases me.

Aside from that incident, I have been trying all the different kinds of food possible. The first thing to note about Mallorcans is that they put olive oil and salt on most of their foods. The first time Marga saw me putting cheese on a slice of bread she offered me some olive oil and was rather shocked to hear that we do not do this regularly. A common food here, pan boli, is a slice of bread, with oil, salt, a slice of tomato and a slice of cured ham (jamon cerrano) to top it off. Also sometimes they put cheese on it. I tried this for the first time tonight and was happily surprised. Look mom, I am eating tomatoes voluntarily! There is also this kind of small tomato which you cut in half and squeeze out over the bread, almost like a lemon or something.

Another local food is called 'sobrasada'. Once a year families get together and slaughter a pig and make meats for themselves for the year. Sobrasada is this meat, ground up and mixed with a variety of spices. Not very spicy but a very full flavor. I like it spread on a slice of bread topped with a local cheese, Manchega.
On Tuesdays Cristina, another of the Spanish teachers, gets done with work at 1 and we have decided to make these girls' afternoons b/c her kids don't get out of class until 5. This past Tuesday we drove up to the mountain village Valldemossa where there is the church where Chopin hung out and composed. Cristina had been coming to visit the village since she was a small girl and she insisted that I try a common snack here called coca de patata. It is made of potato but made like a bread. It comes in the form of a bun and is sprinkled with powdered sugar. Pretty tasty. I also drank a small 'horchata' some sort of nutty tasting milky blended ice.(pictured left is me in the Valldemossa gardens with coca patata and horchata).

A national favorite is paella. It is pretty much a hodge-podge of seafoods and land meats with arroz brut (dirty rice). It is, as I sometimes call the foods which I am not sure about right away, 'interesting'. Marga teases me about that too.
A lot of what they eat here on the islands is heavily based in foods grown here on the islands. For example, the other day, driving back from our mountain excursion Cristina and I saw a bunch of men out picking olives out of the trees with long hooks. They are then processed here on the island and bottled and then I pour them over my pan boli. It is really nice to see the places where my food comes from, so close to home.

The main trees that I see around here are olive, orange and almond. And grazing underneath and around them are sheep and cattle. The olive trees are so beautiful, with gnarled trunks and almost sage-like colored leaves, dancing in the sun and sea breeze. They are representative of these islands as it is one of their large exports, comprising a significant portion of their economy (far second of course to tourism which comprises more than half their economy).
Well, more later, off to bed for now.

First Few Days

I am sitting out on the porch of my new habitation feeling the growing chill of the evening. I spent the day walking the way along the ports and beaches of Palma. The sun was bright and warm and the water was chilly and gorgeous. The horizon was littered with sail boats and ships drifting along, enjoying the lazy Sunday breeze. When the sun got too intense I sat on the shaded benches and watched all the different kinds of people. Tourists on bikes, taking pictures, sun bathing. The locals walking their dogs and children and speaking to one another in Catalan, a Spanish/French mix. It was a lovely day.
But let me start from the beginning:
I arrived on the afternoon of the first of October and by the time that my luggage and I maneuvered the bus system and found my hostel I was bushed! I spent 10 minutes sitting on the beach watching the sunset and then passed out at 7 pm.
The next morning at breakfast I ran into another girl doing the same work as I am and so we found our way together to the orientation meeting. We spent the morning listening to explanations of our new duties and the intricacies of the Spanish school system. When that was over I went back to my hostel intending to look up some flats for rent but my 20 minute nap turned into a 3 hour sleep, so I woke up just in time to grab some supper with Elisabeth (the other student?teacher? I mentioned above, and then back to sleep.
I woke up early Friday morning and found my way to the first school I will be working at, Llado. I met the two English teachers, Pilar and Veronica and sat in on the 4th grade class. The kids were learning various body parts and were quite proud to introduce themselves to me, saying, 'yjello, mi name iz _____". I was then presented to the headmaster, Guillermo, with whom I set up a schedule which has me there Monday and Wednesday mornings, working one hour with each of 6 classes, 1-6 (kids ages 6-12). They were very friendly and warm and seemed enthused to have me. This being the first year of this program functioning on the islands, we are all new to this and I am quite a novelty.
After that I found my second school, La Purisima, right about lunch time. The three English teachers, Marga, Marta, and Cristina were very welcoming and brought me to eat lunch with the rest of the teachers. Then I sat in on a high school class where I drew a map of the US and showed them where I was from. The students then asked me to show them where the Simpsons lived.
La Purisima is a school founded by Franciscan Nuns with a special interest in children with disabilities. There are 400 some odd students there, of whom 50 or so face some sort of extra challenge in life, most deaf but some with behavioral or psychological issues. The deaf children have their own classes but the rest of them are matriculated into normal classes. As such, one of the boys in the class I was visiting has some form of autism. He has impeccable hand writing but cannot take a shower by himself. He is very enthusiastic about learning English and so found asa many excuses as possible to come talk to me...
'jyello, my neem is William.'
'What time is it?'
'I have calculator that says in English.' (He was very proud of this)
Other students came up to me and asked what we ate in America. Did we listen to Spanish music? Is the food better in America or Spain? etc.
It was really fun and the kids' enthusiasm was contageous. I am sure I will enjoy working with them.
After the class I sat down with the three English teachers and the headmaster, Ventura, and they decided that I would be most helpful working with the 3-5 year olds on Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons. While I am sure I will have fun with the little ones I was a little disappointed that I would not get to work with the older kids. However, they do several excursions, like camping trips and field trips, each year and they invited me to go along on these so that should be fun. Afterwards Marga showed me to her house where she had an upstairs to rent. I was naturally dubious of what sort of living conditions to expect and was greatly impressed when she showed me in to her home. It is lovely and elegant and tasteful and very clean and tidy. The upstairs is my domain, including an expansive porch which overlooks her little orchard out back. I was so impressed that I accepted her offer immediately (having heard horror stories from some of the other Conversation Auxiliaries [that is what we are called] regarding the sort of living accommodations which can be obtained on our limited budgets). I was particularly thrilled when Christina, the other teacher who had come along for the adventure, asked the address of my hostel, that she might pick me up whenever I so chose to move my things over here! YEAH, avoiding that transit on bus was a very welcome matter!
The next morning she and her 4 year old son, Carles, picked me up and I dropped my things off and then Cristina insisted that she show me the grocery stores and other such necessities in the area while Marga went to a meeting. On out way to the grocery store we passed a coffee shop where one of the other teachers, also named Marga and her husband, Tony, invited us over. I was given the choice between a short or a tall coffee and it was evident that declining was not an option. Turns out they drink coffee like it is their job over here. We chatted for an hour or so and I talked with Tony, who is from Uruguay, about everything from food to music to the state of living and government in Uruguay. We then said our goodbyes with the double kiss and made our way to Mercadona, the grocery store right down the street from my new house. I bought a few food items and such and then Cristina dropped me off at my new place, into which I entered using my very own key!=)
I spent a bit unpacking and talking with Marga and then she insisted on taking me to lunch in her favorite place in the world, Port Deantratx, where she grew up. It was a lovely drive, some along the water some in the mountains. The vegetation here is very different from at home. Most of the trees are some variation of conifers, which are apparently better at surviving with what little rain falls here. Either way, it is very lovely. We drove to the little port town and wandered along the coast, past the house where Marga grew up and out along the sea wall to the lighthouse. It was lovely, looking inland at the low lying, irregular, textured mountains, and then out across the sea at the sail boats. We made our way back to the touristy area and had patella for lunch, a humongous platter of this short fat yellow rice mixed with pretty much every variation of meat, both land and sea faring, mixed in. It was really very good. Here the big meal of the day is lunch and so Marga was nigh upon horrified to hear that in America we get 30 minute lunch breaks and wondered that wouldn't making supper the big meal of the day just make you sick? It was a funny thing to try to explain. Afterwards we drove to Ikea and she bought some things for my comfort such as a trash can and noteboard and the likes. That night we walked along the coast through the middle of Palma and by 10 pm we both had this interesting head pain from talking and thinking in the others' language. We got home and I went straight to sleep and did not wake up until after the time that church would have been finished so I made my way around slowly for the morning. Marga insisted I drink a glass of milk with breakfast b/c that is what Americans drink at breakfast, no? The milk here is different from that at home, it is more of a cream almost, but still tasty. I then ventured off into the day which I described above, ending soon with the conclusion of this post.=) Early to bed before my first big day of work tomorrow!

Some interesting differences I have noted:

-Door keys here are different, involving depressions in the broad side of the key as well as the jagged edge. Doors lock with a series of 4 heavy bolts.
-Pillows are long and narrow and pillowcases open at both ends.
-all trashcans are tiny

Well, that is all for now. I am going to shower and head to bed soon.
Loves.
~B