Is it Saturday yet?

Tomorrow is the first day of language school.

Tomorrow is also the day that the telephone company comes to install a landline and internet at my house. At the very same time I'll be at language school.

So tomorrow is also the day that Jay will be on call to come to my house and let the telephone man in if I am not back from the placement test yet. But tomorrow is also the day that Jay's furniture gets delivered, right in the same time span as the telephone man's arrival. And Jay and Lisa are also moving in the morning, but did I mention that Lisa will be at language school with me while the telephone man and the furniture man are coming?

Caitlin will also be at language school with us. Caitlin was going to move out two days ago, but there are still people living in the house she will be moving into because they can't fly out because there are 75 people on the flight standby list. Which wouldn't be such a big deal, except that she has friends who are visiting from the UK--the poor friends who may just be sleeping in our living room near Biscuit and the hamster, the living room that will allegedly soon get a phone and the internet. And hey, maybe the toilet man will finally show up while all of this is going on, will just appear in the middle of the internet-furniture-Welsh-friends-in-a-trundle-bed circus to install our brand new toilet!

That would be super.

The Residency Process: Part I

Residency is to complicated as toilet is to broken.

Remember that stack of 100+ papers I carried to Chicago for the visa? Well, that stack is now an integral part of remaining in Spain. It is 20 to 30 pages higher than when I left the States (although I admit my tendency to make multiple copies when one is just fine). And today was the first step in The Residency Process, a name I will heretofore capitalize to emphasize both its importance and its foreboding nature. Step one included taking all of the papers into a very official building in Madrid, turning them in, and hoping for the best. I was a little nervous, as one of my documents required a translation--I had gotten a scan of the translation via email, but I'd missed the mail earlier in the day, so the actual copy was stuck at the post office.

However, everything went smoothly, thanks to one of my WorldVenture teammates! He guided me to the rather nondescript--but still official--building and acted as translator/liaison while the woman--business-like but not unfriendly--asked for each document. They took the copies, they took it all, and now I have a number saying that I'm legit. Or at least that my legitimacy is in process. So thank you, Chad, for being my guide! Thank you, government official, for being merciful on me and my photocopies!

Also, thank you, random official woman, for crying "¡Cucaracha!" as your hands flew to your mouth in horror, and thank you, heroic official man, for smashing that cockroach beneath your shiny sole in a most chivalrous display, which I certainly watched out of the corner of my eye as I handed in my papers, making this good day into a great one.

Month One: Small Victories

One month and two days. That's how long I've been in España. It feels like more than that. It feels like less than that.

During June, my life has been a hodgepodge of sleep, weird eating schedules, and late-night runs to the school for internet. Each morning, I get sweaty just brushing my teeth. Each afternoon, my arms turn just a shade darker (I think you could now classify me as Pale Level 3, which is the same color as a polar bear who has been rolling in the dust). Each night, I crash.

While it's been nice to have an entire month to get situated, I'm kinda looking forward to the routine of language school, starting next Monday. (Officially, the placement test is on Friday, but I'm not certain I'm looking forward to that.) Another teacher has been going through the middle school curriculum with me, mapping out the coming year. This kind of planning makes my idealistic side kick in. I fall asleep thinking about books and writing and happy unicorns dancing on constellations, and it seems so amazing that I am the one who gets to be here. That I have all of those gray little brains to mold! These kids have hopped all over Europe and can switch back and forth between two languages, and I get the honor of spending nine months with them!

There are other nights when I fall asleep fearing that I will mold wrong. Like a failed Play-Doh artist, my attempts to sculpt minds will wilt all over the table like Dali's melting clocks. Maybe I'll end up like one of Narnia's dufflepuds, hopping around helplessly, only with one language instead of one foot. A monoling, rather than a monopod.

There are nights that I fall asleep instantly, and those are the best nights.

I suppose these are all normal first-month occurrences overseas. I have a feeling, though, that there will come some point when I look back on June 2011 and think, "Wait. Did that month ever exist? Was I awake for it?" But, yes, June is real because I have taken pictures of it. To celebrate the small victories of the past month, here are some of them.

This is the washing machine. I finally did a load last week, and other than perhaps adding too much detergent, the whole thing turned out remarkably well--especially considering that our little washer looks a lot like a character from The Brave Little Toaster, which is one of the most frightening children's movies ever made! I half expect it to come alive at night and make its way to the local junkyard to save its friends (if there is a local junkyard, that is!).

This is the dryer. Thanks, North Dakota, for teaching me about clotheslines at a young age! (My dad was a little concerned that I only brought three pairs of jeans. But if anyone is else wonders about my daily wear: I can't wear jeans at school because of dress code. I can't wear jeans in the summer because I will get heat stroke. I think I will wear jeans if I visit Germany. The last time I wore jeans was on the plane. Three suddenly seems a bit excessive. Also, I love dresses, and I love that Spain loves dresses.)

I have become almost completely pedestrian, which I also love! There are moments I don't love it, like when it's 90 out and the sun is reaching underneath my skin and stripping the first layer off. Other than that, walking is so wonderful because everyone does it. People are always out, always together. Families fill up pools outside. (Not many homes have A/C, but pools are as common as remote starters and block heaters at home.)

Getting into Madrid is a little tricky, as it requires a bus-to-train-to-metro commute, and the Camarma bus schedule is not always too convenient. However, when I think of the stress of the Spanish driving test--and all those traffic circles--I thank the good Lord for public transit. The last thing I want to do is figure out how to drive stick shift in one of Europe's largest cities!

Last week, it took me two and a half hours to get somewhere, mostly because my metro map was outdated and I had to backtrack. (Note to self: don't do that again.) At Atocha, I ran into some guys who were definitely American. There are three surefire ways to pinpoint Americans: their conversation, their huge backpacks, and the way they clump into huge tour groups at the metro stations. (I'm trying to be informational, not mean. Just to be fair, I will say that the fourth way to pinpoint an American is to stand in front of the big metro map in the station and see which girl is staring at it far too long. Because that girl will also be the one who sighs and heads back in the direction she just came from. And that girl will also be me.)

Anyway, these guys were very American, probably college age, but dressed as though they had just walked out of the 90's. One had the hair of Bill Pullman in While You Were Sleeping mixed with the hair of the oldest brother on Home Improvement. In the American spirit, I asked, "Where are you guys from?"

They just looked at me, obviously unenthusiastic about meeting a fellow outsider, and responded, "Texas. And you?"
"North Dakota."
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm going to be teaching this fall. I've been here about a month."
"That's about how long we've been in Europe."
"Cool!" And then I waited for something to happen, like maybe we'd all smile big, American smiles and wish happy trails upon each other. I was just about to say, "Well, have fun," when they stepped away. Not a step away to go somewhere. Just a small shuffle of a foot or two, just enough space to convey that the conversation had ended. I was later informed that this is weird behavior for Americans in Europe. But perhaps they were just overwhelmed, thinking that women of the future are far too forward.

I have consumed more pop in the past month than I did in a year at home. This is not a small victory, but it's a fun fact.

I have been able to buy groceries three or four times. This is to the credit of all graphic designers out there, who make products look consistent no matter the country. Perhaps somewhere there are boxes of milk that foreigners don't buy because they have pictures of bumblebees or something on them, but here, at least, I can always tell spot the discount foods.

Side note: If you bring a backpack or shopping bag into Carrefour, you need to seal it upon entry. That literally means that you put the bag in a big plastic bag, twist up the top, and run it through the little sticker tagger thing--like those used to seal up bags of produce. I've always had a strange fascination with office implements, so being able to seal up my personal items is the icing on the cake. I should start bringing in all my stuff: bag of documents, shoes, bookshelf. Bag it! Seal it up! Then take it home and open it all like it's Christmas Eve! And then...get kicked out of Carrefour forever, which means not having to buy groceries, which means saving money. This is the best plan ever.

I've been tapas-hopping with the 8th-graders-to-be, and seriously, this is a great group of kids. TCKs have to make a lot of sacrifices. They have to live with tons of inconveniences, like leaving in the middle of the school year, or hopping from home to home, or even not being able to claim one culture for their own. But that mix of stressers and inconveniences can become such a blessing, can produce such maturity and such resilience. As I listened to these guys talk about their travels, as I watched one of them stand near the ice cream cashier to translate our orders in Spanish, I just thought, "Wow. Wow. They are so, so blessed."

And so am I. So am I.

Next up: July. Bringing routine, new toilets, and internet to house #34.

Patio Time with the Landlords

So, our toilet is broken. Again.

The toilet is old and falling apart; its current failings are part of an inevitable string of problems that just come with age. Caitlin called the landlords a few days ago, and he said he'd just order a new one. Today at 4:00, Jose and Justa came to the gate, explaining that the men would be coming soon with a toilet.

Need I remind anyone that my Spanish is limited to present tense?

The toilet men were not there by 4:15, so Jose started weeding the flower bed, uprooting the massive spiky plant that has been dying and frying in the sun outside my window. I offered to help as he clipped dead roses and swept up the lavender, but he told me no, to sit, to study (I had been reading when they came)! Four thirty came and went, and Justa was glancing at her watch, saying that the toilet men were muy malos for not being there yet. I asked if they'd like some water to drink, if they'd like me to help with anything, but no, no, I just had to sit, and did I have a boyfriend, siblings, children? Justa showed me wallet photos of her grandchildren; Jose told me that my name was hard to say in Spanish, that I should go by "Pepita."

It was 4:50 when the toilet man came, looked into the bathroom, and said they'd have to buy a toilet, that they could bring it by in a day or two. Toilet man was gone as swiftly as he came, and there I was, standing in the bathroom, trying to understand Jose's instructions for the next few days, until the new toilet comes: Flush like this. Don't pour water into the bowl. (At this, Justa started laughing like that was the most foolish thing she'd ever heard. We'd been using a pitcher? To get the toilet to flush? It's for milk!)

By 5:00, they were on the way back out the gate, me offering my pathetic muchos gracias for all their help: for the weeding and the toilet-fixing and the generally being really nice as I explained that I had no idea what they were talking about. One hour, off and on. That is a record-breaking conversation in Spanish. And by the end, here's what I knew for certain: The toilet is coming eventually. Their granddaughter speaks perfect English and would really like our little dog. The day is very hot. It's okay to cut the lavender. Justa either is going to bring me a fan from Alcala or possibly just thinks I need a fan, or maybe she just thinks that her fan is worthy of admiration, or maybe she wants me to come shopping for fans with her. And, judging by the frequency of her laughter, I either bring her great amusement or great pity for all those poor Americans who can't speak in past tense.

Today marks my one-month anniversary of arrival in Spain.

And I am too hot to write or think. But here is the view from the wall around Ávila.

The Flood

In the front foyer of the middle school where I used to work, there was a small plastic sign reading "Flood Level 1969." On nearly 6 feet of me, the line came mid-torso.

The sirens went off yesterday, warning thousands of residents to clear out before the water came pouring over dikes and levees, trumping the flood record of 41 years ago. While my family members are living on safer, higher ground, most of my friends have had to leave the city. Just a month ago, I was walking on some of these bridges. I was sitting below ground level in that blue apartment building, the one now covered in plastic. My heart is broken. Pray for Minot.

¡Feliz Solsticio de Verano!

Progressive scenes from a sunset walk up the hill, just one night before solstice:

 

From this hill, I can see mountains, fields, and skyline. Here, I find myself romanced.

Call me Catherine

When I was in seventh-ish grade, our class was assigned to do a one-page report on an animal. We had to use three different sources: a book, a magazine, and something from the internet.

The internet?! Terror of terrors! No one had access to the internet! It's a wonder we can remember those days at all, the days before online life existed. Like beings just stepping out of the primordial ooze, my family had a 1994 Gateway, and I had access to all the information we'd ever need because we also had the 1994 encyclopedia on CD. When someone needed to hear the Chinese national anthem, who was typing "China" into the magical encyclopedia, then sitting next to the speakers with a tape recorder? When we fought over the Oregon Trail floppy disks (which were actually still floppy) during computer time at school, who was oh-so-proud of fording the pixelated river without catching dysentery? And when it was time to load up Chip 'N Dale: Rescue Rangers, who knew all the secret DOS words to make it run (MS DOS://RUN/CHIPDALE, ://RR)? Computers were the best!

But I hated the internet because we did not have it, and I did not understand it, and I'm pretty sure I stood there crying in the neighbor's basement as he searched for an online article about cheetahs so I could finish my stupid report. Stupid internet! Stupid online articles!

And now, I am again without the internet, not by choice--and I'm pretty sure I know people who have never used a book as one of their report sources, and I'm even more sure that I know people who haven't yet realized that some people had to survive without the internet. Survive?! Without the internet?! Yes, and walk uphill both ways to school while giving birth in a snowstorm.

It's incredible how dependent we have become on the internet, so it's probably a good thing that I haven't had easy access to it for the past month. Frustrating at times, yes, particularly when it comes to necessities like making bank transfers and getting translations--but I'm finding that I have more time for things like reading books and writing letters and eating corn flakes.

Currently, I'm using internet at the school. The school is surrounded by a metal fence. Once you get through that, you have two more layers of doors, and once you've gotten through all of that, you have less than a minute to get to the secret alarm place and turn off the alarm before the Spanish police show up. I have tried exiting in the middle of the night, fumbling with my keys as the alarm starts to beep overhead, glaring at me with its blinking red eyes, and though I'm terrified I won't make it out all those gates and doors in time, this process--in a strange sort of way--makes me feel like Catherine Zeta Jones in Entrapment or that laser-dancing guy from Ocean's Twelve. Oh, the things we do for internet.

Progressive thoughts on the way home from the Chino

First of all, it's weird that the dollar stores are called "Chinos." It'd be like setting up an American store of cheap household items in China and calling it "the American." Or calling a Spanish store in the States "the Spaniard." But, whatever. That's just how it goes.

So, the Chino. Camarma has two of them (you may remember that the one off the plaza is the one where the other customer chastised me about the phone. I am still working up the courage to return.). The other one is on a corner of town, and I figured it would be much like the first: haphazard stacks of notebooks and candies, plastic sugar bowls, cheap toys, and random merchandise emblazoned with the faces of Hannah Montana and SpongeBob. My roommate came home from the corner Chino the other day with a package of toilet paper and a shower caddy, and I thought that perhaps she was just more successful at locating things in the mishmash than I had been. But then Jay and Lisa reported their own Chino findings, things like tools and beauty products and stationery, and I was sold!

Oh, corner Chino! A magical world of affordable delight! Shelves upon shelves of organization, of paper products and pet food, of rugs and towels and White-Out. You can buy nail polish! You can buy screwdrivers! You can buy power converters, surge protectors, giant bottles of body wash, and sippy cups with cow pictures on the side! Not that I need any of those things, but it's nice to know that if I did, I could get them. My three-week search for padded envelopes came to an end in the Chino, as did my ruminations on how to keep dirt out of my bed (the answer: a 2,50€ rug in summery blues and greens).

As I walked home from the Chino--bag and heart full of happiness--I thought about how much better I've felt even since last weekend, since that teary confession to my WorldVenture teammates. There's just something about saying things out loud, something that makes the situation seems bearable, even if nothing else changed between the thinking and the speaking of it. It is small things like these that leave me no doubt about God's innate design and understanding of humans in the way he relates to us and asks us to relate to one another. Does he wish for us to confess things so that we can feel pious and spiritual, or so we might have leverage over another person? Did he place in us the need to confess so that he might have some measure of control over us? Of course not! I don't believe that he asks us to do things for the sake of ritual or to exert malevolent power; he asks because he knows how we function, how life is best lived. We are told to confess because the longer we carry things on our own, whether lies or secrets or pains, the more we are consumed by ourselves, and the more we shrivel into something a little less like a human being. Just to admit something hurtful, something humiliating before one other person is so healing--so how much more to do so before a group of people who love you, who are willing to pray for you, who care enough about your restoration to take part in it?

Tears, confessions, shopping at the Chino--they all add to the healing and to the feeling of belonging. And I'm sure I will be revisiting all of them many times while I'm here.

With a bus schedule in my pocket

This is a preemptive APB. Today, I am going to attempt a bus trip into Alcala. Because...you have to learn to do these things sometime, right? Well, I'm wearing a dress and I don't feel like starting the next book in my book stack, so today is the day.

It's like a 10-minute bus ride. And if the shoulder of the road weren't so deathly narrow, it would be within reasonable walking distance. So don't be impressed one bit. Just know that if you don't hear from me for a few days, I probably either a) got lost somewhere and am now making circles around Calle Mayor, asking for directions I don't understand, or b) found an English copy of Don Quixote and am sitting in the Plaza de Cervantes, reading feverishly.

Running on Spanish Time

One summer during my high school music camp days, the choir director insisted upon promptness: "Early is on time, and on time is late." He made us repeat this time after time, drilling it into our minds. Several days into camp, Libby and I walked past a fellow camper who was making diligent attempts to repeat the mantra: "Early is on time, and late is...early?"

Oh, misguided teenage boy, if only you were in Spain. Because then you would be exactly right.

Here, morning starts somewhere around 9 or 10am, and you don't even think about lunch until at least 1pm (or 3 or 4, potentially). Stores close down for "siesta hours" mid-afternoon, then reopen at 5 or 6pm or so. If you want to go out for supper, you wait until 8 or 9pm, and if you're a preschooler and there's a carnival in town, you won't go to bed until at least midnight! In fact, it'll probably be later because you'll be too busy not being strapped into the Torito ride.

Families old and young, elderly couples dressed up and holding hands, babies, teenagers--everyone stays up until the sun goes down, and some stay up to meet it the next morning. Although Camarma (or at least my side of Camarma) is pretty quiet by 10 or 11, I can take the dog out at 11 or midnight and still see people with their own dogs coming down the side of the hill.

There are a few exceptions to these rules, but the only one I know is applicable to the dogs of western Camarma. If you are one of the many dogs living two blocks from my house, you will wake up faithfully at 7am-ish and bark. Bark bark bark, just barking to let everyone know that you're still a dog, and all of your dog friends will bark, too, and you will keep barking and barking and barking, just barking like wolves beneath a full moon, barking until your snouts are sore. Until about 9am, you will continue the pattern of barking, then not barking, then barking some more. And then, just as suddenly as you started, you will all fall silent, nary a stray bark to be heard.

Until about 11pm, when you suddenly remember that you are a dog and must bark! Bark! Bark! You must bark to remind everyone that you are a dog and you can bark. So you bark and bark, and all your friends bark, and there is so much barking going on that you can't stop barking, and you won't stop barking until 12 in the morning or maybe later, because if none of the kids are in bed yet, why should you be?!

Disclaimers and Lists

Wow, thank you, everyone, for your response to that last post! As soon as I had finished it, I started thinking of addendums and clarifications--not wanting to give the idea that I dislike Spain or being here. The thing I dislike--whether I were here or Namibia or Colorado--is the feeling stupid part. It's like saying that you love your husband but get frustrated with marriage. (Why am I using all these marriage metaphors? I have no idea. Dear personal yentas: if you are reading this, I am not hiding things from you.)

There's one more thing I have known before but really, really understood as I was writing everything down the other day. I'm going to tell you briefly and then get on with it, and I'm not even sure this is necessary to explain, except that, hey, I have a blog, so why not? (Well, there are many reasons why not. What a terrible philosophy.)  Those of you who pray can pray about this. Those of you who relate can commiserate with it. And those of you who don't fit into either category can be just be thankful that you have your own brain and not mine!

Confession: my brain works overtime to create unnecessary anxiety, causing me to view life with an intensified butterfly effect. While all logical senses (and seasoned missionaries) are telling me to take it day-by-day, my brain can't grasp that concept. If my body did the thorough calisthenics that my brain goes through every day, I would be better conditioned than an Olympic gymnast. (Shannon Miller? Dominique Dawes? Any other little girls who pretended to walk the balance beam back in 1996?) It runs ahead to 2013 and tries to figure out whether I should stay longer or go home. It thinks about renewing paperwork before I've handed any in. I sometimes shy away from doing things because the details are so overwhelming (which is like giving up a free island vacation because someone might put poison in the martini. And I don't even drink martinis.). I should probably go to a counselor or something, but hey, I wouldn't be able to understand them anyway! (I feel like I can laugh about that today. :)

Anyway, since it's not likely I'll be getting a new brain any time soon, I'm praying that this one will eventually be transformed. In the meantime, a pictoral tribute to Spain (just in case you weren't convinced that I like it here), including some of my favorite things so far:

Fountains, fountains everywhere you look

Spanish sun, warm and bright, transforming my skin from its Scandinavian pallor to the shade of a slightly toasted marshmallow

Finding Egyptian temples in the middle of Madrid, and hearing all manner of languages as you walk around them

La Padriza: mountains and waterfalls and, yes, European sun-seekers

The bear in Puerta del Sol, forever plucking strawberries from the strawberry tree

The Metro--and the pleasant music played on public transportation. Heck, just the music played anywhere. (Thanks, street performers, for giving your city a soundtrack!)

Knowing that a pocketful of Euro coins is substantial enough to pay a bill

The crosswalk men: the red one looks like Mr. Incredible, and the green one has incredibly long strides

Last, but certainly not least: all the handsome Spanish men!

If you ask how I'm doing, this is what I'll tell you

There is a certain novelty to traveling, a novelty reflected in the kinds of trinkets we bring home: postcards, scarves, flags, knick-knacks. We've been there, we've seen it, we've become a little cooler for having experienced it, and now we move on to the next place, unconcerned about having enough language to bargain in the marketplace--because we'll be out of there in a few days, and if we get it wrong, they'll never see you again anyway.

Living is so much different than traveling; even the word "traveling" indicates that at same point, the travel part will come to an end. But living! Here, living means collecting a variety of papers and passing them off to various government agencies just to ensure that you can stay. Living means going to the same grocery store again and again--and encountering the same cashier who doesn't understand you just as much as you don't understand her. Living means that your day is not just one big string of impressive facebook photos, crammed to overflowing with tours and souvenirs, but that you stay mainly in one place, carving out room for yourself in that place, holding a thousand new words and cultural rules in your brain as you attempt to peel back the top layer of culture and make sense of it what's underneath.

It's amazing how one overnight plane ride suddenly changes your skill set. At home, I was able to change lightbulbs, deposit cash into my savings account, mail packages, drive a car to the grocery store and successfully find everything I was looking for, then write a check to pay for it all. I could call the internet company and have them set up or disconnect my service. I could communicate with several different people at the same time about various accounts, products, utilities, rental properties, and Sunday school curriculums.

Here, even the simplest things are covered in layers of boundaries: I can't set up the internet because I don't know who to call, and even if I did, I wouldn't be able to communicate what I needed, and even if I could, I wouldn't be able to pay because I don't yet have a bank account, and even if I did, the Euro is currently killing the dollar. Everything is just harder.

These are the things I can do in Spain: Spend cash. Take the mail out of my mailbox. Find half the groceries I am looking for and thank the cashier for her patience when I realize that because I didn't get a bar code for my oranges, I can't purchase them. Fall asleep at times and in locations that would make a narcoleptic proud.

In other words, I am already feeling the effects of being a resident, not just a tourist. I've been told that a cross-cultural move starts with a honeymoon period, and of course, I would have to go and be the realist who was already expecting the chintzy honeymoon in the one-star hotel. I knew it'd be hot and difficult and that I'd feel stupid more often than I feel confident, so it's no surprise that I'm only 2.5 weeks in, and already I've rolled over in bed, so to speak, and acknowledged that Spain--the very thing I've committed to--is not only hot and difficult but probably won't take out the trash, either.

Please don't misunderstand: I am trying to be honest, not negative. And even if you're unconvinced by that last paragraph, I do like Spain. I think it's beautiful, and I think it's exactly where I should be right now. It's not necessarily the country itself that I'm having difficulty with, for I'd be struggling no matter my location--no, it's the fact that I suddenly cannot be independent. I know God is trying to break me of this stubborn self-sufficiency, of my unwillingness to rely on anyone but myself. Like the dad from Calvin and Hobbes always tells his son, "it's building character." Well, dang, my character is going to look like a cathedral by the time I go home if it keeps getting built at this rate, even though sometimes I can't telling the difference between building and being punched in the brain.

I know it's transition; I know everyone struggles through it. Someone told me that the best cross-cultural advice he could give me is this: "Don't worry about feeling stupid." And that was great advice. I acknowledge it as some of the greatest, most practical advice one can ever get while living cross-culturally. But it is probably also one of the hardest pieces of advice I will ever have to learn to heed. It could take me my entire two years here to figure out. I hate feeling stupid. If I had to make a list of the top ten things I hate, it would be right up there with "getting bit by poisonous spiders" and "eating various types of grasshoppers."

It doesn't help that I'm not a ridiculously extroverted, outgoing, afraid-of-nothing kind of person who doesn't worry about missing the train or sleeping on a stranger's couch or getting deported. You want me to survive for two weeks on ham sandwiches? I can do that. You want me to wear the same shirt four days in a row? I can do that. You want me to wait at the bus station for half an hour every day? My friends, I can do that! But I can't, for the life of me, figure out how to stop being afraid of feeling stupid.

Language is a huge part of it. I mean, my Spanish is at the point where I could say a lot of things, only they may not be connected and they're always in present tense. I am finding that I can read much more than I expected to, but listening is awfully hard. I can speak, but each word that leaves my mouth is accompanied by a terrible fear. A smile may be universal, but it doesn't change things when you're at a purse shop and the cashier asks you the same question three times in a row while you stand there with your brain frozen, tongue glued down in fright. No se, lo siento, mi espanol es horrible.

Because of this one thing--because I can't speak--because I literally don't know enough to communicate well and because it is so hard to try, I am limited from doing so many things that were second nature at home. Every time I talk, I fear I am making someone feel bad or, perhaps, just making no sense at all. (It's likely that when my landlord's wife asked about the patio-haunting cat, I told her, "She, in the last night next day, is from the school.")

Yes, I can ask for help. Please don't think I'm not asking. The good part is that I'm not isolated in this world--I have friends who have just gone through this and leaders who are walking alongside me, baby-stepping me through all the processes. I know that other people have it way harder and that I've got a really supportive community around me. It's just hard, you know? It's hard to know that in the States, I was responsible for things like helping to run camp, and here, I can't even buy mandarins. Add to that the fact that there's more paperwork rigamarole to go through here--in Spanish--and that I have just been introduced to several shelves full of things that I'll be teaching next year, and you'll understand why I'm suddenly feeling this desire to sleep, and only sleep, straight through to July.

I'll make it. Of course I will. Of course my emotions would look like a mountain range if charted, peaks and valleys, moments when I can't believe how green and lush and beautiful Spain's parks are, followed by moments of shame when I can't find the words to tell the kind man from church just how long I've been living here. At a team meeting last night, I woke up to the fact that living is stress. It's just the way it is. Things are hard, and they will continue to be hard, and as long as we are Americans living on Spanish soil, that's the way it's going to be. Spain is not here to make us feel comfortable and loved; that's what we have each other for. "And you get used to it," one of them told me. "This becomes your new normal. Everything is harder, and eventually, that just becomes normal to you."

I know it won't be soon. I know that daily life in Camarma is going to be hard and not very glamorous. I know that if I posted facebook albums of what each day really looks like, there'd be more pictures of my pillow and my sunburned arms and my "I-feel-stupid-again" facial expressions than of castles and ice cream and knick-knacks. (Well, that last one might be a lie. My daily life is pretty full of knick-knacks; the landlords have seen to that!)

But I also know that whenever I reflect on my time in Spain, be it in a month or a year or a decade, I want to look at the things that happened here and know that I lived. Not just traveled here, but lived. To have experienced Spanish life in all its gritty, difficult, sweaty, frustrating glory. To come home not with a suitcase of souvenirs but of memories and triumphs, of challenges met, and, yes, of character.

Some days, you cry. Some days, you take a picture in front of a castle. And then you keep moving forward, no matter how stupid you feel, one teeny-tiny step at a time.

 

                          

Welcome to Camarma.

This was taken from the hill on the town's western edge, the hill that is a mere 20-second walk from my house. I know that in the next two years, there are going to be moments when I wonder what on earth I'm doing here, so far from everything I know, moments when people won't be so patient with my Spanish or my inability to kiss on the cheek like a real Spaniard instead of a giant pecking pelican.

I love the pulse of cities, all the things they have to offer, but God knows how much I needed to be in a place like this, a place with open spaces, a place where you can walk forever and reach only sky. Already I have found myself walking up the dirt path and thinking of North Dakota, and I know that Camarma will be a place that lets me feel my roots, even as it presses me to unfold my wings.

Caitlin and Shar Open a Petting Zoo and Become Best Friends with the Landlord

This is the hamster who lives in my room,

who adds to the air her rodential perfume.

This is the Biscuit, my small doggie friend

who is staying with me until the summer’s end,

who is friends with the hamster which lives in my room,

who adds to the air that rodentious perfume.

This is the outsider; this is The Cat

who hopped on our porch for a post-midnight chat,

whose attempts at procuring our affections fell flat,

who took one look at Biscuit, then clawed, hissed, and spat.

This is The Cat with a very strong will

who invited herself into my windowsill.

That morning, the toilet just wouldn’t stop running,

and The Cat could be found on our patio, sunning.

(As I haven't actually photographed our toilet, please use your imagination here and pardon the abrupt break in rhythm.)

This is the toilet that decided to die

just ten minutes after our landlords stopped by.

This is the Caitlin who called them to try

to explain things in Spanish while I stood idly by.

While the landlord stood over our old toilet tank,

The Cat declared turf war and tried to pull rank.

Yes, this is the Caitlin who doused the foul cat

which was growling at Biscuit and swiping at Pat.

Oh, the landlord, he mended our toilet right up

as sweet Biscuit just sat there, oblivious pup--

Caitlin drenching her old feline foe with a cup.

The Cat scowled away with flashing cat eyes

as Caitlin, in English, did apologize.

But The Cat's not bilingual, or so I surmise,

as she still has returned to our front door, her prize.

So it's possible I should start charging a fee,

for those knocking on door 34 will soon see

an amiable landlord who makes return trips,

a toilet running water enough to sail ships,

a Caitlin who translates and dumps water on

the spurned Cat who prowls and hisses and fawns,

who hates little Biscuit, my small doggie friend,

who'll stay in my bedroom until summer’s end,

who’s there with a hamster all fuzzy and small--

and maniacal Shar, trying to manage it all.

In which I inherit a rodent

This morning, I met with the former middle school English teacher (and by "former," I mean "as of last week"). She showed me through stacks of curriculum, transparencies, and novels, as well as the classroom I hope I can keep (third floor, two walls of windows. Windows!).

And then she introduced me to the class hamster.

This particular hamster has somewhat of a sordid history, beginning as a science project. I don't know the details, only that the hamster outperformed a mouse, and the student doing the experiment was so angry he could barely write his final report. Anyway, the allegedly more-intelligent hamster took up residence in the middle school classroom, and there she lived happily in her toilet paper nest until Christmas vacation, at which point she went home with a student for a few weeks.

When the hamster returned, the teacher noticed that she was a little bit whiter. A little less active. A little less the same hamster that had been sent home. But the student swore that it was the very same creature, and so this hamster, potentially of equal or greater intelligence than the first, continues to live on ECA's third floor. And, soon, in my bedroom. This is how it happened:

"Oh, so cute!" I said as she poked her pink little nose out of the paper shreds.

"Do you like hamsters?" the teacher asked.

"I love rodents," I answered, holding my hand open to receive the fuzzy deposit.

"Oh, good! I was really concerned about what I was going to do with her, but if you take her..."

Sly. Very sly. In one sentence, my love for small creatures had transformed into a commitment. However, I'm a sucker for beady eyes, and so I happily announce that I have graduated from betta fish to four-pawed creatures in less than a month. Hamster, thou art mine!

Of Sponges and Seas

There are three things I fear I will never be able to escape, no matter which country I go to: Lady Gaga, SpongeBob Squarepants, and really cheap, tacky carnival toys.

(However, in wandering the Lava Pies neighborhood of Madrid today, my roommate Caitlin witnessed me giving the Lady Gaga in the poster a swift punch to the face. Is it culturally sensitive? Possibly not. But is Lady Gaga herself culturally sensitive? I feel like I was doing humanity a favor.)

Honestly, I am amazed at the things that can translate cross-culturally. How is it possible for a gap-toothed, abnormally loud sea sponge to become a pop culture icon both home and abroad? And, for that matter, how is it possible that there are two Bob Esponjas handing out balloon animals in Plaza Mayor?! (Along these lines, how is it possible that the movie about Justin Bieber was released just a year after the movie about Michael Jackson? Oh, celebrity, you are a great mystery.)

Lost in Alcala

Carpet has no home in Spain. The floors are tile, and so my bare feet are beginning to bring the sand to bed with me. Ahh, just like camp!

I think I may be starting to get over jet lag. Now there are just two years of life lag to get over--then I will be a real human again! My brain obviously isn't totally awake, as evidenced by my attempt at buying a bus pass today. Even after some coaching from Jay, I managed to say, "I need a ticket for God trips." I meant "ten," not "God." The lady just smiled and said something about God not having trips.

This is Miguel Cervantes, writer of Don Quixote. Mr. Cervantes was born in Alcala, the next city over from Camarma, so there's a statue, a plaza, and numerous other landmarks devoted to (or at least alluding to) him. Alcala is a pretty town, full of cobblestones and scary storks. And I got to see a small chunk of it today. Jay introduced me to the bus system and my soon-to-be language school, then let me explore while he was in class.

Let me say right now that God gives different gifts to everybody. Some people, they have the gift of cooking. Others, the gift of carpentry. Still others, gifts of swimming or engineering or spatial reasoning. I don't have any of those gifts, particularly that last one. No, God gave me the gift of...height. Maybe the gift of reading? Of idealism? A good eye for color? Are these even gifts?!

Okay, okay, I won't be ungrateful. I know there are many things I can do. The problem is, I seem to be defunct of certain important practical skills, like making a good pot of chili or fixing a lawnmower. But the area where I am most lacking is probably navigation. Hamsters have a better sense of direction than I do. Which explains how I ended up heading out of the Plaza, certain I knew which way I was going. Thirty minutes later, I was utilizing my gift of persisting-in-the-wrong-direction-because-it's-easier-than-turning-around, and I finally had to stop a Spanish grandma on the street to ask for directions. She was very adamant that I get to the right place, yelling, "STOP!" when I attempted an incorrect left turn. (I speed-walked after that, just in case she saw me take another wrong turn and realized I hadn't understood a word of her instructions.) Okay, see, I do have lots of gifts! I am very good at not asking for help until the very last moment.

I was supposed to meet Jay at the golden Don Quixote, but as it turns out, I have the little-known gift of missing the bus, so we got another hour in Alcala. This is when I think of my good friend G.K. Chesterton, who once said, "An adventure is an inconvenience rightly considered." This is also the point where I commend Jay for using his gift of graciousness.

(Mom, you may be worried that you sent the wrong child to Europe. But it turns out that I was only off by blocks, not miles, and everything sounds more dramatic on the internet. Promise!)

Point is, I now know how to get on the bus and I know how to get to the Plaza de Cervantes. And since I walked past them so many times, I also know how to get to the comic book store and the preschool with the happy lion face on its banner.