31 May 2011
30 May 2011
The First Five Days
Day 1: Dan, Sheryl, Pat, and Jay picked me up at the airport. This was after getting the first ever European stamp in my passport, and also after an older gentlemen took my luggage off the conveyor belt, thinking it was his own. That, or perhaps he was drawn to the rainbow ribbons adorning the handle.
Day 2: I awoke in my little house on Calle La Manda, where all the houses look like this:
We have a front patio, a back patio, a basket of flowers in our fireplace, and a thousand knick-knacks on our walls. It's the Spanish way.
Lisa showed me around town, and I spoke my first Spanish out loud to a native Spanish speaker: "Es todo." ("That's all.") It's not that impressive, but hey, let's celebrate the little things. Also, it's true that Castilian is spoke with a bit of a lisp, so "gracias" comes out as "grathias." This could take some getting used to!
My first grocery store purchase: ham, bread, milk, juice, and, of course, cereal. I have a theory that anyone can survive anywhere if only they have cereal. I also have approximately 26 years of scientific evidence backing up this theory.
Day 3: Pat drove the Smalleys and I to El Escorial, a monastery/castle which is also the burial place of the kings (and the queens, too, but only if they gave birth to a son who later became a king). El Escorial is home to hundreds of paintings, including one by El Greco that was relegated to a room of less importance in its day. (The painting is of St. Maurice's martyrdom--but the king didn't appreciate that El Greco focused more on St. Maurice encouraging the brethren to remain steadfast in the faith and less on the moment of martyrdom itself.)
El Escorial also houses a massive, beautiful library and several mysterious gardens--mysterious mainly in the fact that we could not find the entrance to them.
Day 4: I admit, I was already feeling a little sorry for myself on Sunday. After attending church and not being able to communicate with anyone who introduced themselves--except to tell them my name--I went home and thought about how I didn't have a car or the internet or a working Spanish vocabulary or anyone's phone number.
I kept asking myself, "What would I be doing if I were at home?" And the answer returned, over and over: "Taking a walk. Or creeping on Facebook."
Sick. Is that really what my life had come to?
Well, that was enough to jolt me out of my room. Thankfully, the good Caitlin (my temporary roommate) was outside on the patio, and she has enough adventure flowing through her veins to power at least twelve intercontinental airliners. The two of us wandered the streets of Camarma for a few hours before I went back to Smalley's in-home internet cafe. As it turns out, the internet is continuing on quite well without me. Who knew?!
Day 5: I attempted to recharge my phone at the Chino today.
Fun fact no. 1: With a Spanish cell phone, you only pay for the minutes you use (and only if you are the caller, not the recipient).
Fun fact no. 2: The Chinese-run dollar stores really are called Chinos.
Fun fact no. 3: I know how to say, "Necesito mas minutos en mi telefono." I do not know how to say anything else that could potentially be useful in this situation. The guy behind the counter was very patient, trying to ask what service provider I use, while the sassy customer next to me started scolding me for trying to refill a phone without knowing my provider. Ahh, yelled at by a Spaniard in the Chino. Welcome to Europe!
This evening, we went to Carrefour, which is basically the European equivalent of Target. Oh, Carrefour, te amo! Hangers and laundry baskets and Scotch tape, oh my!
Finalmente, Jay has just informed me that Prince William and Kate are embarking on a journey to Canada and the US midsummer. Friends, if any of you feel like sending a package overseas, I hope you know that a prince is a sufficient gift. Always.
29 May 2011
No, I really am here.
I just don't have internet at my house, so the Smalleys are being my gracious web hosts.
(That's a geek joke.)
So, I arrived in Madrid on Thursday morning, which is actually the middle of Wednesday night in North Dakota. And before I tell you about Spain itself, I need to mention the flight to Spain.
As a standby flyer, I got bumped from the 5:00 flight Wednesday morning, which left enough time for mom, dad, and I to make a McDonald's run for breakfast. The man at the airport asked me if he should pull my bags off this flight, since it didn't look likely I'd catch another plane until 1:13 in the afternoon. I didn't know what to tell him--my brain isn't even awake until 10:00am--so he left my luggage on. Oh, and he told me that if I took the 1:13, I'd miss the flight to Madrid.
That was sufficient to bring out a few tears. That and the thought of my poor, poor suitcases, riding around and around the carousel, abandoned by their master.
The second round of goodbyes was a little easier, as we figured I'd be returning to the airport and going through security at least three more times. Nope. I was the last one on board the 6:30. Then it was the 10:10 to JFK and the 7:40 to Madrid. (The layover in JFK included running between terminals to find my luggage, first to be informed that it was somewhere in the back, then that no, indeed, it had been checked all the way through. I went through security again, then curled up like a cat in the window of Gate B20 and took a nap-ette.)
Oh, the 7:40 to Madrid. Let me tell you about the 7:40 to Madrid.
It was business class.
Business class makes first class look like a street urchin. Business class is the man who wears pinstripe suits to preschool graduations. Business class is the Queen Mum of airline service.
Business class is drinks served in glass glasses. Business class is your own personal TV screen with your own personal selection of movies, shows, and music. Business class is a blanket and pillow all wrapped in plastic, a zippered bag of handy toiletries, a flight attendant offering you your choice of newspapers. Business class is having your own compartment to store carry-on items. Business class is a hot washcloth passed out with tongs before an evening meal of soup and shrimp and icecream. Business class is a warmed bowl of heated nuts.
Business class made me forget all about the bumped early-morning flight. I forgot that I was on a plane instead of a magical space bus, and I kinda just forgot about any fear of flying in general.
But don't be jealous, for this was all to be followed by jet lag and sweat and the reminder that my Spanish vocabulary is at preschool level. When I get a chance, I will be posting pictures and stories that will probably make my life sound better than average, but the truth is that, no matter how hard you try, the internet is just a cutting-and-pasting of reality, and I will never actually be as cool as the internet might make me seem.
(Still, business class was pretty cool.)
(That's a geek joke.)
So, I arrived in Madrid on Thursday morning, which is actually the middle of Wednesday night in North Dakota. And before I tell you about Spain itself, I need to mention the flight to Spain.
As a standby flyer, I got bumped from the 5:00 flight Wednesday morning, which left enough time for mom, dad, and I to make a McDonald's run for breakfast. The man at the airport asked me if he should pull my bags off this flight, since it didn't look likely I'd catch another plane until 1:13 in the afternoon. I didn't know what to tell him--my brain isn't even awake until 10:00am--so he left my luggage on. Oh, and he told me that if I took the 1:13, I'd miss the flight to Madrid.
That was sufficient to bring out a few tears. That and the thought of my poor, poor suitcases, riding around and around the carousel, abandoned by their master.
The second round of goodbyes was a little easier, as we figured I'd be returning to the airport and going through security at least three more times. Nope. I was the last one on board the 6:30. Then it was the 10:10 to JFK and the 7:40 to Madrid. (The layover in JFK included running between terminals to find my luggage, first to be informed that it was somewhere in the back, then that no, indeed, it had been checked all the way through. I went through security again, then curled up like a cat in the window of Gate B20 and took a nap-ette.)
Oh, the 7:40 to Madrid. Let me tell you about the 7:40 to Madrid.
It was business class.
Business class makes first class look like a street urchin. Business class is the man who wears pinstripe suits to preschool graduations. Business class is the Queen Mum of airline service.
Business class is drinks served in glass glasses. Business class is your own personal TV screen with your own personal selection of movies, shows, and music. Business class is a blanket and pillow all wrapped in plastic, a zippered bag of handy toiletries, a flight attendant offering you your choice of newspapers. Business class is having your own compartment to store carry-on items. Business class is a hot washcloth passed out with tongs before an evening meal of soup and shrimp and icecream. Business class is a warmed bowl of heated nuts.
Business class made me forget all about the bumped early-morning flight. I forgot that I was on a plane instead of a magical space bus, and I kinda just forgot about any fear of flying in general.
But don't be jealous, for this was all to be followed by jet lag and sweat and the reminder that my Spanish vocabulary is at preschool level. When I get a chance, I will be posting pictures and stories that will probably make my life sound better than average, but the truth is that, no matter how hard you try, the internet is just a cutting-and-pasting of reality, and I will never actually be as cool as the internet might make me seem.
(Still, business class was pretty cool.)
26 May 2011
24 May 2011
Well, it's real. It's really, really real. We fit everything into two suitcases, one carry-on, one computer bag, and a wee little purse (slash-proof even!).
I feel so...happy. And sad. And queasy. Weird. Stressed. Excited. Terrified.
And this is the easy part! Some missionaries used to go on boats for three months just to get to their destinations, and there was no such thing as Skype. I am grateful that Spain has that beautiful thing called the internet, and even moreso, that it is full of people who will help me figure out what in the world I'm doing once I step off the plane.
All right, States. You've been good to me.
All right, Lord. You've been good to me.
Here we go.
I feel so...happy. And sad. And queasy. Weird. Stressed. Excited. Terrified.
And this is the easy part! Some missionaries used to go on boats for three months just to get to their destinations, and there was no such thing as Skype. I am grateful that Spain has that beautiful thing called the internet, and even moreso, that it is full of people who will help me figure out what in the world I'm doing once I step off the plane.
All right, States. You've been good to me.
All right, Lord. You've been good to me.
Here we go.
Last-Minute FAQ
Mom and I have been packing for hours, and I do mean hours. The actual packing is not the hard part--it's the deciding. The mental inventory-taking. The answering of such questions as, "Why is all my clothing only either blue or black?" and "How much can fourteen shoes really weigh?" and "How many pairs of underwear can you stuff into a water bottle?"
(Answer to that last one: 10.)
Tomorrow is my last day in North Dakota. (<--I should maybe put an exclamation point there, but it sounds too jubilant. I am jubilant about this whole finally-going-to-Spain bit, but it doesn't ease the saying-goodbye-to-everyone-I-love part. But a period seems so final.)
Tomorrow is my last day in North Dakota;
And I need to be in bed, yet it seems like a good time to keep up the age-old tradition of night-writing, so here are a few answers to the questions I've been getting in this most recent pre-Spain epoch.
Are your students still in school? Will you start teaching right away?
The kids only have class for a few more weeks, so instead of teaching, I will start recovering from jet lag right away.
What will you do this summer?
Take language class, figure out how to buy groceries, stay away from bulls (running and otherwise)
How much luggage do you get to take?
2 suitcases (50 lbs each), a carry-on, and my computer bag. If you've ever seen my room--any of my rooms--you may think this an impossible feat. But it is not, good people! It is not. Because I am not packing any of my silverware or furniture or assorted boy band posters from the last decade, and that cuts down the weight limit significantly. :)
Why are you taking so many shoes?
Shoe sizes past 10 are difficult to find, or so I hear.
Since you're getting there later than expected, will you still be there for two years?
Yep, two whole years!
Will you send me a postcard?
Will you send me a postcard?!
What happens if I have been supporting you financially for a year already?
If you've committed to two years, you will only be giving for two years. Your gifts will just be waiting for me to catch up with them! For example, if you've been a supporter from January 2010-January 2012, those gifts will aid me from May 2011-May 2013.
Are you going to do some traveling while you're there?
I plan to, especially since the airfare within Europe is super reasonable! Personal travel comes out of my own pocket, so I've been saving up to see (amongst other things) the land of my forefathers (Norway, that is), the land of my favorite Prince (William, that is), and that gazebo where Rolf and Liesl danced.
What kind of government does Spain have?
Constitutional monarchy: King, Queen, Prime Minister, representatives, senators, ministers, councils, etc.
Are you bringing a Kindle?I may regret this decision later, but I just don't think I can do it. A book is a book, and for all the acclimating I can do in this world, reading a book on a machine (though, undoubtedly, a well-planned and charming little machine) is just one of those things that I'm not sure my old-fashioned self can get over. (Still, all opinions are not final.)
What books are you bringing, then?
My best-loved ones: CS Lewis' Till We Have Faces, Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, Ann M. Martin's Bummer Summer, some teaching reference books, Jerry Spinelli's Stargirl, the Bible, and maybe a little Calvin and Hobbes?
Do you think you'll come home with a Spanish man?
No. Dorothy and I have decided that it is best if I fall in love with a giant Dutch man instead.
Do you like spicy food?
Not particularly. But neither do Spaniards.
(Answer to that last one: 10.)
Tomorrow is my last day in North Dakota. (<--I should maybe put an exclamation point there, but it sounds too jubilant. I am jubilant about this whole finally-going-to-Spain bit, but it doesn't ease the saying-goodbye-to-everyone-I-love part. But a period seems so final.)
Tomorrow is my last day in North Dakota;
And I need to be in bed, yet it seems like a good time to keep up the age-old tradition of night-writing, so here are a few answers to the questions I've been getting in this most recent pre-Spain epoch.
Are your students still in school? Will you start teaching right away?
The kids only have class for a few more weeks, so instead of teaching, I will start recovering from jet lag right away.
What will you do this summer?
Take language class, figure out how to buy groceries, stay away from bulls (running and otherwise)
How much luggage do you get to take?
2 suitcases (50 lbs each), a carry-on, and my computer bag. If you've ever seen my room--any of my rooms--you may think this an impossible feat. But it is not, good people! It is not. Because I am not packing any of my silverware or furniture or assorted boy band posters from the last decade, and that cuts down the weight limit significantly. :)
Why are you taking so many shoes?
Shoe sizes past 10 are difficult to find, or so I hear.
Since you're getting there later than expected, will you still be there for two years?
Yep, two whole years!
Will you send me a postcard?
Will you send me a postcard?!
What happens if I have been supporting you financially for a year already?
If you've committed to two years, you will only be giving for two years. Your gifts will just be waiting for me to catch up with them! For example, if you've been a supporter from January 2010-January 2012, those gifts will aid me from May 2011-May 2013.
Are you going to do some traveling while you're there?
I plan to, especially since the airfare within Europe is super reasonable! Personal travel comes out of my own pocket, so I've been saving up to see (amongst other things) the land of my forefathers (Norway, that is), the land of my favorite Prince (William, that is), and that gazebo where Rolf and Liesl danced.
What kind of government does Spain have?
Constitutional monarchy: King, Queen, Prime Minister, representatives, senators, ministers, councils, etc.
Are you bringing a Kindle?I may regret this decision later, but I just don't think I can do it. A book is a book, and for all the acclimating I can do in this world, reading a book on a machine (though, undoubtedly, a well-planned and charming little machine) is just one of those things that I'm not sure my old-fashioned self can get over. (Still, all opinions are not final.)
What books are you bringing, then?
My best-loved ones: CS Lewis' Till We Have Faces, Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, Ann M. Martin's Bummer Summer, some teaching reference books, Jerry Spinelli's Stargirl, the Bible, and maybe a little Calvin and Hobbes?
Do you think you'll come home with a Spanish man?
No. Dorothy and I have decided that it is best if I fall in love with a giant Dutch man instead.
Do you like spicy food?
Not particularly. But neither do Spaniards.
20 May 2011
Top three questions I have been getting in the past month:
1. "When are you leaving?"
2. "Do you think you will marry a Spaniard?"
3. "Are you getting excited?"
Number 1 is easy (May 25th). Number 2 is easy to evade ("Not unless he's tall"). Number 3 has, up until this point, been slightly awkward. Because I've been at the point where I should be saying yes, but most of what I've felt has been a mix of trepidation, stress, and fear, and all manner of other things that are rather unlike excitement.
This whole process of getting to Spain has felt a bit like a kindergartner talking about her wedding day: sure, it'll be great when it gets here, but there are about twenty years to go. So when I am asked if I'm excited, I think of myself as that little girl, cutting and pasting magazine pictures in her journal, storing up ideas for someday far away.
Until this week, in which my emotions have finally caught up with my brain in recognizing that, oh my goodness, this is it! In a week, I will be living in a new country! And now that I get it, that I really and truly see it coming true, that I'm actually putting on the gown to walk down the aisle (or, perhaps, slipping into the comfy pants for my 8-hour flight), I am not just excited. I am downright ecstatic. So this is what it feels like to do the thing you're supposed to be doing! This is what it feels like to breathe again, to anticipate. This is the part that makes all that other stuff worth it--all those impossible papers that make you cry, that make you want to hole up on your couch and never even talk about moving again, the moments where it all feels so overwhelming that you'd rather puncture a whole dream than pull yourself out of your comfortably complacent existence.
It is finally feeling like spring here--my favorite season. It's the part of the year when the lull of winter is shed like an old skin. I step out of the self I've been, out of that long hibernation in a cave of apathy. The sunshine is beaming in, waiting for me to drink it like water, and I feel so awake. So ready.
Yes, yes, I am excited.
1. "When are you leaving?"
2. "Do you think you will marry a Spaniard?"
3. "Are you getting excited?"
Number 1 is easy (May 25th). Number 2 is easy to evade ("Not unless he's tall"). Number 3 has, up until this point, been slightly awkward. Because I've been at the point where I should be saying yes, but most of what I've felt has been a mix of trepidation, stress, and fear, and all manner of other things that are rather unlike excitement.
This whole process of getting to Spain has felt a bit like a kindergartner talking about her wedding day: sure, it'll be great when it gets here, but there are about twenty years to go. So when I am asked if I'm excited, I think of myself as that little girl, cutting and pasting magazine pictures in her journal, storing up ideas for someday far away.
Until this week, in which my emotions have finally caught up with my brain in recognizing that, oh my goodness, this is it! In a week, I will be living in a new country! And now that I get it, that I really and truly see it coming true, that I'm actually putting on the gown to walk down the aisle (or, perhaps, slipping into the comfy pants for my 8-hour flight), I am not just excited. I am downright ecstatic. So this is what it feels like to do the thing you're supposed to be doing! This is what it feels like to breathe again, to anticipate. This is the part that makes all that other stuff worth it--all those impossible papers that make you cry, that make you want to hole up on your couch and never even talk about moving again, the moments where it all feels so overwhelming that you'd rather puncture a whole dream than pull yourself out of your comfortably complacent existence.
It is finally feeling like spring here--my favorite season. It's the part of the year when the lull of winter is shed like an old skin. I step out of the self I've been, out of that long hibernation in a cave of apathy. The sunshine is beaming in, waiting for me to drink it like water, and I feel so awake. So ready.
Yes, yes, I am excited.
18 May 2011
Off the Grid
Of nine keys, only one remains.
In my four and a half years here, I've had six different keys to five different residences, plus a church key, a car key, and a school key. There's something lovely about holding a key; it means you belong here, and you may enter at any time. The fall after I graduated from college, I remember walking into the campus mail center and feeling the strangest of all sensations: my heart dropping into my toes because I could no longer open a mailbox. It was the most forceful slamming of the door between college and adult life--more jarring than not recognizing the freshman faces or not being able to check out a library book.
Over the past few weeks, I have been giving back keys. I turned in the church key awhile ago and the school key last Friday, then handed the apartment key over to Katie on Saturday. Next week, I give the car key to my parents.
It isn't just keys. Today I spent awhile on the phone, canceling Verizon service for next month, suspending health insurance. This is all very CIA-agent-esque, turning in your identity, turning off those forgotten little pieces of life that keep it running normally. I don't really feel any of it now, but I know the feelings will set in: it's just a matter of when. When will it really hit me that with each canceled policy, with each returned key, I am slowly locking myself out of the life I've made here, locking my North Dakotan life into a memory? Yes, I'll gain more keys and open more doors, but turning around to press against the closed ones can feel a bit like mourning.
Still, I take hope in this, no matter how far I might go, no matter how displaced I know I will feel: that sweet North Dakota is always holding out a key toward those that love her, toward those who need a place to call home, if even for just a moment. And those who reach for it will suddenly find it unnecessary, for North Dakota, like so many of her residents, always keeps her doors unlocked.
In my four and a half years here, I've had six different keys to five different residences, plus a church key, a car key, and a school key. There's something lovely about holding a key; it means you belong here, and you may enter at any time. The fall after I graduated from college, I remember walking into the campus mail center and feeling the strangest of all sensations: my heart dropping into my toes because I could no longer open a mailbox. It was the most forceful slamming of the door between college and adult life--more jarring than not recognizing the freshman faces or not being able to check out a library book.
Over the past few weeks, I have been giving back keys. I turned in the church key awhile ago and the school key last Friday, then handed the apartment key over to Katie on Saturday. Next week, I give the car key to my parents.
It isn't just keys. Today I spent awhile on the phone, canceling Verizon service for next month, suspending health insurance. This is all very CIA-agent-esque, turning in your identity, turning off those forgotten little pieces of life that keep it running normally. I don't really feel any of it now, but I know the feelings will set in: it's just a matter of when. When will it really hit me that with each canceled policy, with each returned key, I am slowly locking myself out of the life I've made here, locking my North Dakotan life into a memory? Yes, I'll gain more keys and open more doors, but turning around to press against the closed ones can feel a bit like mourning.
Still, I take hope in this, no matter how far I might go, no matter how displaced I know I will feel: that sweet North Dakota is always holding out a key toward those that love her, toward those who need a place to call home, if even for just a moment. And those who reach for it will suddenly find it unnecessary, for North Dakota, like so many of her residents, always keeps her doors unlocked.
17 May 2011
I just got home from Chicago with a visa in my purse!
Wow.
After sitting in the consulate for twenty minutes, waiting for a person to appear, one finally did--and asked if I was waiting for something. I had been chatting with the two other wait-ers, one of whom was having major troubles with her paperwork, and I kept thinking to myself, "What if that email wasn't real? Maybe spam is getting really advanced these days, disguising itself as legit email from consulates which happen to know people's full names and exact dates they stopped by?!"
I stood at that window and waited. And waited. And waited.
And then...she handed it to me. That beautiful, printed sticker that takes up a page of my passport. Visa! You are real!
And I won't say that I didn't tear up a little a few minutes later when I entered the bathroom just across the hall.
Wow.
After sitting in the consulate for twenty minutes, waiting for a person to appear, one finally did--and asked if I was waiting for something. I had been chatting with the two other wait-ers, one of whom was having major troubles with her paperwork, and I kept thinking to myself, "What if that email wasn't real? Maybe spam is getting really advanced these days, disguising itself as legit email from consulates which happen to know people's full names and exact dates they stopped by?!"
I stood at that window and waited. And waited. And waited.
And then...she handed it to me. That beautiful, printed sticker that takes up a page of my passport. Visa! You are real!
And I won't say that I didn't tear up a little a few minutes later when I entered the bathroom just across the hall.
03 May 2011
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