People make rash decisions without thinking, that's just a fact. But if something is done habitually, or with considerable forethought there is usually some form of thought process that went into the choice no matter how misguided the information was. Sometimes logic is so terribly wrong that I just wish my face would melt off, this can happen if I am forced to babysit a whiney child, or listen to a Joe Liberman interview (I admit, I sometimes listen to quotes of his just to make myself feel better). But no matter what blather I'm hearing there is always some form of explination, like a child screaming for candy, or a man selling out his beliefs for a paycheck. Sure it gets annoying, but in the end there is a desire or requirement behind the action. But I'm coming to find that logic is not universal. Spain operates on a different standard. Sure they function on some of the same factors of desire and necessity as the United States, but there is another player in the decision making process here. And I can only describe that player like this. Meh. The incomprable idea of laziness and/or impatience to make decisions is present in the United States but here it is a way of life. Many prime examples of this exist in my day to day existence.
Walking down streets on the weekend presents a multitude of examples of Spanish logic. There is, of course, men taking a whiz on the sidewalk aiming towards buildings, because the bathroom is just too darn inconvenient. In addition to not having enough places to relieve themselves Spaniards need more places to drive their cars. Just like revealing the one eyed trouser snake (Scientific name) in public is illegal so is double parking... well unless it's just going to take a minute. Cars are routinely left in the center of one lane roads while the owner goes inside to a local store to grab a bite to eat or quick beer, because what's conducting a two ton automobile without a little fermented fun juice in your blood vessels? The only people who can pass these impromptu road blocks are the ones on mopeds, and here they are everywhere. Motorcycles and scooters provide a mobility and gas effciency that would make the logic of owning one brilliant, but again the Spanish can't wait even with those vehicals. When roads get too crowded mopeds hop up onto the sidewalk and drive a couple hundred yards till they can return to the road, or reach their destination. But no matter what vehical someone is driving, if they are in Spain, the red light is viewed as more a recommendation than an actual rule. Because for a few seconds when the green light goes off for one lane everyone has a red light, so that means no one would be driving, so here they take advantage of that fact by continuing to drive. I see no potential problems with that, unless of course people going different directions have the same logic. I have only been in a car four times since arriving here, and for that I am glad.
After the weekend I'm waiting outside in forty degree (Farenheit) weather wearing shorts and a t-shirt. If I had known I would be out in the cold for more than thirty seconds I might have worn a jacket, but I was going to school, so being outside for half an hour was not part of my itinerary. I am, in fact, just outside the school's doors along with the entire rest of the shouting, crying, sleeping population of the student body. Not everyone is locked out of the school, on the contrary, some people are locked in the school. Students come to the doors looking like they have somehow gotten lost and spent the night in their cubby and now simply want to breath some fresh air. But they can't. Nope, in a great insight the school desided that not only would no students be allowed into the building before eight thirty, but if they some how do get inside, that is where they are going to stay. So we wait for a pair of men who arrive at eight thirty to unlock the double door, but now that it's open it should stay open all day... at least it would according to logic. Randomly throughout the day the doors are impassable. Teachers probably just want a break from dealing with ungrateful adolecents all day, so once the annoying little explitives are outside the teachers want to keep them there.
On other days when dealing with students gets to be too much the teachers take a different course of action. Rather than lock us out of the school, and out of their rooms, the professors decide that we can't annoy them if, they don't show up to work. Sometimes all my classmates and I are sitting in our classroom, waiting to start, for about twenty minutes, before we are informed that our teacher did not show up for that day and we have a free hour to do whatever we want. No substitute no alternative class or assembly, we just chill or, better yet, leave. Other days the teachers show up late which epitomizes Spanish logic, namely 'I'll get to it later.' If something is supposed to start at 11:30, like my surf lessons (more on those later), then they will start anywere between 11:30 and 12:00. Absolutly everything is run in a similar manner, except my host famliy. They are half French and half Politician, and thus do not function fully under the system of Spanish logic. They perfer events to start on time, and a regimented daily schdual, which is a shame, because I think I could really get used to Spanish logic. I'd give some reasons why, but I think I'll just get to it later.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Entertainment value
The economic problems in the United States have been dire, and we all got to know about this because of the great source of information we call 'The Media.' They have been willing to explain, in detail, every last horrible event that has happened to us, is happening to us, or has the slightest chance of possibly happening to us sometime in the future. And most of the time they can do it with that great air or superiority. "This is Richard Williams here with Channel eight news. Today I'm interviewing people who lost all their money to a sadistic pyramid scheme. Right now I'm here with Samantha Regents, she is one of those who has become poor and homeless after her savings were stolen. Sure the scam was pretty easy to spot but these people just weren't smart enough to double check their sources. They invested all their money without fully checking first where it was going and now they're poor. Did I mention ugly? Yeah ugly they're too... Sam, anything to add, or do you need me to speak slower?" Although I think the Media may exacerbate some of our problems.
So as I was saying before The Media cut me off; I think that the United States has a great potential to make money that we are not using. This source of revenue is our entertainment industry. In Spain I expected to see about half of everything on the T.V to be of American origin and then a healthy dose of Spanish originals. This is not the case. Almost everything I have seen or heard here has come from the shores on the other side of the Atlantic. In addition they have also adopted our ability to make almost every commercial sexist. If there is an ad featuring a sad woman, you can bet that a cleaning product will come around to make her happy, or at least a new innovation in cooking or child rearing. If a male is present in a commercial, there is only one guarantee, after using the advertised products he will be much more appealing, sexually, to women. Or it is a car commercial, the only up side is that they have yet to adopt our legal advertisements, I really don't need to hear again that I can sue the pants off a stranger because he rear ended me. Now, on the actual show front, it's true that there are some original creations of the cinema and T.V programming here, but they are few and usually of poor quality. For example there is a nationally revered film festival in my city, the San Sebastian film festival (points for creativity), where many movies of Spanish origin are aired. Some local theaters adopted these films for the length of the film festival, and I was excited when my host brother and a couple friends invited me out to the movies one night. I thought I was going to experience a Spanish work of art when we arrived at the theater and every movie it was showing was taken straight from the festival. My host brother did not have the same sentiments. I came to learn, from people checking the movies that were playing, that very few locals actually like the films brought in through their festival. Our little group decided that rather than watch one of these low budget, preachy, handycam films we would go all the way across the city to watch "The American."
The situation is virtually the same when it comes to T.V series. The Simpsons, Scrubs, American Dad, Spongebob, and other shows from America are the standard. Besides news channels the only popular T.V program I have seen over here is a drama about Spain in the 1500's. The name translates to "Red Eagle" and my host familiy here tapes every episode. I will admit, the show has its moments, times when the characters are well depicted and the situation is either emotionally moving, or hilarious, but it would not stand next to American dramas. But don't feel bad for Spain, they don't put nearly as much money into their entertainment industry: special effects pale, actors stumble, and plot lines have more budget friendly conflicts. So this is why I say we should start a sort of reverse tariff, tax other countries if they want to use our entertainment, all the way down to websites. I'm involved in a U.S based fantasy Basketball league here and the entire site is in English. Sure I've never played a fake draft before or really watched games, but the NBA is more popular than the Spanish league even amongst the Spanish, the league isn't so much for me to learn the culture, but rather earn some man points. Other ways to earn man points include getting females' phone number with all 7 digits and not using directions, ever. These are not to be confused with d-bag points which are primarily earned through fist pumping.
So I say that since we've invested so much money in our entertainment industry we should charge the rest of the world to use it. Every country is good at something and we have to embrace our skills, Germany has cars, Australia has surfboards, Japan has gameshows interspersed with truly demented and emotionally scarring horror movies, and we have the rest of entertainment. If my plan is adopted by congress, as I assume it will be, I just ask that you wait about eight months to implement it, losing Scrubs would be a severe blow for my Spanish education (I know almost every episode and therefore the direct translation for all the lines). When countries don't buy our shows we can always implement trade embargoes on other supplies, or if we're really REALLY serious, we could threaten a send over our lawyers and newscasters. The country would be on its knees in a matter of days.
So as I was saying before The Media cut me off; I think that the United States has a great potential to make money that we are not using. This source of revenue is our entertainment industry. In Spain I expected to see about half of everything on the T.V to be of American origin and then a healthy dose of Spanish originals. This is not the case. Almost everything I have seen or heard here has come from the shores on the other side of the Atlantic. In addition they have also adopted our ability to make almost every commercial sexist. If there is an ad featuring a sad woman, you can bet that a cleaning product will come around to make her happy, or at least a new innovation in cooking or child rearing. If a male is present in a commercial, there is only one guarantee, after using the advertised products he will be much more appealing, sexually, to women. Or it is a car commercial, the only up side is that they have yet to adopt our legal advertisements, I really don't need to hear again that I can sue the pants off a stranger because he rear ended me. Now, on the actual show front, it's true that there are some original creations of the cinema and T.V programming here, but they are few and usually of poor quality. For example there is a nationally revered film festival in my city, the San Sebastian film festival (points for creativity), where many movies of Spanish origin are aired. Some local theaters adopted these films for the length of the film festival, and I was excited when my host brother and a couple friends invited me out to the movies one night. I thought I was going to experience a Spanish work of art when we arrived at the theater and every movie it was showing was taken straight from the festival. My host brother did not have the same sentiments. I came to learn, from people checking the movies that were playing, that very few locals actually like the films brought in through their festival. Our little group decided that rather than watch one of these low budget, preachy, handycam films we would go all the way across the city to watch "The American."
The situation is virtually the same when it comes to T.V series. The Simpsons, Scrubs, American Dad, Spongebob, and other shows from America are the standard. Besides news channels the only popular T.V program I have seen over here is a drama about Spain in the 1500's. The name translates to "Red Eagle" and my host familiy here tapes every episode. I will admit, the show has its moments, times when the characters are well depicted and the situation is either emotionally moving, or hilarious, but it would not stand next to American dramas. But don't feel bad for Spain, they don't put nearly as much money into their entertainment industry: special effects pale, actors stumble, and plot lines have more budget friendly conflicts. So this is why I say we should start a sort of reverse tariff, tax other countries if they want to use our entertainment, all the way down to websites. I'm involved in a U.S based fantasy Basketball league here and the entire site is in English. Sure I've never played a fake draft before or really watched games, but the NBA is more popular than the Spanish league even amongst the Spanish, the league isn't so much for me to learn the culture, but rather earn some man points. Other ways to earn man points include getting females' phone number with all 7 digits and not using directions, ever. These are not to be confused with d-bag points which are primarily earned through fist pumping.
So I say that since we've invested so much money in our entertainment industry we should charge the rest of the world to use it. Every country is good at something and we have to embrace our skills, Germany has cars, Australia has surfboards, Japan has gameshows interspersed with truly demented and emotionally scarring horror movies, and we have the rest of entertainment. If my plan is adopted by congress, as I assume it will be, I just ask that you wait about eight months to implement it, losing Scrubs would be a severe blow for my Spanish education (I know almost every episode and therefore the direct translation for all the lines). When countries don't buy our shows we can always implement trade embargoes on other supplies, or if we're really REALLY serious, we could threaten a send over our lawyers and newscasters. The country would be on its knees in a matter of days.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Camera
I wish I could my camera all the time. Today for instance, I was just at the gym, thought I wouldn't need it. But I work out at a gym with ninja's. I don't mean to say these people are sneaky or have murderuos tendencies(because I'm not sure) I'm just saying they're ninjas. Today a man walked in with a Naginata, in case you're unsure, it looks badass. He sits down, and he starts on the rowing machine like he didn't just walk in with medieval japanese weapon. I don't think this is the most effective weapon in a fight, it's not discreet and does not shoot bullets as far as I know, but it's probably damn good at making sure fights don't happen. You don't mess with someone who looks like a warrior out of an Asian cartoon.
First picture in my blog, and I found it on the internet! But I assume if you read this you are probably friends with me on Facebook and can see the pictures I put up there, I upload them approximatly, whenever I feel like it. Although I will eventually get all my pictures up on Facebook at some point there will always be a great number of undocumented events I just forgot to bring my camera along for or tasks that my little powershot just can't handle.
One of the most annoying problems with my small picture taking device is that it likes to auto adjust to the lighting situation. What this means is that even when the photo is meant to be dark the camera tries to make it appear light with either a flash or a shutter speed of a second or more. So at night, or when I'm underground, all my pictures end up looking like a photo of the lock-ness monster because I can't use the flash on anything that's furthur away than a couple feet away.
But the main problem is that I'm just not patient enough to be a good photographer. That's not to say I give up on something when it gets too hard, on the contrary if I can progress little by little I will devote hours to an activity. But for me most great photos that aren't still lifes or landscapes require waiting in a location where it would be possible for a great picture to take place. Nothing happens and nothing happens and nothing happens, and then BAM all of a sudden, nothing happens. After about ten minutes I would give up, and as soon as I put away my camera there would be an amazing photo op that lasts for about three seconds. I find photography very frustrating. Like this one recent example, in San Sebastian the city is literally on the edge of the ocean, the only barrier is a break water and thirty foot high wall, but sometimes this is not enough to stop the water from getting over. A few days ago I was out for a run during a day of high waves, about one in ten would splash over the wall and spray salt water in my face. One wave was so large it sent a gyser forty feet in the air, well above the wall, and landed right on top of the only car on the road. Since I don't live in an action movie he did not fly off the road and explode, instead he just turned on his wipers and continued driving, forces of nature be damned.
If there is great demand I will start posting some select photos on the blog, but if you want to see pictures that bad, you're better off using a search engine. After all, Google doesn't miss the ninjas.
 | ||
| Don't make me go Anime on you |
One of the most annoying problems with my small picture taking device is that it likes to auto adjust to the lighting situation. What this means is that even when the photo is meant to be dark the camera tries to make it appear light with either a flash or a shutter speed of a second or more. So at night, or when I'm underground, all my pictures end up looking like a photo of the lock-ness monster because I can't use the flash on anything that's furthur away than a couple feet away.
But the main problem is that I'm just not patient enough to be a good photographer. That's not to say I give up on something when it gets too hard, on the contrary if I can progress little by little I will devote hours to an activity. But for me most great photos that aren't still lifes or landscapes require waiting in a location where it would be possible for a great picture to take place. Nothing happens and nothing happens and nothing happens, and then BAM all of a sudden, nothing happens. After about ten minutes I would give up, and as soon as I put away my camera there would be an amazing photo op that lasts for about three seconds. I find photography very frustrating. Like this one recent example, in San Sebastian the city is literally on the edge of the ocean, the only barrier is a break water and thirty foot high wall, but sometimes this is not enough to stop the water from getting over. A few days ago I was out for a run during a day of high waves, about one in ten would splash over the wall and spray salt water in my face. One wave was so large it sent a gyser forty feet in the air, well above the wall, and landed right on top of the only car on the road. Since I don't live in an action movie he did not fly off the road and explode, instead he just turned on his wipers and continued driving, forces of nature be damned.
If there is great demand I will start posting some select photos on the blog, but if you want to see pictures that bad, you're better off using a search engine. After all, Google doesn't miss the ninjas.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Prepared fresh and dairy products
My host dad likes to point out how healthy the Spanish way of life is compared to the American way of life. I'm in total agreement with him but it gets annoying after the after the 2nd or 19th time hearing the same statement, especially since I consider myself in pretty good shape. But there are some undeniable facts about the food and eating habits I've seen here that must contribute to Spain having less than half the obesity rate of the United States. Now this actually isn't an amazing accomplishment considering 90% of the countries in the world have an excess chubby rate less than half of the United States because we are rated the Number 1 country in the world. That's right, we win! Let's run a Victory Lap to celebrate...oh. right... Let's eat some Victory Hotdogs and drink Victory Beer. Victory beer, almost as good as Freedom Beer and no fewer calories!
First I'm going to talk about the school. Now last post I was pretty tough on the school, and I'm not done, but food is one place where they stand a clear mile above my high school back home. The food is prepared in ovens and stoves here! That last sentance may not seem so amazing to anyone who graduated from highschool ten or more years ago, but for the younger generation the staple "cooking" tools in a highschool are a microwave and a blender. I used to bring my lunch in the United States, but here no one brings because there is absolutly no need. Unlike the United States we can also watch our food through all stages of prepareation without losing our appetite. If we were to have mashed potatoes here I bet the potatoes would be peeled, cooked, mashed, and seasoned. If you have not been to high school in ten years you might be asking, 'Is there any other way to prepare mashed potatoes?' Let me tell you how Fairport prepared their "Mashed Potatoes," they would open up a plain white plastic package, pour dry white flakes into blender, add water to blender, blend, put on hot plate, serve with equally questionable gravy.
About a week after arriving here the school served calamari. Since I had been raised in a state that throws whatever cafateria food it can together as cheap as possible I was extremly suspicious. Calamari in Fairport would have meant, meat product that turned out too chewy to be used even as sloppy joe. After covering the fried squid in lemon juice (from an acutal piece of fruit) I cautiously took a single bite. My standards were pretty low, but the calamari was good and I finished all that I had been served. After the meal I was full but some kids were eating far longer than me and had almost three times as much food. This is because of another great accomplishment made by my school in the field of nutrition. There are no vending machines in the school, but you can purchase snacks from the dining room where they make small sandwhiches of nutella or ham or cheese, crazy european things like that. Lunches are provided by the school, there is fresh bread, as much as you can eat, and you are allowed to request more of every entree. Now at some point they do cut you off, but just the knowledge that seconds are free is a great feeling of freedom that I was unused to. Besides just meals at school another part of Spanish culture I've been enjoying has been the dairy products, for the most part.
In the United States I did not enjoy cheese much outside of the highly salty 'American' or Chedder varieties. I also shunned cheesecake in the United States, but not so much for the cheese part, more because tasted abnormally sweet, like pixie dust and unicorn blood, not like good old natural twinkes, grown right in America's gutters. But here I have found a type of hard sheep cheese that I eat everytime it is brought to the table, but I believe that once I return to the U.S and my speical sheep dairy is gone I will return to my former, cheese neglecting, ways. In addition when I return to the U.S I will start to guzzling milk again like it has a ridiculously fast experation date. Because it does, in America, but here the milk is a mutant form that can sit out for weeks without any form of refrigeration. There are of course many advantages to this. Milk can be bought in bulk, saving trips to the supermarket. It saves energy since milk can just sit in drawers or shelves and doesn't require industrial sized fridges. It helps hobos get the proper amount of nutrition. It is a common sight in San Sebastian to see a pair of men sharing a liter box of milk thus ensureing them strong bones instead of hangovers. However there is one major drawback to this liquid dairy product, it tastes like the demon spawn that it is. I can eat it on my morning cereal, but drinking it straight up is nearly impossible. It may have won the Spanish over with it's ease of use, but I hope that the FDA has some sort of flavor standards. What kind of world would it be where children dip their cookies into luke warm mutant milk? Certainly a world I want no part of. I'd almost rather have all my meals provided via microwave... almost.
First I'm going to talk about the school. Now last post I was pretty tough on the school, and I'm not done, but food is one place where they stand a clear mile above my high school back home. The food is prepared in ovens and stoves here! That last sentance may not seem so amazing to anyone who graduated from highschool ten or more years ago, but for the younger generation the staple "cooking" tools in a highschool are a microwave and a blender. I used to bring my lunch in the United States, but here no one brings because there is absolutly no need. Unlike the United States we can also watch our food through all stages of prepareation without losing our appetite. If we were to have mashed potatoes here I bet the potatoes would be peeled, cooked, mashed, and seasoned. If you have not been to high school in ten years you might be asking, 'Is there any other way to prepare mashed potatoes?' Let me tell you how Fairport prepared their "Mashed Potatoes," they would open up a plain white plastic package, pour dry white flakes into blender, add water to blender, blend, put on hot plate, serve with equally questionable gravy.
About a week after arriving here the school served calamari. Since I had been raised in a state that throws whatever cafateria food it can together as cheap as possible I was extremly suspicious. Calamari in Fairport would have meant, meat product that turned out too chewy to be used even as sloppy joe. After covering the fried squid in lemon juice (from an acutal piece of fruit) I cautiously took a single bite. My standards were pretty low, but the calamari was good and I finished all that I had been served. After the meal I was full but some kids were eating far longer than me and had almost three times as much food. This is because of another great accomplishment made by my school in the field of nutrition. There are no vending machines in the school, but you can purchase snacks from the dining room where they make small sandwhiches of nutella or ham or cheese, crazy european things like that. Lunches are provided by the school, there is fresh bread, as much as you can eat, and you are allowed to request more of every entree. Now at some point they do cut you off, but just the knowledge that seconds are free is a great feeling of freedom that I was unused to. Besides just meals at school another part of Spanish culture I've been enjoying has been the dairy products, for the most part.
In the United States I did not enjoy cheese much outside of the highly salty 'American' or Chedder varieties. I also shunned cheesecake in the United States, but not so much for the cheese part, more because tasted abnormally sweet, like pixie dust and unicorn blood, not like good old natural twinkes, grown right in America's gutters. But here I have found a type of hard sheep cheese that I eat everytime it is brought to the table, but I believe that once I return to the U.S and my speical sheep dairy is gone I will return to my former, cheese neglecting, ways. In addition when I return to the U.S I will start to guzzling milk again like it has a ridiculously fast experation date. Because it does, in America, but here the milk is a mutant form that can sit out for weeks without any form of refrigeration. There are of course many advantages to this. Milk can be bought in bulk, saving trips to the supermarket. It saves energy since milk can just sit in drawers or shelves and doesn't require industrial sized fridges. It helps hobos get the proper amount of nutrition. It is a common sight in San Sebastian to see a pair of men sharing a liter box of milk thus ensureing them strong bones instead of hangovers. However there is one major drawback to this liquid dairy product, it tastes like the demon spawn that it is. I can eat it on my morning cereal, but drinking it straight up is nearly impossible. It may have won the Spanish over with it's ease of use, but I hope that the FDA has some sort of flavor standards. What kind of world would it be where children dip their cookies into luke warm mutant milk? Certainly a world I want no part of. I'd almost rather have all my meals provided via microwave... almost.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
We don't need no education
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.
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 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.
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