Huelga General, my ass!

Today, November 14th, 2012, marks the second "Huelga General" in Spain this year.

"Huelga General" can be roughly translated as a "General Strike," which makes absolutely no sense in the English language, so I'll explain. Every once in a while when Spanish people get fed up enough with any political situation or change, they plan a huelga general. These have been going on for few decades in Spanish history, and have, on certain occasions, sparked changes in politics, law and/or society. Horray for striking and protesting! Horray! Sometimes it works. I don't know what they did in the past, but I'll tell you what they did today.

This "general" strike consists of people all over the country, regardless of where they work or what kind of business they run, going on strike for the day. Jobs don't penalize for participating, but they, of course, don't pay their politically active employees for the day. If people are feeling really passionate, they join a protest in the center of the city, which usually consists of a march, some vandalism and a couple of arrests. Shouting, chanting, drum banging, and fire-cracker throwing are all a must.

It's organized, mostly, by the unions (which work totally different than in America, hard to explain). The unions spread the word by littering propaganda on the street (they literally throw it in the street and cover all the sidewalks with flyers), and by vandalizing... yes, they spray paint the streets and buildings to advertise the huelga general. Okay, I suppose the unions don't directly spray paint the streets, but I guess their members and supporters do, which is too much negativity for my liking.

It's a strange concept. No one goes to work, small businesses close, kids don't go to school, and it sends a big fat message to the government that people aren't happy. Now, it's not a bad idea, considering that: that day the government won't make any tax money on items sold because almost everything is closed and therefore nothing will be sold (which totally makes sense for businesses during an economic recession). I guess it takes a big hit on giant electricity companies (because none of the closed stores have their lights on). It shows that lots o' people don't go to work in protest (although, c'mon, what Spanish person wouldn't take off a day of work just for the hell of it?). And that small businesses also act out in solidarity by closing.

I mean, this strike is not totally uncalled for. Actually, it's not uncalled for at all. I suppose you all know that Spain's economy is super far down the shitter right now. And what a better way to fix that problem than by closing all the stores and make the economy come to a complete standstill for an entire day!!! Okay, a part from the fact that I think the entire strike is a kinda bad idea...

This strike doesn't realistically demonstrate how many businesses want to close during an economic recession to support a huelga general because of one important thing...

An important activity that forms part of the many marches and protests that are taking place all over Spain today is the forcible closure of businesses! Yup, you heard right. Your right to stay open and choose not to participate doesn't exist at all! If you refuse to close your business today, expect broken windows and vandalism. If you have a cafe, don't worry, the terrace with all your chairs and tables will be destroyed by the protesters (this was one of the many videos on the daytime news today). Today, I saw small business owners being threatened, "If you don't close now, you know what's coming later..."

So, those small shops (and big shops!) who wanted to stay open this morning were closed by force or threat today. I talked with three small business owners today, all of which said they closed their doors for two reasons: 1. for fear of vandalism and 2. because insurance companies in Spain don't cover damage due to a huelga general. If conditions were normal, if this were at all a democratic kind of strike, they would have happily stayed open and tried to make some money today. So, you wanna stay open? Risk a few hundred or thousand euros in damages and then pay out of pocket. And those unions who protect workers rights? They only seem to protect them if you agree with them...

And, as I have understood, when these protesters come and forcibly close your business, they stick this lovely red sticker on your front window (which probably never ever comes off), which reads: "Closed by the huelga general."




Today, I'm angry. I swear I've had this burning sensation in my chest all day. To see all these small business closed by force! Businesses that I know are struggling to survive this recession by any means possible! It makes me sick. And sad. Our right to protest and to strike is sacred, as is our right not to protest and strike!

This is the least democratic form of democracy I have ever seen.

A couple of weeks ago Pelayo and I ventured off to Hamburg, Germany, for a very happy reunion. The multi-national group of friends I formed a part of while living in Gijon reunited for a week in this busy city to celebrate our favorite German's 25th birthday. We were a big, jolly group: one Polish girl via Tanzania, two Italians, three Spaniards, a few Germans, one English girl and, well, yours truly.

The whole group

I can honestly say that I've never been to a city quite like Hamburg. Really. It's true.

Hamburg is big! I didn't realize it is the second biggest city in Germany after Frankfurt. On top of that it's got one of the biggest and most important ports in all of Europe. Prostitution is pretty "in," along with lots o' immigration and a party central that far beats that of Amsterdam. It's got winding canals, an old town, a new town, a gay town, and just about everything else you'd like to see in any town. So, I am really wondering why I'd never really heard of Hamburg before meeting Moritz (the German, Hamburger, birthday-boy).

First thing's first. The biggest tourist attraction in Hamburg is the port. When you ask "What's there to see?," the locals will point you in the direction of the massive port to gawk over a number of vistas. The port is so huge that you can go to various different neighborhoods to catch a peek from a million different angles. But the best view of the port is seen from... the beach, of course! Hamburg has this absolutely stunning, seemingly man-made "beach" built up on the canals of the port. And, some of the most beautiful German houses I've ever seen sit right behind it's shore... all windows pointing towards this buzzing industrial port. Strange, yet somehow pretty. Not sure how they manage to make it hip and elegant, but they do.

So, head to the port's shore, wrap up in a blanket provided by your bar of choice 

and enjoy a gluvine (mulled wine) while you watch the cargo ships go by in 30 degree weather.

This port-shore-beach was my highlight of the trip. (Besides eating, that is.)

The food in Germany is cheeeap and goooood! The few times we went out for lunch or dinner, the bill never, ever surpassed 15 euro per person, with beer and food and dessert and all sorts of happiness included. Sausages, baked potatoes, schnitzel, more potatoes, more meat, more beer... mmmm!



So, I've been to Germany a few times now. I've visited Munich, Berlin, Dusseldorf, Trier, and how Hamburg. I have to note that every time I go to Germany I feel more and more at home. In the end, most Minnesotans have some kind of German descendant (I've got a German descendant or two) and I can see parts of our Minnesota present that definitely come from Germany. Home sweet home! The whole meat and potatoes thing? Totally German! Meatloaf? German. Beer? (You know us Minnesotans like beer), German. The only thing that is not really Minnesotan that Germans have is a pair of extra balls in wintertime. All over Germany, all winter, the balconies and terraces and outdoor restaurants are open and actually have people sitting in their chairs enjoying beer or ice cream or dinner or whatever their little frozen hearts desire! When we were at this port side beach, freezing our asses off, there were lots of Germans just chillin' and enjoying... the cold? The views? They're outdoors all year round!


Now, for a dramatic theme change, lets move onto the whole prostitutes thing. We were staying in a pretty shady, yet somehow safe, neighborhood covered in the cheapest prostitutes in the city. Every four steps there was some woman, standing alone, waiting patiently in the cold for a customer. Kinda weird. That same neighborhood was full of Turkish dudes roaming the streets. Turks are the largest immigrant group in Germany, and in this neighborhood they were accompanied by a wide variety of African immigrants.

The prostitution doesn't stop there. It extends into the famous St. Pauli neighborhood, down a side street off the Reeperbahn. This is the Amsterdam-style prostitution street in Hamburg. It's one solitary street that's blocked off on both ends, with a giant sign forewarning you that women and boys under the age of 18 cannot enter. Men only. (They should prohibit entrance to married men, too.)

The prostitute street block-off

The Reeperbahn in the name of the main party street in Hamburg. It's full of bars, sex-shops and fast food restaurants. The streets are jam packed with party-goers of all kinds, definitely rivaling Amsterdam's red light district on all levels. The Reeperbahn was filled with strip clubs, sex shops and tacky, techno-bumping clubs. The side streets off the Reeperbahn each had their own character. Fancy going to hipster bars all night? You got it! We stopped in a bar that was set up like a house from the 60's- sofas, various rooms, and filled with lots-o-Ray Ban glasses wearing hipsters. From ritzy to dive-bar style joints, in St. Pauli you can find your place.

So, Hamburg's got it all. A teeny, tiny bit of everything. The only shitty thing is the weather- which the Germans don't seem to mind too much...

Ta-ta for now.

The flu?

Yesterday I, unfortunately, got really, really sick with the flu. You all know what that means, right? Puking, pooping, misery. If I told you I had gastroenteritis, would you know what that meant? Well, it means puking, pooping, misery.

When I got sick yesterday I had to cancel a couple of tutoring lessons, saying that I felt quite sick and couldn't go. Their responses were (in Spanish of course), ''Oh, you probably have gastroenteritis! That's going around...''

I'm like, umm, what's gastroenteritis? And so I look it up at my new favorite website, mayoclinic.com, and find this: ''Viral gastroenteritis- often called stomach flu...'' And all my little head stars start to flash and I start to realize that all this time I thought when people here referred to gastroenteritis, I figured it was some upset stomach thing, but not THE stomach flu! 

And here, in Spain, when you're sick with a head cold, they call it the flu (gripe). I was always confused as to why people were telling me they had the runs when they were actually stuffy and coughing. Here I am thinking Spaniards don't know the names of common illnesses, that they confuse head colds with stomach flues.

So, upon this gastroenteritis discovery, I decided to check out mayoclinic.com's definition of influenza (flu). To my surprise I read this: ''a viral infection that attacks your respiratory system.''

So all my other head stars start flashing and I start to connect other dots. In Spanish (and English, really) varicella is the real, medical term for what we like to call ''chicken pox.'' And everyday, normal people here call it varicella. Turns out Spanish is quite more practical in that sense. They just call things as they are. In English we seem to like to switch up words and definitions, make it real confusing.

So, why do we do it? Is varicella so hard to say? Why do we have to call it chicken pox? And why do we use the word ''flu'' to describe gastroenteritis when it is really better refers to a head cold?

And I hope I'm not the only one who was unaware that gastroenteritis is the stomach flu... cause if I am this entire post is kinda silly.

Here's to keeping food down... ta ta for now!

THE Crisis

Here in Spain they refer to the economic recession as "la crisis," or "the crisis."

It's a big f-ing crisis. And it just keeps getting worse.

When I graduated from college in 2009, I was told I was a part of the most unlucky graduating class ever. Job openings had never been less open, and the recession was in full force. I was lucky enough to "get out" of the states and end up in Spain, teaching English, where "the crisis" was present, but at least I had a job. Everyone at home was talking about how they couldn't find jobs, how they were all disgracefully living with their parents and how they could see no money-light at the end of the tunnel except for AmeriCore and Starbucks. The daily conversation was the downfall of the economy and how it was all going to the crapper.

Here we are, in 2012, and all those same friends who were jobless and living at home are now working and independent. No one talks about how bad the economy is and things are looking much more up than down. Everyone knows the housing market will take a while to get back on its feet, but at least people are working. And people are buying houses!

Here in Spain, every day things get worse. And the recently elected president doesn't seem to be helping much. The new administration has made it easier for a company to lay you off, has cut civil servant pay a lot (I'm keeping it simple) and has just increased VAT (value added tax) to 21%. National unemployment is hoovering around 25%. Every single day I take part in at least three conversations about how bad things are right now. Just about everyone I know is unemployed or holding onto their jobs with dear life.

Pelayo owns a bar here called "Rocket Rock Club," an American rock n' roll style joint that has quite a following here. It's unique in the sense that it plays good music and is decorated in it's own special way (complete with a MN license plate of course). I can't really explain how bad things have gotten here except by example. When I started working at Rocket in March of 2011, there were six bartenders working on a Saturday night from midnight to 6am. We would be running up and down the bar making drinks and tapping beers all night long. A number of times in the night we'd run out of glasses and have to open new boxes of them to re-stock the shelves. Five hours would pass without even a second to look at your watch to see the time. Around 5am, someone would announce that it was almost closing time. Cut off is at 5:30am, and we were outta there by 6. Now, a year and a bit later, on a Saturday night there are three bartenders, four when we hope it will be a busy night. I now wear a long sleeve shirt to work because I know I most likely won't work up a sweat. The six hours til closing won't pass. Ever. Nights are eternal. Boring. Empty. On average we sell 30-40% less than we did last year. And the worst part is that Rocket bar is known for being successful in comparison to other bars in town. It still has a following and still has some patrons during the weekend. So, I can only imagine how bad it is for our liquor-vending neighbors.

So, you walk around Oviedo on a Saturday night two years ago. It's packed. Full of ambiance and life. Everyone's drunk and having a gay old time. Bars are packed- all of them... even the crappy ones. You walk around Oviedo on a Saturday night now and the streets are more than half empty, along with all the bars and restaurants. No one goes out to dinner anymore, and going out for a drink frequently involves four friends sharing a bottle of the cheapest beer on the menu.

The downside is the prices won't drop. Bars can't drop prices because beer, liquor, rent and electricity prices just keep going up. But, bars also can't raise prices to compensate for rising costs because it will lose patrons.

So, a couple of times a month a bar or restaurant or family-owned business closes. Even big-time businesses close. And as you see this happening all around, and all you hear on the street is whispers about "the crisis" and how there's no money to do anything anymore... you get sad. Real sad. Because the ambiance here is full of fear. It's scary. It feels like something has to be on the brink of changing. Something drastic. I can't fathom what it may be, but I do think something radical has got to happen, because people here are no longer the happy-go-lucky Spaniards who are always out and about having a coffee or a beer, celebrating at all hours of the morning with no shame and simply enjoying themselves.

The American way is "live to work." The Spanish way has always been "work to live." And so, here we are. In the country where there is no work to be able to live freely and carelessly as they always did. And here I am, living in a country that is completely fucked economically and watching it all fall apart, piece by piece. Is there hope? I can say that last year there was a lot of hope that it couldn't get worse- that a change in president and policy could give a new jump-start to this country. But, here we are, starting a new school year in September 2012 and watching how it is, to everyone's fear, getting worse.

And I have to say it's a bit surreal, and a bit scary. And I'm quite anxious to see what happens next. All I can say is that it's times like these that I'm happy to have an American passport.

Let's be Frank...

Maybe I have too much free time. Or maybe I'm just a curious person. Or maybe I ask stupid yet intriguing questions. But sometimes I wonder about a lot of things that I kinda think most people don't ever wonder about.

For example... Think about the expression, "Let's be Frank." Which means, you know, "Be brutally honest."

Or think about "Negative Nancy." Poor Nancy, always such a downer. Kinda like Debbie. "Debbie downer."

In Spanish they've got a good one, which is "La Hilaria." Everyone is either older, meaner or more fucked up than her. She forms part of every expression you could ever invent in Spanish. She's worse off than everyone in absolutely any situation. When I'm ill, Pelayo would sometimes say, "Ohh that sucks, you're sicker than La Hilaria." Or when I'm drunk, "You're more drunk than La Hilaria!" She's like the default Nancy and Debbie, and absolutely everyone else on the planet is worse off than her. I once dedicated a whole week to asking everyone I know in Oviedo who this terribly off lady was. No idea. Just like Frank and Nancy.

So, my big question is this. Who are these people? Who was the first Frank to be so "frank" to get that expression named after him? Was there some dude in some small town who was at the Main Street bar being brutally honest to everyone around him all day every day? And was he just so "frank" that everyone just replaced the word brutally honest with his name? He must have been really frank, I guess. Frank enough to get his name around, that's for sure.

I also tend to wonder about other weird tendencies and where they started. Like silly, waste of time card games. Who invented that game "Bullshit"? And who decided it was fun enough to teach all of their friends and all their families the same card game enough so that when you meet someone from Ohio they also know how to play it? Really?

Or jokes. I know the internet spreads jokes and people might read them online and repeat them to their friends at the bar later, but generally jokes are a social thing passed by word of mouth. Who in the world invented the "Why did the chicken cross the road?" joke and whyyyy did it go so far? How many people lie about knowing the person who invented that joke? Or even about being that person?

So many questions...

Okay, of all these questions the most important one is Frank. I want to know who he is. There is no reward involved but if you hear of any news, I wanna know. No, I gotta know. It's keeping me awake at night.

Waaaay up North

''I brought breakfast meat, lunch meat, and dinner meat,'' said my cousin Ruthann upon arriving to the cabin... ''There are 40 pounds of dinner meat.''

I perked up as the song ''God Bless America... my home, sweet, home...'' started ringing in my ears. No joke. This happened systematically every time my aunt started taking food in triple Costco sizes out of the cupboards.

The whole group

This fourth of July was spent super-ultra-Minnesotan style, waaaay up north near Warroad, right on Lake of the Woods. The journey began with a six hour drive through miles and miles of textbook definition ''middle of nowhere'' towns. Of course, a stop for pasties, an empanada style meat pie covered in dark gravy, was obligatory. We were, luckily, the first to arrive to my aunt Renee's cabin. I say luckily because this lovely 4th of July weekend my aunt and uncle had a guest list of 20 family members. Yes, 20.We settled in by picking out our beds as quick as possible up in the extended loft. Well, extended is kind of an understatement... that loft sleeps 13 with five queen size beds and three twins. My aunt and uncle made the cabin from scratch, with their own hands and their own ideas, and decided to make it "big family party" friendly. It's like camp up in that lovely loft... Camp with a bunch of snorers. This loft wouldn't be complete without an industrial sized pack of ear plugs on the only nightstand because, of course, the loft has no wall or no doors to soundproof the huge sleeping/snoring area. Your ears are completely vulnerable to people's early bird or late night habits. Up there, everything is heard. Forget privacy for a week, this is a new way to define an intense family get together.  But I have to say, it's a lot of fun.

A deer's eye view from the loft

Where did the remaining family sleep, you may ask? Well, my aunt and uncle intelligently made their own closed off room to sleep in, right next to the only bathroom. There's also a screened porch with a pull out couch, and the youngest cousins got to (more like had to) sleep in tents pitched somewhere among the campfire pit, three boats and god knows how many cars in the driveway.

And as a closing point in my attempt at describing this lovely place... this cabin would not be complete without a vast representation of Minnesota wildlife looking over us with their dead, marble eyes. Deer, ducks and fish... hard to get used to but definitely put on the perfect, final touch to completely integrate yourself in good ol' Minnesotan culture.

Our first meal consisted of some delicious hot dogs, baked beans, hash-browns fried to a crisp in everything greasy and some chips. Mmm. Did I mention I love America? The eating, of course, did not stop there. We ate three hefty meals a day, usually separated by a few hours spent fishing out on the boat. Puzzles, cards, movies and other "light" snacks, of course, were also involved in separating meals. Coolers upon coolers of beer and pop were also a must. Lets just say that anything you could ever want to ingest ever could be found. No exceptions.

Really expensive gigantic illegal fireworks were also involved in the weekend. Did I mention they are also life-threateningly dangerous? Year after year a couple of those moving-box sized fireworks tip right over and shoot directly at my dear family members. Somehow the majority of my (perhaps slow?) cousins sit front row in chairs just asking to be blown to confetti pieces. I chose to hide behind the truck or inside the porch along with my more intelligent father. This year was a miracle, only one shot out horizontally towards an unoccupied tent. Phew!

Roger's first catch!

Pelayo, whom you are all now familiar with, had his first experience "up north." I think he was a bit shocked by the "watch out for" list... may flies, horse flies, deer flies, ticks, poison ivy and last but not least, vampire mosquitoes. The poor thing, with his fresh sweet blood, was covered in golf ball sized welts all week. Although, not all was bad for Pelayo this week. He spent his first days lake fishing sporting a great thrift store find: an old pro fishing shirt. Kinda like a bowling shirt, but for fisherman I guess. This once belonged to a man named Roger. So now Pelayo is kinda known as Roger up in Warroad. I guess worse things could happen. I am very proud to report that Roger caught his first few fish that weekend- supplying us with three walleyes for an amazingly amazing fish fry.

Roger also picked up a lot of Minnesotan. "Oh yeah," officially became a part of his vocabulary, along with changing his Californian pronunciation of "bag" and also chuckling appropriately when anyone let an "Uff-da" slip. Fishing license in hand, twins hat on his head, and all four limbs limbs covered in mosquito bites... shhhhh... I am secretly turning him into a Minnesotan!

I have to say that when I am away these are the things I miss the most. Family gatherings, friends, and over-eating. I guess mostly over-eating.

Bragging Rights

Hello, all.

I thought it was about time for me to do some bragging. Ah, yes, bragging. I almost never brag because, well, it's a bit arrogant and not nice to listen to and I don't enjoy doing it. But, I thought I would. Just this once.

I've had quite a long love affair with the Spanish language. I was lucky enough to have world-concious parents who enrolled my brother and I into a Spanish immersion school as kids, which I just happened to love. I was also quite lucky in the fact that I was skilled at learning Spanish, I never found it especially hard to figure out how to express myself in a different language. Our family had the luck to host two Mexican TA's in our home, so I was practicing Spanish at home, seeing how to cook Mexican food and learning about their culture by seeing it in my home! That was a truly amazing experience for a kid, for me.

And then, here luck has nothing to do with it, I have always been extremely motivated to keep up my language skills, enough to keep chugging and chugging away at studying. I kept up with it throughout high school and decided to major in it in college. I studied abroad in the only program in Spain that was 100% Spanish (which took a lot of digging to find!), and soon after realized my life would never be the same without this absolutely lovely language. I suddenly found that if I didn´t speak Spanish for two weeks I started to feel a bit depressed, a bit sad. I would get headaches and get crabby. Then I'd sit down and speak Spanish, or pick up a book, and I would feel happy and free again. I decided that no matter where I was or what I did in my life, as long as Spanish was a part of it I would be just fine. And that became my new life goal. To keep Spanish in my life every single day, no matter what. And I've accomplished it.

My brother and I during our first trip to Spain, in a campsite in Barcelona.

After my study abroad experience I only did job searches for ones that had something to do with Spanish- and to my luck, once again- companies usually hired me first and paid me more for being a near fluent speaker. I seem to be crisis-proof both in America and in Spain for being biligual, not a bad deal in the end.

My last two years of college I started studying interpreting, a whole new challenge to add to my language skills. In those courses I started to realize that the two languages I spoke had always been very seperate in my mind, and I never had to think of language equivalents and the closest possible meanings of words... What a mess! Of course, this mess turned into a passion... now I love the challenge that comes along with interpreting and translating- it almost seems like a game to me- just a big fat play on words.

Anyway, in order to complete this interpreting certificate program, we had to have our language level assessed. I was given an ''Advanced Fluency'' level, the second best level out of a possible 9 levels. I was shocked. And proud. I got the highest score in my class. And, therefore, I thought I was at my peak and that there wasn't too much more improving to be done. (I can tell you that now I speak maybe twice as well as I spoke then.)

After graduating I applied for a TA job in Spain and got it. One year turned into two and two into three, and here I am.

I've been learning Spanish for almost 20 years. I've been taught by people from all over the world, from Mexico, Spain, Cuba, Columbia, Argentina... I've traveled to numerous Spanish speaking countries, getting an ear for different accents and vocabulary from all these different fabulous places. I worked as a medical interpreter. I interpreted for all different kinds of people from all different places with all different problems. I've had my eyes (and ears) opened throughout my whole life in ways that most people can only dream of... I've lived in Barcelona, Jaén, Gijón and Oviedo, North, South and East.

I can happily say that up til now I have lived.

I've been dating Pelayo for a bit over a year now, and my Spanish skills are now truly peaking. And I'm still learning! Since meeting him I've lived my day to day life in Spanish. I may teach English five days a week, but it's the only time in a week that I 'speak' English. I say 'speak' because I have to sepak slowly, control my vocabulary and constantly explain myself and, well, teach. In the end I don't speak English at all during the week. I don't have any American friends here, therefore I only speak English once a week when I talk with my parents or my friends via the best invention in the last decade: Skype.

Within this last year I have accomplished goals I was absolutely positive I would never accomplish.

1. Reading novels in Spanish without a dictionary and actually enjoying them.
2. Meeting someone, talking with them, and having them leave thinking I was Spanish. (OK this has only happened once, and because it was a really short convo, but it happened!)
3. Sitting at a table with more than three people and being able to follow a conversation- this is so extremely difficult, I can't even begin to explain. Now I can survive with a group of up to ten!
4. I can speak Spanish all day and not have a headache after. 

Goals to go? I still have to learn how to be witty in Spanish. I'm not quite there yet. And I'm not so funny yet, either. Although, I guess I don't know if I'm very funny in English either. And I still feel like I've got a ways to go to be able to express sympathy, gratitude and things like ''Merry Xmas'' and ''Happy Birthday'' and feel like I mean them. For some reason, those things come from the heart and my heart, in the end, speaks in English.

Yesterday my yoga instructor and a couple of people who go to class with me complimented me on my Spanish, ''Wow, it's just, your Spanish is so good! You sound like a Spaniard!'' A few days ago a friend of Pelayo's said, ''Estoy flipando! '' aka ''I'm flipping out! (Your Spanish is so good!)'' A couple of weeks ago, Pelayo's mother told me how much I had improved since she met me. Every time someone expresses their awe at my language skills, I swell up like a peacock. My feathers fly out and I smile for about ten minutes straight. Sometimes I flash back to all of my years of study and all of the time and effort I've put into learning this language, and it's so, so worth it.

I just love it.

Yes, more about littering

So, I hate to be a nagging brat about the whole littering thing, but the story continues. Hard to believe? Well, yes, it does.

I decided to take some advice from a comment an anonymous reader made on my first blog entry about littering ("The Joys of Littering") in which he/she stated that I should bring up the topic with my students and see what they had to say about it. Finding it quite a neat idea, I decided to do it. I took advantage of some extra free time in my classes yesterday after wrapping up a discussion about the American tradition of Arbor Day and the importance of trees in our every day lives...

I casually started off with a story, precisely the story I told you all about my brother's encounter with the strange sensation of littering in Spain, something he normally doesn't do in Minnesota. (You can read the full story in my entry "The Joys of Littering.") Upon finishing up the story I asked the provocative question which was "What's the difference between a twenty year old boy from Minnesota and a twenty year old boy from Spain in this situation?"

Their, surprisingly proud, response? "The Minnesotan boy cares about the environment more than the Spanish boy."

And so the conversation continued.

"Do you litter?" ... "Yes."
"Do you think it's okay?" ... "Yes."
"Do you think littering is a problem in Spain?" ... "No."

"Why do you think it's okay!?" The list of excuses was endless...
-Because the government pays people to clean the streets. If we throw away our garbage they will lose their jobs. (This was the most common thing that they said.)
-Because there are never any trash bins nearby. (An addition from two or three students: If I am on one side of the street with my friends and the bin is on the other side of the street, I am not going to cross the street to throw it away because then my friends will leave and I will have to chase them.)
-Because it's easier.
-Because the street is not my home. I don't have to take care of it.

I was shocked and awed. These comments came from THREE different groups of students aged 11 to 13. In every class, of course, there were a couple of the typical students who are always nice and thoughtful and smart who said they don't litter and think that it's very bad to litter- but the overwhelming response was listed above. They literally argued with me against cleaning up after themselves. And so, I found the problem. These kids have never been educated, neither by their parents nor by the education system, to take care of their town and of their planet.

I have decided on a punishment/lesson for the kids. Near to the school there is a huge field, a typical field that all the kids cross every single day to walk to school, and that is, of course, filled with garbage. (When I told them the street cleaners didn't clean their field, and what would happen to that field being full of garbage for so long, their response was, "It's not a big deal, the plastic will decompose and it won't harm anyone.") I have decided that although Earth Day has passed, we are going to have a belated Earth Day in which we will clean up the field... I don't know if schools are into that here, but I've already spoken with the head English teacher and next up is the headmaster. These kids are going to learn how to pick up garbage... even if it is from their American TA.

And then I'm going to show them this video... just to give them an extra dose of what I like to call "responsibility!"

The Proof of Littering

After posting my thoughts in "The Joys of Littering," I got a few negative responses from natives of Oviedo. They claimed I was being unfair and that I made Spaniards sound like a bunch of pigs living in a rotten pigsty... when I asked them simply, "Did I lie? Did I make something up?" They couldn't tell me otherwise... So I thought that I needed a bit of proof about the real problem of littering in this country.

A couple of weeks ago my mom was here for a week-long visit. I am pretty sure she didn't read my littering entry before her arrival... One day when I was at work and she was left wandering around Oviedo during the day, she ended up taking pictures of the garbage people left behind in a park.

She in fact felt so sickened by it all she had to leave the park and opt to spend her time shopping- the sight of ruined green public spaces was too much...A group of people were sitting around eating McDonald's in the park and just got up and left everything in it's place... then we all wonder why it's prohibited to sit on the grass in this park!

Ah, there's nothing like Pre-Roman architecture surrounded by garbage... Please take note that all of the pictures posted in today's post were taken within a span of a week.

And the last shot of the week, the what could have been more beautiful beach in the Gros neighborhood of San Sebastian, Spain. This sight actually spanned the entire beach line, and I have never seen anything quite like it...

Well, that was very American of me

I am currently attending yoga classes here in Oviedo. I've never been into the whole yoga thing- it always seemed a bit boring and too relaxing for my type. Keeping in mind that cheerleading always had me at 10,000 MPH, I have always been prepared to work hard and sweat, not breathe deep and feel my chakras, or whatever. I had always heard it was good for you, your flexibility and well-being. So, I tried it about a thousand times. I tried it while attending Winona State University, again at Snap Fitness in Robbinsdale, again at free community classes in Gijon, and yet again at a hot yoga studio in Plymouth... The hot yoga studio finally got to me a bit. I found myself thoroughly enjoying the insane amount of sweat involved in stretching with a bunch of other sweaty people all at once in a 100+ degree room. On top of that, it was challenging. The instructors were dynamic and interesting- they made you push yourself and try new things. It wasn't all about relaxing in this class, it was more athletic than I had never experienced. And, most importantly, I found that it was kind to my old grandma style knees and ankles, and I was, in a way, hooked.

Upon my arrival in Oviedo I started asking around about yoga studios... I quickly found that hot yoga hadn't hit the European scene yet, but everyone kept pointing me in the same direction- Rama. A man named Rama. (I guess that his yoga name because his "real" name is, apparently, Tomas. Go figure.) A man who seems to be very well known and respected in the yoga world. And by world, I mean world. I guess he's one of the only Europeans to be trained at his level in India by real yogis. Aaaand he's in Oviedo, small world. Anyway, I haven't memorized his resume, all I know is he's well known and everyone kept telling me he was the best... So I thought I would give it a try. After my first class I couldn't walk normal for six days. I'm not exaggerating. SIX days. I know I have been that sore before, but it had been a loooong time. I guess you could say Rama knows how to kick your ass.

These yoga classes are quite interesting- it's a kind of yoga called "Astanga." I'm not educated in the world of yoga, all I know is that this involves learning a series of poses by heart. There are three series, and I'm obviously learning the first series still, as I'm only on week three. Every week you add a pose or two to your series... so you're always advancing and learning new things. It's a neat setting- everyone goes at their own pace and does their own thing. Suddenly, the instructor comes up behind you and pushes you 3x beyond what you thought your limit was and tells you the breathe. You want to smack him... but you breathe, and it helps. Then, out of the corner of your eye you see some advanced student with their legs in places you never thought they could be. It's scary imagining that my legs could be in that position someday, and perhaps not too far from today...

In the end it's nice to know there's a goal in mind- which in my mind is finishing the first series champion style and moving onto the next.

Just so you get an idea... 

Getting to the point: On Tuesday of this week I learned one new pose to add to the introductory poses I learned during my first two weeks. I finally started to advance and was super psyched about it. Today, when I reached that final pose and somehow weaseled my way out of it, Rama said, "Okay, that's all for today." I looked back at him, wanting more, "Can I learn one more today??" I gave him my big cheesy smile...

He chuckled and smiled back as if it was the first time anyone had asked him for more yoga! "So American..." He grinned. "Yes."

We Americans... we're always so motivated!! <3

The Joys of Littering

My time spent living abroad has been full of all kinds of culture shock, enlightening experiences, linguistic challenges and interesting observations in lifestyle differences... including littering, of course.

The second time I lived in Spain I was in Jaén, in the south of Spain.  Jaén's streets were pretty much a trash bin. Well, not only a trash bin, but a doggie toilet, too. You couldn't walk without fixing your point of view downwards. If you got distracted by some window display or hottie walking past and strayed your concentration for a second, your shoe was usually covered in dog-doo by the time you got back to looking at the concrete again. I will never, ever (can I specify that I will never) forget a time when I saw a couple of girls, around my age, walking down the street with a bag of chips. (I think they were ketchup flavored. Yuck.) As one of them emptied the bag and licked her fingers in satisfaction, she simply dropped the bag. Dropped it. It slowly drifted down onto the sidewalk... and the girl never looked back to see where it landed. Not even a glimpse of shame or guilt appeared in her face. She just kept on walking. Three years later, I can still remember exactly how it all went down- and it still baffles me to this day.

I now live on the opposite end of the country in Oviedo, and it's is a few steps ahead of Jaén in poopy terms. Here you don't have to look down while you walk, which is quite convenient if I do say so myself. You can look in absolutely any direction you want (only if your umbrella isn't blocking your view, that is). Owners proudly pick up their dogs shit... it's great. I have yet to see anyone blatantly drop garbage onto their city's streets during daylight hours. Now, all of this changes if you have to pee. Ahh, yes. There is nothing like seeing parents train their kids to pee in public. I have to say I'm not proud to find myself entertained by a mother turning herself into a human toilet. Lets see if I can explain this strange situation... mom picks up her daughter under her knees, puts her back to her belly, making her little one look like she's hanging through a basketball hoop that is her mother's arms. And, the effect is her pee shooting out directly in front of them. On a street corner. In broad daylight. All the time.  And of course boys just whip it out and go anywhere. Forget the whole, "Shut up and HOLD IT!" thing. Here, if you've gotta go, you've gotta go, and it doesn't quite matter where.

Unfortunately, this phenomenon isn't only limited to children... Surprise, surprise, what you learn as a child tends to cross over into adulthood... There is nothing like seeing the streets of the Old Quarter flowing with rivers of piss on the weekends. One street in particular stinks so bad you can't breathe and walk by at the same time. It's as if bathrooms don't exist, and any corner turns into a public bathroom.

Piss aside, the Old Quarter, during warmer and less rainier seasons, turns into a garbage bin on the weekends. Botellón, bringing your own bottles of alcohol and pop to drink in the street with your friends, ruins the image of the most beautiful part of this city every weekend it's even a little nice out... At 6am it looks like a tornado passed directly through a bar and spit all the garbage and broken glass all over the main streets of the city. It's absolutely disgusting, to say the least. I am the first to admit that I used to love botellón. I participated freely and happily when living in Jaén. It was cheaper, and, in the end, more fun than going into any bar. But that doesn´t mean it's nice to see so much shit lying around the city. And that doesn´t mean that it´s a Spanish habit that maybe needs to change. All I know is that Woody Allen might take back his famous quote about this city if he saw the garbage and piss filled streets on any given Saturday night. 

                                                                                                                                                                   

In the words of Woody, 
"A delicious, exotic, beautiful, clean, pleasant, tranquil and pedestrianised city. 

It is as if it didn't belong to this world. Oviedo is like a fairy tale."

Woody is a huge supporter of Oviedo, he's got a statue of himself in the center of the city and even turns up in tourism ads for Asturias. One of his favorite things about this city is it's cleanliness. But, Woody's not the only one who has been dooped into believe that Oviedo is a pristine, sparkling city. Oviedo is actually known as being one of the cleanest cities in Spain and even won a prize for being the cleanest city in Europe not too long ago. How do they trick everyone into believing it? They clean the streets 24/7. People in orange jump suits walk the streets all day with a portable garbage can and a broom in hand- sweeping away. Huge cleaning car machines, which I still don't understand how they work, circulate the streets a million times a day. You drop a cigarette butt? Don't worry, in 2.5 seconds someone else has already cleaned up after you. Like to drink in the streets at night, throwing your garbage around and breaking bottles? Don't worry, the government will spend it's excess amounts of money to clean up after you on Sunday morning. Want to eat lunch on the beach during the summer and leave all your garbage behind? Unfortunately, no one cleans up the beaches here... but since you're used to people picking up your garbage all the time, you don't realize you're ruining your own beaches... It's like there's a little piece of social cleanliness and responsibility missing here...

                                                                                                                                                                   

When my parents and brother came to visit last summer, we had a couple of interesting encounters with the phenomenons that are littering and peeing. One Saturday my brother and I went to a beach party in Salinas, a village about half an hour from Gijon, where I was living at the time. We were walking around, drinking and watching a concert that was going on. Phil, with an empty beer in hand, looked at me innocently and asked, "Umm... where should I throw this away? I don't see any garbage bins." He turned his head one way and another to search for a trash bin, only to realize that there was junk all over the sidewalks and cluttering the streets. "Wait, can I really throw this on the ground?" He asked innocently. "Well, yep. It's normal here." He dramatically dropped his jaw, stuck his arm out in front of him, and slowly let his fingers relax as he watched the beer can drop to the floor in awe. "That felt so weird," he claimed. 

On a different weekend night, we were out and about, walking around, the four of us. My dad commented in disgust about the pee filled streets... "How can Spain expect their economy to function well if their own people pee on their own city and their own country? There's no respect." 

Hmm, the wise has spoken... Solution? Is there one? I think that if the government stopped cleaning up after botellón on the weekends people just might stop. Or a civil war might break out. Both are completely possible outcomes. As for everyone being accustomed to littering? All you have to do is start sending out a fine or two for littering and, and that just might help with the problem, too. All I know is man, it´s a shame to smell so much piss all the time. 

Proud to be an American?

When I first spent some time living in Spain, I was a spunky sophomore at Winona State University. At a mere 19 years old, I left the good Midwest and ventured to Barcelona, where I would spend five months having my world view change completely.

I studied abroad with the only program I could find that would send American students to study in a real university setting. AKA, they wouldn't send you to Spain to take classes with American students and American professors in an American center, like 99.9% of programs. This place would send you, for a light $13,000, directly to the Universitat de Barcelona. The Council on International Educational Exchange (CIEE), it was called. This program was independent from my university, and so I went completely alone. I didn't know anyone, and that was the part I liked about it. My goal was to stray away from Americans if I could, and attempt to meet some local friends for what I thought would be an enlightening cultural experience as we were promised we would all have upon embarking on our semester-short adventure on the other side of the big pond.

My first but important change in worldview came via a group of Colorado-natives who, using a technique which I like to call lighthearted (yet damaging) bullying, made me fully aware that I had a ridiculous Minnesota accent. Every time I spoke they laughed at me, pointed a bit, and then made me repeat words they thought were funny. I couldn't hear my accent, but I was, suddenly, made fully aware it existed. When in group settings, I stopped talking altogether. But hey, whatever. It was honestly the best way for me to not get sucked into an America away from America experience abroad.

In my time in Barcelona I made the typical mistake. I didn't get to know Barcelona all too well. I started to travel and travel and travel, one weekend after another. France, Belgium, Scotland, Holland, and aaaaaaall over Spain. I pulled some of the weight all traveling Americans did at that time: the weight of President Bush. Regardless of how you may have felt personally about Bush, the rest of the world didn't like him very much, aaaand the rest of the world was usually ignorant enough to treat me like shit because of a president I didn't vote for. All the same, people would come to me, bash my country to my face, and I would usually agree with them.

Now, on top of the general anti-American sentiment in Europe at the time, I was super duper young and started to have all of these amazing revelations about my culture, country and lifestyle... They were intensely enlightening for me at the time, but all the same were insanely negative. Suddenly, my country seemed to be full of ignorant non-travelers whose eyes had never been opened to a world of street cafes and the ingenious invention that is walking... anyone who hadn't lived abroad just hadn't lived, goodness gracious!

The outcome upon my arrival home is what I like to call "Study Abroad Syndrome": or, I hate America and all it stands for. Patriotism is bad and next time I travel I might even say I'm Canadian.

All I could seem to spit outta my mouth was insinuating that Spain was way better than America. "In Spain, this, and this, and this..." and my friends and family, for the first five minutes of conversation, would respond with the affirming, "Wow, cool." But that didn't last for long. (Understandable.)

After those five minutes and for, maybe, another week, they started to directly ignore me. (Fair enough.)

Once that week or two passed, and I still insisted of Spain's superiority, I got the response of:  "SHUT UP YOU'RE NOT IN SPAIN YOU'RE IN AMERICA!!" (More than fair enough.)

The next step in the process was being pissed at all my friends and family for not understanding me. The acceptance process went a bit like this in my head: Okay, Spain is better but if I want friends after tomorrow I have to wire my jaw shut to keep myself from telling everyone how ignorant they are for not having lived in Spain, or at least dreamed about it. Okay. Accepted. (And then I'd only talk about it drunk.)

This sentiment hung around... my obsession with my home away from home never faded like it did for some other fellow study-abroaders, and I ended up moving back to Spanish-speaking land the fall after graduation, in October 2009.

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I landed in Spain's version of the deep south: Jaén. The land of olives and it's oil. The land of "I can't understand anything you're saying because your accent ruins my concept of the Spanish language." The land of tapas, drinking til 9am, and that's about it cause there was really nothing else to do. 

This was my second move abroad alone. I, luckily, connected with another American girl, Holly, before leaving and met her there upon my arrival. We found an apartment together on the most beautiful pedestrian street in town, which we shared with a friendly Peruvian guy.

During my eight months working as an English teaching assistant, I was the owner of what would come to be known between my fellow Americans and I as "Spain face." Definition? I was smiling 24/7. The first few days, Holly would have to tell me to stop smiling as I walked down the street... Turns out I was embarrassing my friends as I bathed in my European bliss. I didn't care that I was kinda in the middle of nowhere, I was straight up happy to be there.

This time around I didn't care about diving into Spanish customs by ignoring fellow Americans in an attempt to be cultured or something. This time around, I learned that foreigners run in packs because, surprise, you have one thing in common: you're alone. And another thing: you're all crazy enough to move away alone in search of some kind of meaning in life, and so you all get along really, really well. And it's really, really fun. 

Another thing happened. I was pretty darn sure I would never live in Spain again. Why? I didn't want to. Spanish people started to annoy me: they talk loud, they're rude, lazy and ignorant, they never want to leave their parents because they're all spoiled brats who live for free until they're 30... independence is of no importance, cheating on their significant other seemed to be the norm because they would rather suffer through a lifelong relationship that started when they were 15 than be alone... all I saw was negative. I loved the language, the nightlife, the lifestyle... but I started to really dislike the people! It was like I had suddenly overdosed on cultural experiences.

The other side of this? I started to glorify home. The variety of food. The people. Better yet, the polite people. The American dream. The mindset of working hard, being independent and self-reliable. The wide streets. Cars. Big cars! Green places. Quiet places. Houses! (How can you live in an apartment, anyway??) I finished my work contract, celebrated my birthday with an all-nighter, and flew home the next day. Shit, I practically ran home. I would have swam if you told me I had to.

My parents picked me up from the airport with a cooler full of Taco Bell (best welcome home gift ever!) and drove me home. As we cruised through Minneapolis and into Robbinsdale, I felt like I was passing through a surrealist film. I expected marvalous-ness. I spent eight months with such a desire for home filled with unrealistic wishes of life being perfection that I went through the strangest thing ever: reverse culture shock. Home didn't feel too homey anymore, or at least not like I remembered. I got bored after two weeks... and even started to miss Spain. I spent the summer keeping up with my Spanish by interpreting and decided that if no dream-job dropped into my plate (which of course it didn't) that I would wander off to Spain again. Not because I really wanted to, but just because I figured... why not?

__________________________________

And so, move number three came along in October of 2010... I went alone again to work as an English teaching assistant, again. I showed up in Gijón, a rainy city on the northern coast, known as "La costa verde" (the Green Coast). I was lucky enough to be invited into the home of a Polish girl named Magda, who I contacted through couch surfing (for those of you who don't know, it's defined as: "A volunteer-based worldwide network connecting travelers with members of local communities, who offer free accommodation and/or advice"). The first day, her Italian friend and neighbor, Alberto, carried a suitcase or two of mine up four flights of stairs and offered me homemade pizza and a beer. I decided these people would be my future friends, and they were. Our international group of pals was pretty much an unofficial UN: Belgium, Poland, Italy, Germany, Spain and the US were all represented. I didn't spend much time with any Americans, which didn't worry me. Like I had learned before, foreigners run in packs... and I learned that it didn't matter what kind of foreigners. In the end we were all alone, all the same. And all we had was each other.

It was during this year when I finally leveled out my opinions about my country. I finally realized it wasn't paradise, but it also wasn't a shit hole full of ignorant hillbillies with superiority syndrome. Maybe it was due to being surrounded by so many different types of people and cultures, or maybe it was having two years of such extreme feelings- each from a polar opposite end- that brought me down to earth.


It may seem like a simple revelation, but it wasn't easy for me to come to. I realized every country has their good and bad, just like mine. The problem just happens to be that America is huge. Not only is it huge, but it's in the center of the world culturally and economically, not to mention militarily (I didn't think that word existed but spell check didn't jump me, so looks like it's good...). Everyone across the world watches our movies and listens to our music. They wear our brands and dream of traveling to our cities. They follow our presidential elections and political movements and choices. They criticize our health care system and our values. They tear us apart because it's easy.  We're in the center... and therefore we're easy to pick on. I'm not suddenly on the other extreme of "America is the best," but I am currently in the happy middle. My country is great, and hey, yours is too. Sounds kinda like a Sesame Street episode or something... but that's how I see it now. (Now if only Big Bird would pop out from around the corner and give me a hug. He was always my favorite.)

I also came to the conclusion that ignorance spans the globe. Whether European, Asian, American, whatever- there are dumb people everywhere. I spent last year defending my country and my culture for the first time in my life. I began to note that the majority of people dissing on my country had never been to my country, and all of their conclusions were taken from MTV or late-night talk shows who make fun of dumb people in general (which just happened to be filmed in America). What they don't realize is, if they did that here, you'd find people who don't know how to locate Mexico on a map, too. 


My favorite drunken phrase random people say to me here is: "You're all dumb and ignorant!! Look at your people on MTV!!" My response? "If you think MTV represents all the people in my country, you're the ignorant one." 

"And most American people think Spain is next to Mexico!!" 

My response?  "Have you met any Americans who don't know where Spain is?"

Theirs? "No... but on TV..!!!"

Mine? "Maybe Spain hasn't done anything important enough in recent years for us to have to know where Spain is." 

That's always a good way to get an argument going... 

Anyway, in the end, after a few years of living here, I've realized that simply enough, one is not better than the other, it's just different. And compared to before, where I would have held up a Canadian flag to hide the fact that I was American, now I'm proud. I'm simply proud. My country is pretty damn great. And to answer my own question, yes, I am proud to be an American. (Finally.) And it feels good.


That's all for now, folks.