Imagine an establishment of education like this: Around 1,000 students in the whole school, but only about 50 per grade. With every grade represented along with a preschool option there is an age range of students is from 2 to 18. Souds pretty weird right, maybe like a bad idea, perhaps something that should have been thought through. There might be some minor conflits of interest in how to set up the school so each student gets the best possible experience when the kids range from toddlers to legal adults. With no furthur ado I give you my private school in San Sebastian, and they have set up the school I so hastily described as a bad idea. And now, after several months of attending the institution, I have decided I was right, the school could use some improvements. Now I can't just lob all the blame onto the designers of the institution. Running a private school (or any school for that matter) would not be an easy task in my mind. Anything where kids need to be under control is an extreme hassle and anyone who has every babysat an obstinate child will know. Smaller children need to be coddled and watched every moment of every day to make sure they don't decide on testing the flavor of glue or pointy metal objects. As far as the child is concerned these would make excellent treats and if anyone tries to take them away that person deserves to be screamed and cried at until they pick the child up, at which point it is time for the child to vomit. The same general stage continues for several years, but when verbal skills are aquired the much dreaded whining begins. At the next stage in developement, from about 9 to 13, kids think they have enough worldly experience to converse with you on any issue, no matter how personal it may be. The advice they give you is filled with youthful ignorant optimism and only deepens the rest of our cynicism because we know how wrong they are. At this stage of development kids cannot imagine anything bad happening in the world unless they have experienced it directly, but their bubble of hope will be shattered. Someday, usually a school day, somewhere, most likely on a bus, the child's hope will be forever shattered by a teenager who already knows how horrible the world is. The child grows into a pessimist and realizes that authority is really an illusion and parents, much less teachers, have no real control over anything. When the teenager hears a mere child talking about how great the world is he can't help himself but to destroy the fake world of the peaceful know nothing, it's a vicious, and very short, cycle. The essential three stages a kid goes through can be reduced to: Anarchist, Carebear, Anarchist. Now if kids need be controled and educated that is a job I could never do, so I admire those who devote themselves to the profession.
I sit in Economía taking a test that I have not studied for. I don't care and neither does the teacher we both know that grades here for me are just for laughs, which I'm sure she has a lot of reading my answers. I will find out several days later that I did not even warrent a zero on the test. While taking this particular exam I find myself continually distracted by noises coming from the window, they are coming from a playground. The school's property is minimal so all the Fútbol fields, basketball courts, and play areas are situatied right next to the building where education is supposed to take place. Just outside the window is the 4 and 5 year old playground. Kids of that age have their own form of communication which is not based on any language, it is based on noise. In particular how loud you are. If you are the loudest, you are correct. It does not matter what type of conversation is being had, there is always a winner when it comes to small children, even if they are just saying hello. Then another conversation is needed to decide who was, in fact, the winner of the greeting, this results in yet another victory and more decibel intense exchanges. The simplicity of the oral conversation belies the true power it holds, namely the power to drive any outsider crazy. I could not imagine if this year actually mattered for me credits wise, I would never be able to concentrate with all the children outside apperently involved in deep conversations about the most important facts and ideas of recent history, I mean if their conversations were about something less important why would they be trying so hard to win them. Remember the teacher you had who took everything seriously, well I have one here, she bases 10-20% of your grade on neatness. This is an absurd demand especially since with the kids outside the window I can barely stay sane, let alone color inside the lines.
Parts of the school function as virtually an extended daycare while the older students are trying to prepare for college. I'm not sure how the students in Segundo de Bachillerato (senior year students) are able to focus on the teacher, much less a piece of paper when Carebears are running the hallway and anarchists have overthrown the tyranny of 'quiet time.' In addition there is very little choice in course selection because of the small class size. So instead of getting all elective classes where everyone just slacks off I'm forced to take one of two preselected scheduals where some people are actually trying to learn. And more often than not their learning gets in the way of my slacking off, they go to the front and inconsideratly explain math question to the class while I'm trying to read my crime novel. And the school really isn't catering to my daily naps.
But you know, it could be worse. I could have taken an exchange year last year, then it would have counted for credit, and I would have had to do the homework instead of staring at it for a moment before deciding I don't understand. So the school isn't that bad, provided I never have to learn anything there.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Key memories
I'm on the fifth floor of the apartment building. Each morning my host siblings and I take the elevator down to walk to the school bus, but I have started taking the stairs when I'm by myself for the exercise. Today I am taking a walk, it's Saturday, and my host parents are gone for the weekend it is just me and my host brother holding down the fort. I recognize rugs and flowers on each floor as I climb the stairs to my year long home. One of the apartments on the fourth floor has an animal skin rug in front of their door, I can't indentify the animal but I feel uncomfortable walking over it's sad face. I silently judge the people who live behind that door everytime I pass by it. I hold my keys in my hand, the building is always locked and the apartment auto locks so after unlocking the ground floor outside door I keep my keys out for the apartment.
Saturday is my day to take out Lesca, the family dog. She is a german shepard and amazingly nice and obedient. I wake up fairly early and say good bye to my host parents, they ask how the movie was that I saw the night before. El red social, or The social network, is a movie about the creator a Facebook and all the problems he went through getting the website going. I enjoyed it but all the characters spoke ridiculously fast and on complicated topics like copyrights and liability. A lot went over my head and I think I'll have to watch it again when I get back to the U.S. My host parents leave and I start reading "Sin Blanca en Paris y Londres," by George Orwell. In almost every sentace there is a word I have to look up and reading a page takes around a half hour. It's a lot of work but recently has been getting better, at the start almost every other word would require flipping through English-Español translations and I found very little enjoyment in reading but devoted a great effort into the dictionary in the hopes I would learn the language quicker. If I had worked this hard in school back in the U.S I might be going to Harvard or Yale next year, so maybe I'm learning better work effort over here, I blame my old high school for the lack of motivation they instilled in me. I actually know what was different between my study efforts here versus my efforts back home and I can pinpoint exactly where Fairport went wrong motivation wise, pretty girls. Yep, a 100 percent on a math test looks nice but it does nothing to make you more attractive to the opposite sex. Here, if I don't study, girls write me off as a bumbling idiot and move on to someone else who has a vocabulary better than a seven year old.
After some studying I call my family on Skype for the first time in the month and 1/2 that I've been here. We talk for about a half hour during which time my host brother leaves to go to a football match, he says he'll be back around nine. The computer here has a camera but no microphone, so for a minute or so my parents and I play an international game of charades until they call me on my cell phone. Since Alison is not home I promise to call them back later and hang up barely able to contain my excitment. It seems so amazing to be able to see my house and hear my family when they are halfway around the world. I grab Lesca's leash and hitch it up to her, my plan is to take her out then have some food and then surf the web, by that time I might be able to call my family again. I only have about two hours to kill between 4:30 and 6:30 my time but I know it will feel like forever. I'm trying to make a timeline in my mind when I close the door, suddenly the whole timeline falls apart. Lesca goes to the elevator and I turn around towards the door, I push it and shake it back and forth. It's locked, I don't have a key. To calm down I give myself a slap to the face and decide that someone probably has an extra key and I can just find them and talk to them. With my new plan in line I head downstairs and out the front door. I hit my face a second time, I'm now locked out of the building. I take Lesca for a short walk and come back to the door, I start trying floors on the intercom. Fifth floor, no answer; forth floor, no answer, ground floor, "Digame." I take a breath and put on my pitiful voice. I try to sound as lost and scared and humiliated as possible, "Soy un intercambio de los Estados Unidos. Vivo con César y Sophie." I stutter and sigh in a very believeable performance as lost, scared, child. For those of you who are wondering, I have very little dignity, my honor means nothing if I'm stuck somewhere and will miss my family's call. The door unlocks, I sounded pitiful enough. I run up to the fifth floor and start checking under plants and mats in the hallway for an extra key, no luck. My next plan is to find my host dad's body gaurds, I think one lives upstairs because I see him coming down everyday. His apartment is empty, I go across the hall and knock to find a man who I have never seen before, the pitiful voice returns. He directs me to the forth floor and the buildings owner, I stand on the animal skin waiting for the door to open.
It turns out two older folk own the building and have an apartment that was importated straight from American old-person sterotypes. Plates are set up as art on the wall, shelves are full of glasses and silverware that have cleary never been used but are simply trophies old people take from one another when they win bingo or their other favorite game, compare our children and grandchildren, if you old parents or grandparents don't have a lot of pretty, but ultimately useless, table settings, you should start looking for a new job, after all the pride of your elder is at stake and they don't have any bingo talent. There is also the sterotypical old people couch, decorative pillows and quilts are so abundant that sitting on it is impossible but they will invite for you to sit down, always. I'm sitting on the couch and I get to know the pair through my increased Spanish vocabulary. After about thirty minutes and some phone calls the man tells me that there is one more person who has a key, Maria. She is the house keeper and will be at the train station at 7:30 it is currently 7:00, so I have missed my family but there is another adventure waiting for me. It takes me fifteen minutes on a leisurely bike ride to get to the train station. I'm don't have a bike, and I am in charge of Lesca, and there are clocks all around the city counting down my time left. This is every adventure movie I have ever seen, so I start off at a run, I have to get to the station before the orcs kill the king. Lesca does not seem to understand the urgency of our mission, she gets distracted by other dogs on our run and chases after them forcing me to pull her back on the route. She fails to understand the urgency of reaching the cure in time. I feel fit and strong, I have been running 10k recently for exercise and the distance doesn't tire me out. I reach the station with five minutes to spare, the movie ends anti climatically with a clear margin of victory. I meet up with Maria and forget for a moment why I ran all the way to the train station, there were no Russians importing meth, why on earth would... oh yeah. I take the keys and begin the long walk home. I Skype with my family for an hour and César gets home at around ten.
When my host parents get back the next day I tell them the whole story. They take it in good humor but when I tell them stuff like this always happens to me the mood changes. They offer to buy me a keyring-necklace so I will always have them. I refuse. After all I would rather be running all around town with a dog than look like a person who wouldn't remember something as clearly necessary as keys.
Saturday is my day to take out Lesca, the family dog. She is a german shepard and amazingly nice and obedient. I wake up fairly early and say good bye to my host parents, they ask how the movie was that I saw the night before. El red social, or The social network, is a movie about the creator a Facebook and all the problems he went through getting the website going. I enjoyed it but all the characters spoke ridiculously fast and on complicated topics like copyrights and liability. A lot went over my head and I think I'll have to watch it again when I get back to the U.S. My host parents leave and I start reading "Sin Blanca en Paris y Londres," by George Orwell. In almost every sentace there is a word I have to look up and reading a page takes around a half hour. It's a lot of work but recently has been getting better, at the start almost every other word would require flipping through English-Español translations and I found very little enjoyment in reading but devoted a great effort into the dictionary in the hopes I would learn the language quicker. If I had worked this hard in school back in the U.S I might be going to Harvard or Yale next year, so maybe I'm learning better work effort over here, I blame my old high school for the lack of motivation they instilled in me. I actually know what was different between my study efforts here versus my efforts back home and I can pinpoint exactly where Fairport went wrong motivation wise, pretty girls. Yep, a 100 percent on a math test looks nice but it does nothing to make you more attractive to the opposite sex. Here, if I don't study, girls write me off as a bumbling idiot and move on to someone else who has a vocabulary better than a seven year old.
After some studying I call my family on Skype for the first time in the month and 1/2 that I've been here. We talk for about a half hour during which time my host brother leaves to go to a football match, he says he'll be back around nine. The computer here has a camera but no microphone, so for a minute or so my parents and I play an international game of charades until they call me on my cell phone. Since Alison is not home I promise to call them back later and hang up barely able to contain my excitment. It seems so amazing to be able to see my house and hear my family when they are halfway around the world. I grab Lesca's leash and hitch it up to her, my plan is to take her out then have some food and then surf the web, by that time I might be able to call my family again. I only have about two hours to kill between 4:30 and 6:30 my time but I know it will feel like forever. I'm trying to make a timeline in my mind when I close the door, suddenly the whole timeline falls apart. Lesca goes to the elevator and I turn around towards the door, I push it and shake it back and forth. It's locked, I don't have a key. To calm down I give myself a slap to the face and decide that someone probably has an extra key and I can just find them and talk to them. With my new plan in line I head downstairs and out the front door. I hit my face a second time, I'm now locked out of the building. I take Lesca for a short walk and come back to the door, I start trying floors on the intercom. Fifth floor, no answer; forth floor, no answer, ground floor, "Digame." I take a breath and put on my pitiful voice. I try to sound as lost and scared and humiliated as possible, "Soy un intercambio de los Estados Unidos. Vivo con César y Sophie." I stutter and sigh in a very believeable performance as lost, scared, child. For those of you who are wondering, I have very little dignity, my honor means nothing if I'm stuck somewhere and will miss my family's call. The door unlocks, I sounded pitiful enough. I run up to the fifth floor and start checking under plants and mats in the hallway for an extra key, no luck. My next plan is to find my host dad's body gaurds, I think one lives upstairs because I see him coming down everyday. His apartment is empty, I go across the hall and knock to find a man who I have never seen before, the pitiful voice returns. He directs me to the forth floor and the buildings owner, I stand on the animal skin waiting for the door to open.
It turns out two older folk own the building and have an apartment that was importated straight from American old-person sterotypes. Plates are set up as art on the wall, shelves are full of glasses and silverware that have cleary never been used but are simply trophies old people take from one another when they win bingo or their other favorite game, compare our children and grandchildren, if you old parents or grandparents don't have a lot of pretty, but ultimately useless, table settings, you should start looking for a new job, after all the pride of your elder is at stake and they don't have any bingo talent. There is also the sterotypical old people couch, decorative pillows and quilts are so abundant that sitting on it is impossible but they will invite for you to sit down, always. I'm sitting on the couch and I get to know the pair through my increased Spanish vocabulary. After about thirty minutes and some phone calls the man tells me that there is one more person who has a key, Maria. She is the house keeper and will be at the train station at 7:30 it is currently 7:00, so I have missed my family but there is another adventure waiting for me. It takes me fifteen minutes on a leisurely bike ride to get to the train station. I'm don't have a bike, and I am in charge of Lesca, and there are clocks all around the city counting down my time left. This is every adventure movie I have ever seen, so I start off at a run, I have to get to the station before the orcs kill the king. Lesca does not seem to understand the urgency of our mission, she gets distracted by other dogs on our run and chases after them forcing me to pull her back on the route. She fails to understand the urgency of reaching the cure in time. I feel fit and strong, I have been running 10k recently for exercise and the distance doesn't tire me out. I reach the station with five minutes to spare, the movie ends anti climatically with a clear margin of victory. I meet up with Maria and forget for a moment why I ran all the way to the train station, there were no Russians importing meth, why on earth would... oh yeah. I take the keys and begin the long walk home. I Skype with my family for an hour and César gets home at around ten.
When my host parents get back the next day I tell them the whole story. They take it in good humor but when I tell them stuff like this always happens to me the mood changes. They offer to buy me a keyring-necklace so I will always have them. I refuse. After all I would rather be running all around town with a dog than look like a person who wouldn't remember something as clearly necessary as keys.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Just another country
When I first saw San Sebastian on Google images I thought that there was no way I was so lucky. If you have not seen my city yet Google it and then stare at the beaches for several minutes in jealous envy. When you're done hating me for my luck, and your lack of plans to visit me in paradise, remember this, living here is just like anywhere else. From family to school, it is all universal.
This past weekend was the long weekend known as Puente. We ate junk food during the six hour car ride so that we could make it faster; the time in transit was largely spent sleeping or trying to sleep. We arrive in the province of Tarragona on friday and the next day the extended family arrives in force. Aunts, uncles, cousins, 2nd counsins, I don't even hear half the names and I remember less than a quarter. I get some odd looks from family memebers who I'm not introduced to. There is a huge comida de familia and the upwards of forty family members get together to eat and drink and get reaquainted with long lost relatives. Fortunately I don't make too much of a fool of myself on the first day, I get through the family lunch without missing my mouth once. That is a huge accomplishment for me considering we had chicken and I have an almost insatiable desire to eat that particular dish with my fingers and always end up catching it with my chin. I just can't help myself, the chicken just begs to be eaten with one hand and smeared over the face (Grab skinny part with hand, shove fat part towards mouth, repeat, ignore broth spillage). Over the course of the weekend I get to know another American who is staying with my host dad's brother's family. We share stories about where we're from and crazy occurences with the family, such as when the grandma had taken a shower in the middle of the night and my fellow American ran into the eighty year old woman who was wearing nothing but the folds of her skin. The weekend finishes with a family dinner to celebrate a birthday. During the two hours of the dinner I find out for sure a fact which I had only previously guessed on. My host mother is indeed, a self-joker. I don't understand the conversation very well but I can tell everyone is having a great time and laughing together. Almost everyone is contributing a small amount, but the conversation is dominated by one of the uncles. I think everyone is okay with the uncle taking care of the speaking because he seems to enjoy it and is apparently very funny. Then my host mom jumps in with her comment which she finds so funny she can barely get it out because of the fits of laughter she is in. When the joke is finally told I can't understand what was said but I can tell it was awkward. No one else builds off what she said, the conversation is instantly dead. There is silence except for her labored breathing trying to refill her lungs so she can continue to laugh at her hilarity. Over the course of the weekend some uncles get drunk and some barely talk, some cousins play and some cry, this family is just like any other.
Back to San Sebastian for school the next day. I am sitting in Geografía reading a Spanish to English dictionary (As if my brain doesn't hurt enough already. The teacher comes around to look at homework, I thought Spain was more laid back but everystudent has their HW everyday, it truly amazes me. She gets to me and I take out the labled map of the European union. She looks at it for a moment, from what I can understand she says my handwriting is garbage, which is understandable, teachers said the same thing in the States. I expect she'll ask me to clean it up for next time, and I won't because the map is for my benefit anyways and if I can read the writing who cares. Apparently she cares, the teacher retrives another blank map and puts it in front of me. She wants it redone with color. Again I flashback to the U.S, I thought I was done with coloring assignments when I got past elementary school, and then when I finished Middle school, and when I graduated I thought for sure I must be done with crayons and colored pencils. I look her in the eyes, she isn't joking. Why the hell would I do a coloring project when this year doesn't matter for me and I won't learn anything from it? I sit at home at a desk coloring my map. It looks better and neater, maybe a normal person could read it, I still think it looks like crap. I could spend more time forming each letter and filling in the white with color, it could look like an acutal map, I have seen kids who have outlines of the countires in dark shades and filled them in with lighter ones. I could spend an hour and make my map look near perfect. But when has color been important, "I'm sorry Mister Obama, we like all the policies and investments, but couldn't you have added a little flair... clip art, color, anything." I could do something that matters more than make my European Union look beautiful, like write my blog, watch the news, study Spanish, drink out of the toilet, read a book, zone out and stare at a plain surface while my mind goes blank, drop something on my toes. Anything.
I'm proud of the map I end up making but I shouldn't be, there has to be a better way to learn than coloring, but I like the way my map looks. A long weekend with the family and a day at school were all it took to remind that I really haven't moved that far from Rochester. People are the same, they are universal, self-jokers and teachers with coloring assignments are universal. The only thing that's really changed, that I really need to learn, is a language. So on that note I leave you, I have to go lap up toilet water.
This past weekend was the long weekend known as Puente. We ate junk food during the six hour car ride so that we could make it faster; the time in transit was largely spent sleeping or trying to sleep. We arrive in the province of Tarragona on friday and the next day the extended family arrives in force. Aunts, uncles, cousins, 2nd counsins, I don't even hear half the names and I remember less than a quarter. I get some odd looks from family memebers who I'm not introduced to. There is a huge comida de familia and the upwards of forty family members get together to eat and drink and get reaquainted with long lost relatives. Fortunately I don't make too much of a fool of myself on the first day, I get through the family lunch without missing my mouth once. That is a huge accomplishment for me considering we had chicken and I have an almost insatiable desire to eat that particular dish with my fingers and always end up catching it with my chin. I just can't help myself, the chicken just begs to be eaten with one hand and smeared over the face (Grab skinny part with hand, shove fat part towards mouth, repeat, ignore broth spillage). Over the course of the weekend I get to know another American who is staying with my host dad's brother's family. We share stories about where we're from and crazy occurences with the family, such as when the grandma had taken a shower in the middle of the night and my fellow American ran into the eighty year old woman who was wearing nothing but the folds of her skin. The weekend finishes with a family dinner to celebrate a birthday. During the two hours of the dinner I find out for sure a fact which I had only previously guessed on. My host mother is indeed, a self-joker. I don't understand the conversation very well but I can tell everyone is having a great time and laughing together. Almost everyone is contributing a small amount, but the conversation is dominated by one of the uncles. I think everyone is okay with the uncle taking care of the speaking because he seems to enjoy it and is apparently very funny. Then my host mom jumps in with her comment which she finds so funny she can barely get it out because of the fits of laughter she is in. When the joke is finally told I can't understand what was said but I can tell it was awkward. No one else builds off what she said, the conversation is instantly dead. There is silence except for her labored breathing trying to refill her lungs so she can continue to laugh at her hilarity. Over the course of the weekend some uncles get drunk and some barely talk, some cousins play and some cry, this family is just like any other.
Back to San Sebastian for school the next day. I am sitting in Geografía reading a Spanish to English dictionary (As if my brain doesn't hurt enough already. The teacher comes around to look at homework, I thought Spain was more laid back but everystudent has their HW everyday, it truly amazes me. She gets to me and I take out the labled map of the European union. She looks at it for a moment, from what I can understand she says my handwriting is garbage, which is understandable, teachers said the same thing in the States. I expect she'll ask me to clean it up for next time, and I won't because the map is for my benefit anyways and if I can read the writing who cares. Apparently she cares, the teacher retrives another blank map and puts it in front of me. She wants it redone with color. Again I flashback to the U.S, I thought I was done with coloring assignments when I got past elementary school, and then when I finished Middle school, and when I graduated I thought for sure I must be done with crayons and colored pencils. I look her in the eyes, she isn't joking. Why the hell would I do a coloring project when this year doesn't matter for me and I won't learn anything from it? I sit at home at a desk coloring my map. It looks better and neater, maybe a normal person could read it, I still think it looks like crap. I could spend more time forming each letter and filling in the white with color, it could look like an acutal map, I have seen kids who have outlines of the countires in dark shades and filled them in with lighter ones. I could spend an hour and make my map look near perfect. But when has color been important, "I'm sorry Mister Obama, we like all the policies and investments, but couldn't you have added a little flair... clip art, color, anything." I could do something that matters more than make my European Union look beautiful, like write my blog, watch the news, study Spanish, drink out of the toilet, read a book, zone out and stare at a plain surface while my mind goes blank, drop something on my toes. Anything.
I'm proud of the map I end up making but I shouldn't be, there has to be a better way to learn than coloring, but I like the way my map looks. A long weekend with the family and a day at school were all it took to remind that I really haven't moved that far from Rochester. People are the same, they are universal, self-jokers and teachers with coloring assignments are universal. The only thing that's really changed, that I really need to learn, is a language. So on that note I leave you, I have to go lap up toilet water.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
A little strange
Kids here roam the streets freely. They don't have the fears that have built up in the United States with all the violence and kidnappings present in cities. Five and six year olds wander the sidewalks and create games to entertain themselves, they kick around soccer balls and run races with no authority figure in sight. One of my favorite games I have seen so far involves golf clubs a tennis ball and a goal constructed with garbage cans. The kids whack the ball, hockey style, with the golf clubs toward the goal which is invariably gaurded by the smallest child. Of course this is played on the sidewalk and street and the clubs sometimes hit the ground with a surprising force. I like to call the game "Don't let dad find out," and I bet it is usually followed by a rousing round of "Hide the Evidence." The kids I know better are no less strange.
My host sister reminds me in some ways of my sister at home, and in other ways not so much. Both my sisters are easily amused and by simply making funny noises I can send them both into laughing fits. Both my sisters pout and whine from time to time. At home it was not so bad with the strictly enforced anti-whining rule my mom created. The noise of high pitched complaints just seemed to push a button in her, specifically the button that turned her evil. My sister and I learned not to whine too often, my sister had more lapses in judgement than I did so she took the majority of my mom's venom but it was never bad. In my new home there is no anti-whining rule and I can clearly see why my mom implemented one, I can barely understand the conversation my host parents are having with their daughter, but it's driving me insane. I think my mom installed the same button in me because it takes all my restraint to not say "NO, NO, No Hacerlo! NO Grima!" My sister here is also much more eccentric than my sister back home. I'm not saying that my real sister isn't strange, she plays with her dolls by holding them at arms length and then has what I can only describe as an imagination seizure. We watch her shaking and holding her doll, but we have no real idea what's going on. My sister here prefers to have fun by sneaking out of her room dressed as bat man and hiding somewhere in the apartment. She then spys on the family, myself included, from the most obvious hiding places. I'm not sure why she has to be in disguise to spy on us but I play along, it's fun sometimes. Ninty percent of the time I love both my sisters, but I cannot take whining.
School has to be one of the strangest changes, specifically what they find funny. I mean the jokes are still along the same lines, namely straight guys (presumably) pretending to be gay, but they are on a whole different level. Three or four guys will gang up on this one guy who's from Morocco. They drag him onto a table, pull his shirt up, and start tickling him. He laughs like crazy and tries to push them away but there are too many. I can't help myself from laughing the first time but there is some value in it I just can't see that the other guys all seem to get. Somehow I think this might be the cutting edge of teenage male humor and I'm just too old fashioned. My host brother doesn't get involved either, we don't hang out much in school, but on the weekends we hang out sometimes.
This past weekend I was body surfing with my host brother. The waves were monstrous and crashed all at once, catching them was nearly impossible and in the hour we spent there I never got one. What did happen was I got thrown over and around by a series of really bad waves. For body surfing we have to wear flippers otherwise it is impossible to move around in the water. I hate flippers, because when close enough into land to touch you still can't walk, so I am only up to my chest in water but I can't get in any further because of my damn flippers. Another wave breaks over me and pulls the board out of my hands, fortunately the board is attached to my hand, unfortunately it's on my right arm. The same arm that I have dislocated twice, I'm face down underwater and I feel the joint pulling. I know what's about to happen and I can't stop it because my board is still being pulled away by the wave. My arm separates and hangs in front of me, it does not hurt as much as other times, but that is probably because I'm numbed by the cold water. I'm still holding my breath, my feet hurt from the cheap plastic flippers, I can't swim with my arm. I am not very concerned with drowning for the fifteen seconds that my arm is dislocated and I don't know why not. To end the terrible suspense I will say that I did not drown. I was able to relocate my shoulder with the help of my left arm. Now I start the annoying process of rebuilding the muscle that was destroyed, but that won't stop me from enjoying this city, this country, this year. I'm going to do what I feel like, and my body is going to have to deal with it, but first I'm going to burn those flippers.
My host sister reminds me in some ways of my sister at home, and in other ways not so much. Both my sisters are easily amused and by simply making funny noises I can send them both into laughing fits. Both my sisters pout and whine from time to time. At home it was not so bad with the strictly enforced anti-whining rule my mom created. The noise of high pitched complaints just seemed to push a button in her, specifically the button that turned her evil. My sister and I learned not to whine too often, my sister had more lapses in judgement than I did so she took the majority of my mom's venom but it was never bad. In my new home there is no anti-whining rule and I can clearly see why my mom implemented one, I can barely understand the conversation my host parents are having with their daughter, but it's driving me insane. I think my mom installed the same button in me because it takes all my restraint to not say "NO, NO, No Hacerlo! NO Grima!" My sister here is also much more eccentric than my sister back home. I'm not saying that my real sister isn't strange, she plays with her dolls by holding them at arms length and then has what I can only describe as an imagination seizure. We watch her shaking and holding her doll, but we have no real idea what's going on. My sister here prefers to have fun by sneaking out of her room dressed as bat man and hiding somewhere in the apartment. She then spys on the family, myself included, from the most obvious hiding places. I'm not sure why she has to be in disguise to spy on us but I play along, it's fun sometimes. Ninty percent of the time I love both my sisters, but I cannot take whining.
School has to be one of the strangest changes, specifically what they find funny. I mean the jokes are still along the same lines, namely straight guys (presumably) pretending to be gay, but they are on a whole different level. Three or four guys will gang up on this one guy who's from Morocco. They drag him onto a table, pull his shirt up, and start tickling him. He laughs like crazy and tries to push them away but there are too many. I can't help myself from laughing the first time but there is some value in it I just can't see that the other guys all seem to get. Somehow I think this might be the cutting edge of teenage male humor and I'm just too old fashioned. My host brother doesn't get involved either, we don't hang out much in school, but on the weekends we hang out sometimes.
This past weekend I was body surfing with my host brother. The waves were monstrous and crashed all at once, catching them was nearly impossible and in the hour we spent there I never got one. What did happen was I got thrown over and around by a series of really bad waves. For body surfing we have to wear flippers otherwise it is impossible to move around in the water. I hate flippers, because when close enough into land to touch you still can't walk, so I am only up to my chest in water but I can't get in any further because of my damn flippers. Another wave breaks over me and pulls the board out of my hands, fortunately the board is attached to my hand, unfortunately it's on my right arm. The same arm that I have dislocated twice, I'm face down underwater and I feel the joint pulling. I know what's about to happen and I can't stop it because my board is still being pulled away by the wave. My arm separates and hangs in front of me, it does not hurt as much as other times, but that is probably because I'm numbed by the cold water. I'm still holding my breath, my feet hurt from the cheap plastic flippers, I can't swim with my arm. I am not very concerned with drowning for the fifteen seconds that my arm is dislocated and I don't know why not. To end the terrible suspense I will say that I did not drown. I was able to relocate my shoulder with the help of my left arm. Now I start the annoying process of rebuilding the muscle that was destroyed, but that won't stop me from enjoying this city, this country, this year. I'm going to do what I feel like, and my body is going to have to deal with it, but first I'm going to burn those flippers.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Fitness
In San Sebastían there are normally three paths for major streets. One for people who are walking, another for people who are biking or jogging, and of course the road for people insane enough to drive in Europe. I have been in cars here but I would never drive because the roadways are too wild. Also I can't drive stick and there are almost zero automatics here, but mostly because of some insane driving tactics I've seen. A week ago on my bus drive to Madrid we were sitting at a red light and an old man began to cross in front of us. The light turned green but the old man was slow getting across the road so in order to help him along the bus driver decided it was a good idea to ease onto the gas and give the man a little nudge. I freaked out along with the rest of the front two rows and the old man started shaking his cane at the bus driver the rest of the way across. Same bus ride a few hours later we are maneuvering through some smaller streets, there are parked cars on both sides and barely enough room to sneak through. Our bus driver gets stuck but has another brilliant idea, we can back up, so he does, right into a parked car. Everyone on the bus hears the crunch of metal and glass, we look to see the damage but we are too close to see anything. A coffee shop begins to empty as people come to see what caused the noise and from their faces I can tell that it is bad. So in another moment of rapid thought the bus driver guns it and we pull away hoping that no one caught our liscense plate. So I've decided to take my chance with pick pockets on the sidewalk, as long as I don't have to worry about bus drivers.
The biking and walking paths are fantastic: spacious, well maintained, and almost everyone is considerate enough to pee onto small patches of grass besides the sidewalk. I'm told public urination is strictly illegal, but the reality looks like it is illegal if it is noon and you're sober, otherwise go for it. On Fridays and Saturdays the bushes are packed from midnight to three in the morning, I guess the bathrooms are just to stuffy, real freedom is the feeling you get from looking up at the stars and relieving yourself all over your passed out buddy. Outside might be a better option for those who have been drinking, I mean they're going to miss their target if it is something as small as a toilet bowl, and that only makes it more difficult for the sober ones. So I say we get the indoor bathrooms and the drunks can go where ever they want, as long as I don't have to walk through it. And normally I don't, everyone pretty much obeys the rule of pee away from innoncent bystanders, so the walking and running is fantastic. I have a 10 km path that goes around a mountain, in front of the city, and past all three beaches. I have taken this path about four times in three weeks and it feels fantastic, I can't make the full distance at a continuous run but I'm getting closer. The three beaches are a must for anyone planning to run long distance, the women (and men, for my female runners) on the beaches are gorgeous and help you forget the burning sensation in your legs. My host mom does the same run I do about twice a week, and she usually does it in less time. She goes mornings and I do afternoons so we never meet up, but she is faster, but what do I care, I have other ways to stay in shape, I can't just be running all the time.
Another way I've been keeping in shape has been tricking on the beach. The sand is a little harder to take off from because it isn't as hard as dirt but it's soft to land on so I don't have any complaints. The only problem I've been having is the lack of privacy on these darn public beaches. When you are able to do a flip or other tricks it looks amazingly cool, but when learning flips, kicks, and other jumps it looks like you have a severe mental disorder. I don't know how my failed attempts look but I do know that if I had landed on my feet I would not have so much sand in my bathing suit at the end of my practices. So when I'm surrounded by people who I have never met, lying on my back, covered in wet sand, a normal person would get a little self concious but I'm not normal. Instead I love the attention and the people trying to emulate me. Of course there are other people who are also practicing gymnastics or martial arts or whatever on the beaches but I have a very logical system of dealing with them in an egotistical way that keeps me happy. If they are better than me then they are jerks showing off and should be practicing some where else, but if they're worse then I have inspired them to try and do what I'm doing because of how good I look.
Another place I've found is a gym with a good work out room, not as exciting as the others, but important none the less. The only problem is that it is in a martial arts center and is used as their hangout. This creates trouble for me because first, they are all pumped up, adreneline high, potential agressive individuals, the second problem is, they are all a lot stronger than I am. The only attention I get in the gym is when the muscle bums make fun of me in Spanish behind my back. I have never seem them doing it but I know it happens. I doubt the jokes are very good because these guys' brains can't be working to well in the first place, "This heavy object looks like it needs to be lifted then put back down in the exact same place." These guys could be down practicing Judo or karate to build their muscle mass if there weren't all these heavy objects to be lifted, plus they have to make fun of me. I'm not paranoid or anything, but when I walk in I know they change the subject and avert their glances, but they talk I'm telling you, "Look at skinny American boy, he look like he have not to be working out very often, jajajaja". Their brains get very little blood. But also in the gym are my host father and brother both do Judo. They are both black belts and my brother also plays on a soccer team some days after school! I can't believe how physically fit this family, not to mention the country, is. I'm used to being one of the most fit people around, but I guess that's all relative, I'll feel better about myself when I move back to the U.S, for now there are heavy objects to be lifted.
The biking and walking paths are fantastic: spacious, well maintained, and almost everyone is considerate enough to pee onto small patches of grass besides the sidewalk. I'm told public urination is strictly illegal, but the reality looks like it is illegal if it is noon and you're sober, otherwise go for it. On Fridays and Saturdays the bushes are packed from midnight to three in the morning, I guess the bathrooms are just to stuffy, real freedom is the feeling you get from looking up at the stars and relieving yourself all over your passed out buddy. Outside might be a better option for those who have been drinking, I mean they're going to miss their target if it is something as small as a toilet bowl, and that only makes it more difficult for the sober ones. So I say we get the indoor bathrooms and the drunks can go where ever they want, as long as I don't have to walk through it. And normally I don't, everyone pretty much obeys the rule of pee away from innoncent bystanders, so the walking and running is fantastic. I have a 10 km path that goes around a mountain, in front of the city, and past all three beaches. I have taken this path about four times in three weeks and it feels fantastic, I can't make the full distance at a continuous run but I'm getting closer. The three beaches are a must for anyone planning to run long distance, the women (and men, for my female runners) on the beaches are gorgeous and help you forget the burning sensation in your legs. My host mom does the same run I do about twice a week, and she usually does it in less time. She goes mornings and I do afternoons so we never meet up, but she is faster, but what do I care, I have other ways to stay in shape, I can't just be running all the time.
Another way I've been keeping in shape has been tricking on the beach. The sand is a little harder to take off from because it isn't as hard as dirt but it's soft to land on so I don't have any complaints. The only problem I've been having is the lack of privacy on these darn public beaches. When you are able to do a flip or other tricks it looks amazingly cool, but when learning flips, kicks, and other jumps it looks like you have a severe mental disorder. I don't know how my failed attempts look but I do know that if I had landed on my feet I would not have so much sand in my bathing suit at the end of my practices. So when I'm surrounded by people who I have never met, lying on my back, covered in wet sand, a normal person would get a little self concious but I'm not normal. Instead I love the attention and the people trying to emulate me. Of course there are other people who are also practicing gymnastics or martial arts or whatever on the beaches but I have a very logical system of dealing with them in an egotistical way that keeps me happy. If they are better than me then they are jerks showing off and should be practicing some where else, but if they're worse then I have inspired them to try and do what I'm doing because of how good I look.
Another place I've found is a gym with a good work out room, not as exciting as the others, but important none the less. The only problem is that it is in a martial arts center and is used as their hangout. This creates trouble for me because first, they are all pumped up, adreneline high, potential agressive individuals, the second problem is, they are all a lot stronger than I am. The only attention I get in the gym is when the muscle bums make fun of me in Spanish behind my back. I have never seem them doing it but I know it happens. I doubt the jokes are very good because these guys' brains can't be working to well in the first place, "This heavy object looks like it needs to be lifted then put back down in the exact same place." These guys could be down practicing Judo or karate to build their muscle mass if there weren't all these heavy objects to be lifted, plus they have to make fun of me. I'm not paranoid or anything, but when I walk in I know they change the subject and avert their glances, but they talk I'm telling you, "Look at skinny American boy, he look like he have not to be working out very often, jajajaja". Their brains get very little blood. But also in the gym are my host father and brother both do Judo. They are both black belts and my brother also plays on a soccer team some days after school! I can't believe how physically fit this family, not to mention the country, is. I'm used to being one of the most fit people around, but I guess that's all relative, I'll feel better about myself when I move back to the U.S, for now there are heavy objects to be lifted.
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