Last Wednesday, May 17th, I was fortunate to watch the Champions League Final between Arsenal and Barcelona.
I had been pretty wound up that Monday and Tuesday in anticipation of Wednesday’s match. I was preparing myself for the worst, but was hoping for a minor miracle: a young Arsenal team defeating a mighty Barcelona.
On the day of the game, I planned my time out carefully. I was to meet a new student at 4pm, then I would give a class at Casa Americana until 8pm, and finally I’d scramble over to Finnegan’s to get a good spot for watching the match on TV.
My nephew had been sent home from school with fever on Tuesday, but he was fine on Wednesday morning, so he went on back to school. However, my sister phoned me around 1.30 or so saying he had fever again, and could I please go get him from school while she finished her preparations for some clients who were arriving that afternoon.
I had intended for a bit of quiet time around the house to calm my nerves. Sure, I’d already gone to the gym, but then was dancing around to some Erasure (Two Ring Circus, if you must know) and trying to decide what to eat for lunch. I hadn’t even showered yet, so with Lynne’s sudden call, my schedule was thrown off.
I rolled the stroller over to Daniel’s school, picked him up and brought him back home. Then I realized that I was running out of time. I only had time to shower before catching the metro. Thus, lunch would have to wait.
This may not seem like all that big of a deal (skipping lunch, that is), but I had a full schedule until match time, and Finnegan’s doesn’t serve food in the evening. Once again, I was faced with a dinner of pints. On one hand, it was probably for the better, as my nerves were already shot, and it was rather unlikely that I’d be able to hold anything down. On the other, as fun as it is, drinking pints on an empty stomach can do evil things.
Lynne arrived home to take Daniel to the doctor, and I was able to catch the metro. Thirty minutes later, I was walking down the street looking for my student´s address when I ran into Paloma. We exchanged quick greetings, then I continued looking for the building number.
As it was a warm day, I’d packed a two litre bottle of water in my backpack. I also was loaded down with several English textbooks and my Arsenal jersey. I was a bit anxious about this new student Monica. Though I’d met her briefly once before, I wasn’t altogether sure what she wanted to study, and furthermore, her mother had told me to be at the house by 4pm. The student’s mother told me some other things, too, but I didn’t quite understand her at the time; I figured I would just clarify in person that afternoon.
Around 10 minutes til 4, I found the building where Monica lives, so had a few minutes to relax and prepare myself. I took the opportunity to have a few pregame smokes, then a few sips of water, then was about to ring the bell when Monica walked out of the building. It seems that I would be teaching her brother for half an hour before she and I began. Oh.
The mother greeted me upstairs at their flat, then promptly introduced me to her 19 year old son. He was going to have an exam the following day and needed me to help him review conditionals. “Oh fucking hell,” I thought. “I need to review conditionals, myself.” This guy, like most Spanish teenagers studying English, doesn’t speak much English. Thus he proceeded to tell me in Spanish what he needed help with, and I was lost. Finally, I grasped what he wanted, and decided to consult some of the books I’d brought with me.
I immediately discovered a problem when I opened my backpack. Somehow, I’d failed to close the top on my water bottle securely, and now a litre and a half of water was washing around in my bag. My books were saturated, and my jersey was a sopping mess. “Oh fuck,” I said to no one in particular, but my student seemed to understand as he looked at my ruined books.
Suddenly I was babbling, trying to think of what to do. The backpack fortunately is somewhat waterproof and had actually contained the water inside the bag. I lay my jersey on my leg and tried to continue with our lesson.
45 minutes later, the guy felt pretty comfortable with things. I wished him luck on his test, and then his sister came in. After a quick check to gauge her level of English, we worked on translating an abridged version of Braveheart into Spanish; it was a homework assignment from her school. I tried not to get all weepy (as I’m a pretty big fan of this film), and almost let out a “Freedom!”
All in all, I felt things went reasonably well. At a quarter to six, I indicated that we needed to wrap things up, as I needed to be across town by 6.30.
I collected my things as the mother paid me, and then I looked down at my jeans to see that after sitting for an hour and a half with a wet soccer jersey in my lap, I looked like I’d pissed myself.
“See you next week,” I said casually, trying to act as if nothing appeared unusual. At the door, I turned to give a final hasta luego, and was horrified to notice a small puddle left in the chair I’d been sitting in.
“Well that went well,” I laughed as I raced down the street to the metro to get to Casa Americana, pausing only once to throw out an empty water bottle.
I sweat through my next class, literally. I was a drippy bastard by 5 minutes to 8, but no matter. It was time to kit up, don the wet jersey, and put the t-shirt into the bottom of my backpack to try and absorb some of the water. I’d worry about the true extent of the damage later.
8.10pm Finnegan’s. 35 minutes from kick-off. I saw a couple of folks I knew, and had a brief word. I was a bit irked, because the place was already filling up, and I wasn’t able to get my usual stool in the smoking lounge. Thus, I’d have to stand in the main bar area, where the TV, though bigger, doesn’t have quite the same picture quality as the plasma TV in the other lounge of the bar. I was cursing myself for not cancelling the 6.30 class that evening when I looked over and saw another colleague from Casa Americana. He’s a regular at Finnegan’s, and is known as Michigan Dave.
Dave has been around Casa Americana since the days my sister worked there. I’d met him once in February but he hadn’t been the most chatty of guys. I decided to break the ice. “Are you here for the match?” I asked, knowing that as a regular, he was just as likely to be there for pints.
“Indeed,” came the response. Now came the trick – “And the team?”
“Uh, I’m supporting Barca,” he said, looking at my Arsenal badge, “but it doesn’t really matter,” which ultimately gave me the opportunity to slide into the empty stool next to him.
We got to talking, and after he was reminded where I come from, he went into a great rant about how ridiculous unicards are. We agreed on the matter, and then I suddenly realized that he was likely to go on and on unless I found a way to change the subject. I could appreciate the fact that he was from Michigan, where no such item exists, and I pointed out that many of us in Dallas couldn’t quite comprehend the concept of unicards, either. That said, there was really no need to have a 30 minute conversation about them.
My intercambio friend Paola showed up, which was a welcome surprise. “Sorry, about the only Spanish you’re going to hear from me during the game is a couple of mierdas and maybe a joder or two,” I joked.
There’s always a little buzz of excitement in pubs when they turn the music down and turn up the volume of the game on TV. Showtime.
As the ref blew the whistle to start the match, I checked the level of my beer and decided I’d better refill. Dinner was hours away…
Arsenal started brightly (he writes in his best Soccernet style) and the game had a pretty good vibe in the opening minutes. Meanwhile, my heart was in my throat, and pounding. Oh please let us win this one…
Twenty minutes into the game, our keeper took out the Barca striker just outside the box and got himself red-carded. Oh fuck.
I actually almost left: maybe I could study some Spanish at home, or walk around the city, or get bitten by a dog, or get mugged or something. There wasn’t much hope for a 10 man Arsenal against a full squad of Barcelona.
Of course I stayed, and am very glad. A few minutes after the keeper was sent off, Arsenal scored off a corner kick, Sol Campbell no less, and the score was 1-0 to the Arsenal. “Holy shit, we could do this,” I thought, right about the time the muse on my shoulder was saying, “there’s no way they’ll win.”
At half time, I popped outside for a few smokes. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” I breathed. The second half is going to be so much more tough.
There were a fair amount of Arsenal supporters in the bar – both English and non. Many Spaniards who supported clubs other than Barca were still electing to support a Spanish team in the final. After all, Sevilla had just thumped Boro in the UEFA Cup, and two Euro wins would bode well for Spanish football. True, but I was proud of my team, and appreciated those few Spaniards that were supporting Arsenal.
The second half arrived with a full Barca attack, and ohlordyloo, it was game on. Arsenal, with 10 men, were playing out of their heads. They were defending well, and even getting forward a few times. Midway through the half, I had a sensation that we could win.
Alas, Barca is Barca, and they equalized in a controversial goal in around the 70th minute. “It’s over,” I thought, “We’ll never be able to get through extra time, and God forbid it goes to penalties,” remembering last years FA Cup, last years Champs League Final, and the FA Cup from a week ago.
Arsenal’s second keeper, a Spaniard, was having a fantastic game, but I didn’t think his luck would hold out. Sure enough, Barca scored a go ahead goal off an incredible angle to take the lead nine minutes from time.
We’re fucked.
As a fan, I stayed until the end, and that final whistle, I felt relief – it’s over.
I knew a guy who supported another English team, and recall how he’d say how “gutted” he felt when his team lost a big match. (It was Palace, of course, so how many “big” matches are we talking about, eh?)
Likewise, I lived with Tim during a time where we saw the Pirates, Penguins, Steelers, and Knicks all lose heartbreakers, and I’ll never forget his emotion.
Emotional? Yes. Sad? Yes. Gutted? No.
Arsenal played their hearts out, and though Barca was arguably the better team of the season (and possibly on the night, though with 11 players), I was proud. We hung in the game and almost made it happen. Contrary to negative commentary by the press in past articles about Arsenal´s lack of enthusiasm, Arsenal did play with a passion, a passion that I’d never seen. I was happy to be an Arsenal fan (one who recently saw Highbury for the first and last time), and believed our team could walk off the pitch with their heads held high.
Don’t go thinking I was smiling and shit, I simply was trying to look on the bright side. (This IS the life of Bryan don’t you know). On the way out of the bar to a taxi stand, I consoled a fellow Arsenal fan (Spanish, no less) who was still standing in front of the television in shock. “It’s going to be ok,” I said.
As I sat in the back of the cab on the way home, my mind rode the emotional roller coaster. Meanwhile, my stomach was doing the “fuck you, we have no food and are drowning in beer” dance, which I’ll point out has the ability to alarm a certain taxi driver. I called my sister and asked that she order a pizza for me so it would be there when I arrived home.
A few minutes later, I snarfed a pizza, then collapsed into bed.
I’m certainly not glad that we lost the game, but I’m glad that I made peace with myself before the opening kick. Barcelona are a good team, and they deserve the title of European champions. Sure, I had hoped to contact Arsenal FC and plead for season tickets or something on the grounds that it took me moving to Spain before Arsenal could win Europe. Oh well…
The rest of the week was a bit foggy, and I knew I would be feeling a little down for a few days. But, the World Cup is imminent, so there’s plenty of football going on. On top of that, Thierry Henry announced his decision to remain at Arsenal. We’ve got one of the best players in the world, and he’s vowing to finish his football career as a Gunner. Qué bien.
By the weekend, I was still feeling emotional, but starting to come round. I had pints with a friend on Saturday night, and by the first of the week, I felt back to normal, or as normal as I can feel as a guy trying to settle into a new life.
I have great days, and I have not so great days, but I can still honestly say that without doubt, I made the right move in coming for a new experience. At least I’m not having shitty days; I find something to enjoy about being here each day.
Take this afternoon, for example. I meekly arrived at my student’s house (recall the water spillage incident from a week ago) only to find that the student wasn’t there, and she would CALL me when she wanted another class.
OK, kind of embarrassing that I’d showed up expecting to give a class (I didn’t take any water this time), only to be reminded of my inability to understand Spanish. But, while I was laughing at myself at the metro, I ran into a cute little student that I sort of know from Casa American, and we had a nice chat on the ride to city. It was nice to see a friendly face on the subway.
Yesterday, I listened to Prince for the first time in probably a decade…and loved it. Sure, I was a big fan during the 1999 era (the album, not the year), but by the early 90s, really had changed musical tastes. I did find it to be the perfect thing to get the Erasure sound out of my ears…I’ve been singing “Hideaway,” for days.
Back to Prince. He went from solo, to the revolution, to the new generation, to a squiggle.
I kind of feel like a squiggle right now, but it just keeps getting better and better.
keep the faith
bryan
24/5/06
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Gotta keep laughing at myself
As I was falling asleep last night, I started thinking about how glad I was that I hadn’t passed out and fallen off the riser during the concert at the Palau on Sunday. Then, I thought about what would have happened had I actually fallen; I likely would have knocked over the majority of the bass section. For some reason, that thought made me crack up, though rather quietly, as it was pretty late at night.
This morning, I thought about other banner moments since I’ve been in Spain that have made me laugh out loud, or at the very least, bring a small smile. In no particular order, here’s ten things that have made me laugh during my first three months here.
My nephew really likes to watch me make coffee, particularly when I have to open the valve to steam the milk. The big whoosh noise is kind of fun (I’ve always enjoyed it, too), and then, after the coffee has flowed into the cup, I empty the little basket with the used coffee grounds and dump them in the trash. “Yuck,” remarks Daniel.
Having a coffee is something I do almost immediately after rising on the weekends. Usually, I get up before Lynne and Fran, but after Daniel has been up for a while. When he hears my footsteps on the stairs, he runs to greet me, as he’s ready for a bit of entertainment. “Are you going to have a coffee?” he asks. “Of course,” I answer.
“You drink a lot of coffee, bubba,” he remarked the other morning.
You can slip anything past that kid…
At Casa Americana, we mostly speak English around the office as we attempt to create an environment for the students that forces them to communicate. With private students outside of the center, however, this isn’t quite the case. My first meeting with a teenage student went OK. The mother speaks no English, and we did have to talk about the expectations, hourly rates, schedules, etc. I hadn’t really planned ahead for this, so struggled my way through the initial conversation, but felt pretty confident about things as I left their house after teaching. Each week, I’d have a little conversation with the mother, and I was proud to be able to hold my own with her.
Last week, after class, the mother commented that the first three times I came to their house, she had almost no idea what I was trying to say in Spanish, but she was now able to understand me. Menos mal.
This one is for Chris. I still manage to make every Spanish girl say “little push” out loud at least once. Leetle poosh. Ah, the things you get to do in grocery stores…
I can’t leave out the lovely afternoon in Casa Americana when the director, another teacher and myself listened to Richard Cheese sing, “I’d like to bend you over and eat you like an ice cream cone,” on a rather loud volume, while students crowded through the entrance of the office on their way to class.
In an urban environment, there tends to be a lack of trees and shrubbery. This makes for a bit of a trick for the local domestic pets, who take walks with their owners around the neighborhood. In most cases, the owners are responsible and clean up after their pet. Sometimes, though, the owners just keep on going with their animal, leaving a little pile of shit behind them right in the middle of the sidewalk. Needless to say, you have to watch your step when walking around.
A few weeks ago, I saw a lady who was cleaning her doorstep chew out a hapless owner who thought he could leave a little gift. He humbly had to clean up as the woman glared at him sternly, then was able to continue walking his pet.
On the way to the gym the other morning, I passed a similar scenario, albeit one that had gone awry. A woman was rolling her shopping cart behind her, and managed to go right through a pile of crap left behind by a inconsiderate pet owner, who apparently has a very large dog. This poor woman wasn’t paying attention, and proceeded to smear a large trail down the remainder of the block, which infuriated several shop owners, who all happened to be standing outside waiting for customers. Suddenly, everyone was yelling, complaining about the mess. I wished everyone “buenas dias,” and continued on to the gym. Come to think of it, I had an excellent workout.
Mullets – I’ve refrained from making any comments about this until now. Back in the 80s, most every guy in my school (junior high and high school, especially) had a mullet. I had one for a few years, myself, and remember the day that I had all my hair cut off (pretty much the day after senior pictures were taken in high school). Since that time, I’ve always been able to feel my neck.
Countless jokes have been made about mullets since then, and I think some comedian has a little bit that he does frequently in his shows.
Arsenal fans will recall the first time we saw Cesc Fabregas play first team football. Here was a little seventeen year old Spaniard who had a mullet bigger than life. “What the fuck is he thinking?” we asked one another. Within a few games, however, Cesc turned up with a new haircut, much much shorter. “What a relief!” was the general comment around Trinity Hall.
I really didn’t think too much about it at the time. After all, the kid was seventeen, and was a brilliant soccer player, so as far as I was concerned, he could have any hairstyle that he wanted. That said, I was a bit curious as to why he thought it was a good look.
About 10 minutes after I arrived in Spain in February, the mystery was solved. Almost every teenager in Valencia has a mullet. Though Cesc isn’t from this region, clearly this is the popular hairstyle of the moment throughout Spain. I don’t actually laugh out loud at a group of mulleted teenagers sitting around a metro stop, but I do tend to think to myself, “Gee, I’m about ready for a new trend.”
On the other hand, there’s a fair amount of girls that have a similar mullet-type hair style. I have to say that on them, it’s much cuter.
In the states, I almost always smoke Marlboro reds. I started this habit with them, and I just never could bring myself to smoke Camel. However, my favorite smoke is John Player Special, an English cigarette that comes in a black packet. Whenever I could afford to buy import cigarettes (these were only available in specialty tobacco shops, of which there are three in Dallas), I would pick them up. However, the expense was pretty dramatic. (thanks, Moe, for refraining from any additional commentary…like what my health care costs are going to be in 20 years). I did discover that JPS were much more reasonably priced when I travelled through London on trips to Valencia. Furthermore, JPS were much more available in local shops around Valencia..
Upon arriving in February, I’ve stuck with the JPS. They happen to be cheaper in Spain, now, so I’m making up for all the years I had to pay $5 a pack for them stateside.
The first three times I tried to buy John Players, the shop attendant couldn’t understand me. I was ridiculously trying to pronounce John Player Special with a Spanish accent, and was ultimately coming across like some idiot with a mullet. The blank stares I’d receive were most frustrating, and definitely not boosting my confidence in Spanish. As I gave up trying to verbally ask for the particular brand, I’d sigh and pull out a pack from my pocket and merely point. “Ah, John Player Specials,” came the reply as the attendants finally understood. Funny, ALL of them pronounced John Player Specials EXACTLY like I had asked for them. Geez.
One weekend, we took a little trip out of town with two other families who had children in Daniel’s class, and I got to talking with the two mothers, one of which was interested in helping me get a girlfriend, a Spanish girlfriend. I explained that I was pretty pessimistic at the best of times, and was extremely particular, but I played along. After all, this was not the time to turn down help.
During the rest of the weekend, and several times since (when we met for coffee or something), I pointed out individuals that looked interesting.
Five times in a row, she glared at me and said, “She’s not Spanish. She’s from Eastern Europe.”
I no longer play that game with her, but I do have a pretty strong desire to visit Armenia and Romania…
I’d rather skip all the times that I’ve misunderstood what someone was telling me, but I’ll share one moment. I arrived at the little bar across the plaza from my work, and greeted the girl that works there (she’s not Spanish, either, by the way). “Probably not, but I hope so” I replied to her question (of whether or not Valencia was going to win the soccer match that evening) as I plopped my keys, wallet, glasses, smokes, and phone down on the counter.
“Er, what I said was, don’t put your stuff down, as I’m just wiping the counter top off.”
They tell me that it takes months before you start understanding all the different ways that people can say things. Pretty embarrassing for me that I couldn’t understand her even with her South American accent.
Finally, the metro station. Ever since I marvelled at the way Chris would zip through the turnstiles on the London underground a few weeks ago, I’ve tried to improve my technique. Both in London and Valencia, you have to put your little pass in a little slot, then the pass pops out a different slot as the gate opens and you walk through. Chris sort of does it like he’s doing a magic trick, whereas I’ve always been a bit more cautious. (Part of this might be because once, at a professional football game, I watched a guy try to go through the turnstile too quickly, only to have it jam, which resulted in the guy racking himself. Pretty funny in it’s own right)
Anyway, I’ve been trying to sort of pop my pass into the slot, and retrieve it as quickly as possible as it pops out the other side. Unfortunately, the other day I forgot that the metro passes in Valencia can only go into the slot in one direction. When they go in the wrong direction, the machine stalls, and the gates don’t open, and everyone gets really pissed behind you. “Oh my god I’m going to have to go talk to the guy in the ticket booth,” I thought to myself, dreading the thought, as it’s right up there with having to explain to the principal at school as to why you thought it was a good idea to light a Bunsen burner after having left the gas on for a couple of minutes.
As I contemplated my next move, the machine sort of burped, out came my pass, and I got a do over, so in the end, I was able to move on through the turnstile after putting the card in the right way.
Off to class...
keep the faith
bryan
16/05/06
This morning, I thought about other banner moments since I’ve been in Spain that have made me laugh out loud, or at the very least, bring a small smile. In no particular order, here’s ten things that have made me laugh during my first three months here.
My nephew really likes to watch me make coffee, particularly when I have to open the valve to steam the milk. The big whoosh noise is kind of fun (I’ve always enjoyed it, too), and then, after the coffee has flowed into the cup, I empty the little basket with the used coffee grounds and dump them in the trash. “Yuck,” remarks Daniel.
Having a coffee is something I do almost immediately after rising on the weekends. Usually, I get up before Lynne and Fran, but after Daniel has been up for a while. When he hears my footsteps on the stairs, he runs to greet me, as he’s ready for a bit of entertainment. “Are you going to have a coffee?” he asks. “Of course,” I answer.
“You drink a lot of coffee, bubba,” he remarked the other morning.
You can slip anything past that kid…
At Casa Americana, we mostly speak English around the office as we attempt to create an environment for the students that forces them to communicate. With private students outside of the center, however, this isn’t quite the case. My first meeting with a teenage student went OK. The mother speaks no English, and we did have to talk about the expectations, hourly rates, schedules, etc. I hadn’t really planned ahead for this, so struggled my way through the initial conversation, but felt pretty confident about things as I left their house after teaching. Each week, I’d have a little conversation with the mother, and I was proud to be able to hold my own with her.
Last week, after class, the mother commented that the first three times I came to their house, she had almost no idea what I was trying to say in Spanish, but she was now able to understand me. Menos mal.
This one is for Chris. I still manage to make every Spanish girl say “little push” out loud at least once. Leetle poosh. Ah, the things you get to do in grocery stores…
I can’t leave out the lovely afternoon in Casa Americana when the director, another teacher and myself listened to Richard Cheese sing, “I’d like to bend you over and eat you like an ice cream cone,” on a rather loud volume, while students crowded through the entrance of the office on their way to class.
In an urban environment, there tends to be a lack of trees and shrubbery. This makes for a bit of a trick for the local domestic pets, who take walks with their owners around the neighborhood. In most cases, the owners are responsible and clean up after their pet. Sometimes, though, the owners just keep on going with their animal, leaving a little pile of shit behind them right in the middle of the sidewalk. Needless to say, you have to watch your step when walking around.
A few weeks ago, I saw a lady who was cleaning her doorstep chew out a hapless owner who thought he could leave a little gift. He humbly had to clean up as the woman glared at him sternly, then was able to continue walking his pet.
On the way to the gym the other morning, I passed a similar scenario, albeit one that had gone awry. A woman was rolling her shopping cart behind her, and managed to go right through a pile of crap left behind by a inconsiderate pet owner, who apparently has a very large dog. This poor woman wasn’t paying attention, and proceeded to smear a large trail down the remainder of the block, which infuriated several shop owners, who all happened to be standing outside waiting for customers. Suddenly, everyone was yelling, complaining about the mess. I wished everyone “buenas dias,” and continued on to the gym. Come to think of it, I had an excellent workout.
Mullets – I’ve refrained from making any comments about this until now. Back in the 80s, most every guy in my school (junior high and high school, especially) had a mullet. I had one for a few years, myself, and remember the day that I had all my hair cut off (pretty much the day after senior pictures were taken in high school). Since that time, I’ve always been able to feel my neck.
Countless jokes have been made about mullets since then, and I think some comedian has a little bit that he does frequently in his shows.
Arsenal fans will recall the first time we saw Cesc Fabregas play first team football. Here was a little seventeen year old Spaniard who had a mullet bigger than life. “What the fuck is he thinking?” we asked one another. Within a few games, however, Cesc turned up with a new haircut, much much shorter. “What a relief!” was the general comment around Trinity Hall.
I really didn’t think too much about it at the time. After all, the kid was seventeen, and was a brilliant soccer player, so as far as I was concerned, he could have any hairstyle that he wanted. That said, I was a bit curious as to why he thought it was a good look.
About 10 minutes after I arrived in Spain in February, the mystery was solved. Almost every teenager in Valencia has a mullet. Though Cesc isn’t from this region, clearly this is the popular hairstyle of the moment throughout Spain. I don’t actually laugh out loud at a group of mulleted teenagers sitting around a metro stop, but I do tend to think to myself, “Gee, I’m about ready for a new trend.”
On the other hand, there’s a fair amount of girls that have a similar mullet-type hair style. I have to say that on them, it’s much cuter.
In the states, I almost always smoke Marlboro reds. I started this habit with them, and I just never could bring myself to smoke Camel. However, my favorite smoke is John Player Special, an English cigarette that comes in a black packet. Whenever I could afford to buy import cigarettes (these were only available in specialty tobacco shops, of which there are three in Dallas), I would pick them up. However, the expense was pretty dramatic. (thanks, Moe, for refraining from any additional commentary…like what my health care costs are going to be in 20 years). I did discover that JPS were much more reasonably priced when I travelled through London on trips to Valencia. Furthermore, JPS were much more available in local shops around Valencia..
Upon arriving in February, I’ve stuck with the JPS. They happen to be cheaper in Spain, now, so I’m making up for all the years I had to pay $5 a pack for them stateside.
The first three times I tried to buy John Players, the shop attendant couldn’t understand me. I was ridiculously trying to pronounce John Player Special with a Spanish accent, and was ultimately coming across like some idiot with a mullet. The blank stares I’d receive were most frustrating, and definitely not boosting my confidence in Spanish. As I gave up trying to verbally ask for the particular brand, I’d sigh and pull out a pack from my pocket and merely point. “Ah, John Player Specials,” came the reply as the attendants finally understood. Funny, ALL of them pronounced John Player Specials EXACTLY like I had asked for them. Geez.
One weekend, we took a little trip out of town with two other families who had children in Daniel’s class, and I got to talking with the two mothers, one of which was interested in helping me get a girlfriend, a Spanish girlfriend. I explained that I was pretty pessimistic at the best of times, and was extremely particular, but I played along. After all, this was not the time to turn down help.
During the rest of the weekend, and several times since (when we met for coffee or something), I pointed out individuals that looked interesting.
Five times in a row, she glared at me and said, “She’s not Spanish. She’s from Eastern Europe.”
I no longer play that game with her, but I do have a pretty strong desire to visit Armenia and Romania…
I’d rather skip all the times that I’ve misunderstood what someone was telling me, but I’ll share one moment. I arrived at the little bar across the plaza from my work, and greeted the girl that works there (she’s not Spanish, either, by the way). “Probably not, but I hope so” I replied to her question (of whether or not Valencia was going to win the soccer match that evening) as I plopped my keys, wallet, glasses, smokes, and phone down on the counter.
“Er, what I said was, don’t put your stuff down, as I’m just wiping the counter top off.”
They tell me that it takes months before you start understanding all the different ways that people can say things. Pretty embarrassing for me that I couldn’t understand her even with her South American accent.
Finally, the metro station. Ever since I marvelled at the way Chris would zip through the turnstiles on the London underground a few weeks ago, I’ve tried to improve my technique. Both in London and Valencia, you have to put your little pass in a little slot, then the pass pops out a different slot as the gate opens and you walk through. Chris sort of does it like he’s doing a magic trick, whereas I’ve always been a bit more cautious. (Part of this might be because once, at a professional football game, I watched a guy try to go through the turnstile too quickly, only to have it jam, which resulted in the guy racking himself. Pretty funny in it’s own right)
Anyway, I’ve been trying to sort of pop my pass into the slot, and retrieve it as quickly as possible as it pops out the other side. Unfortunately, the other day I forgot that the metro passes in Valencia can only go into the slot in one direction. When they go in the wrong direction, the machine stalls, and the gates don’t open, and everyone gets really pissed behind you. “Oh my god I’m going to have to go talk to the guy in the ticket booth,” I thought to myself, dreading the thought, as it’s right up there with having to explain to the principal at school as to why you thought it was a good idea to light a Bunsen burner after having left the gas on for a couple of minutes.
As I contemplated my next move, the machine sort of burped, out came my pass, and I got a do over, so in the end, I was able to move on through the turnstile after putting the card in the right way.
Off to class...
keep the faith
bryan
16/05/06
Monday, May 15, 2006
Wow, I sang at the Palau last night!
One of the things I was worried about after making the move to Spain was integrating myself into the community. My previous trips have always been for two to four weeks. So, I have been particularly interested in measuring my progress from week to week. It’s been difficult to measure, so I mainly go off of gut feeling: how many days in a row do I feel like I understand what is being said, how many dirty looks do I receive on the metro, how often have I felt like an accepted member of the community, etc.
True, I don’t really physically appear Spanish, but, since I’m NOT Spanish, that makes perfect sense. The language barrier continues to become less of an obstacle, though it’s a slow process. It’s easy to become frustrated, because just when I’m thinking I’m understanding what’s going on in a conversation, I blink, and in an instant, I don’t have the slightest idea as to what’s happening. A friend of mine in Dallas used to say that sometimes, after a full day of speaking and listening in English, her second language, she would just be wiped out, and wanted to speak in Spanish. I have a much better understanding of this after a few months immersed in Spanish. Some days my head hurts so much that I collapse in exhaustion, unable to think or speak in any language.
Then I go to sleep, wake up the next morning, and do it all over again.
Now, I made the decision to come to Spain, of course, and arrived expecting plenty of challenges, including countless obstacles with the language, and to a certain extent, some difficulties feeling accepted as part of community.
Besides staying pretty involved at Casa Americana, the cultural center where I teach, I have allowed my sister to talk me into attending some rehearsals with the community choir of Alboraya’s music society. “It’s a good bunch of people, it’s fun, and you’ll be able to stay close to music.” As usual, she was right, and I found myself looking forward to rehearsals each week. Besides the mere social gathering, the choir was preparing for an upcoming concert in El Palau de Musica; we had been invited to join another choir along with an orchestra in singing Vivaldi’s Gloria.
As I mentioned in a previous write up, this is not the time to let opportunity slip by. Singing with an orchestra in a really nice music hall? How could I pass that up? My only previous experience like that was when I got to accompany Joe Jackson in a show in the London Palladium, but since that actually only happened in my dreams…
Besides the music hall experience, we were going to sing in Latin, so it’s not as if I really had to understand Spanish in order to sing the piece.
So, through April, we met two to three times a week for choir rehearsals. Frequently, I would hammer out the bass part on the piano for our section; my sister was doing the same for the altos. Rehearsals were fairly interesting. Most of the time, they were conducted in Valenciano, which I really don’t understand at all. It’s one thing when you’re quietly sitting on the back row of the choir, but when you’re with seven other guys trying to learn a really complicated section of music, look out. I appreciated the fact that our section leader (who knows the music well and was able to direct us…he simply needed me to play the notes on the piano as he recognized that I played better) was most patient with me as he asked for several phrases and strings to be replayed over and over. Never mind the music scale in Spanish goes “Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, si do,”.
Once, he kept saying, “mi, mi, mi,” and I failed to realize that he was asking me to play the note E. (In English music theory, we learned the scale by letters; C, D, E, F, G, A, B, and C). Furthermore, I didn’t quite know the word for “measure” in Spanish (or in Valenciano). Some nights I didn’t know if I was helping or hurting the group.
Just when I was thinking I should leave the piano plunking to someone else, several guys thanked me profusely for helping them to learn their part. It felt good to be appreciated.
Choir practice usually runs from 10pm to midnight. After a few hours teaching English, singing for a few hours wasn’t always at the top of my list of what I felt like doing. But, I kept showing up at rehearsals, and found a little time to practice at home, too.
I was starting to get a bit worried as we neared the end of April. Gloria is a rather complicated piece, and most of the choir doesn’t read music. Thus, they have to learn by hearing the part over and over again (thus the significance of me playing the bass line repeatedly for my section). The only problem with this was when we tried to join all the parts together: sopranos, altos, tenors, and bases. The words train wreck came to mind once or twice as we tried to sync up. However, we were meeting a lot, and I felt that we might have a chance of pulling it together in time for the concert.
Outside of choir, I finished up April, and then spent a few crazy days taking care of my nephew. My parents helped, too. Probably a not so relaxing way to spend the final days of their visit, but Lynne was in Barcelona and Fran was in Madrid. So, the three of us rallied, and Lynne and Fran returned at the weekend to discover their child was intact.
Sunday, the 8th of May was Mother’s Day in Spain. We celebrated by having one last family dinner, then my parents hit the airport and returned to the states. It was an interesting departure. I was sad to see my folks go, but was ready for a bit of a break. (uh, my sister and brother in law are probably saying that same thing right about now, after I’ve camped in their house for 3 months). At any rate, I think the past three months finally caught up with me by the second week of May.
One of the observations I have made after living in Spain for three months was that there are moments where you might not feel as welcome as you might like. It’s not as if people are running around telling you to get out of their country, but there’s a cold feeling you get from people. I experienced this same thing when I moved to Boston from Texas. As difficult as that move was at times, I ultimately preferred living in that area to living in the southwest.
I wasn’t freaking out or anything, but did mention my observation to a couple of people during coffee or intercambios. One girl, whose kid goes to the same school as Daniel, mentioned that she felt the same thing on a regular basis: it’s not an American thing. Nor was it only a Spanish thing. Basically, some cities, some regions, some areas of Spain (like in many other parts of the world) might appear a bit more closed to outsiders…non-natives, if you will. Let me be quick to say that I’m not judging Spain. Many cultures tend to be a bit more reserved and closed initially, then gradually become more accepting with time. As I mentioned before, I prefer the northeast to the southwest in the United States. Even with the close knit communities where you feel like a stranger, I feel a comfort level that is difficult to describe.
At any rate, I was experiencing a period where I was feeling a little distant from the rest of the community. Maybe I was having a letdown after my parents left. Maybe I was feeling a little short on music (I only have 50 cds over here). No sé.
Meanwhile, Arsenal finished their domestic season in style, completing a come from behind win to steal fourth place in the league, ensuring that they’d play European football in the next season. All this on the last day of the season, in their last ever match in Highbury stadium. Quite the emotional bit. And, they’ve still got a final to play against Barcelona, which has kept me up one or two nights recently.
Back to choir practice. We held rehearsals every night last week, with the exception of Monday. The concert was coming quickly, and we still had a lot of work to do.
I was feeling a bit out of sorts, but was making it to rehearsals, and enjoying myself, all things considered. I was still having some panicky moments about our progress, but I was beginning to think that we might just be able to pull it off. Maybe.
On Wednesday night, the 10th, I finished up my class, metroed to Alboraya, had a quick beer, then joined the rehearsal. Emotions were a bit tense, particularly from the director, who was kind of on the hook for having us prepared to sing this in the first place. Since there was no looking back, our choir was going to perform regardless of the fact of whether we knew the music or not. I was feeling pretty comfortable with my own ability; I’d been practicing at home, and pretty much knew the music. (note – true, I haven’t sung in a choir in 18 years, but I’ve stayed fairly close to music since that time (and yes, getting your ears blown out at a rock show DOES count). I’d argue that I can play piano better than I can sing, but I can also argue that I don’t sing like a complete dink. Part Shane McGowan, and part lead singer of Moenia. Unusual combination, I agree, but then again, I’m a bit unusual, raro.
So I’m minding my own business, singing in practice with the rest of the group, and I’m thinking a bit about the weird feeling I’d been having over the past week. Suddenly, the director stops us and makes a comment to the guy immediately to my right: “You’re singing too loud. Tone it down.” This other guy has been a bit odd from the get go, but here I am, an American, singing in the community choir of Alboraya, Spain. I’m not thinking it’s my place to start passing judgement.
The next thing I know, this guy, who just got dinged by the director, takes a pot shot at me, and responded to the director that I basically wasn’t contributing. In short, I immediately felt the guy had thrown me under a bus. It was the kind of comment that was beyond inappropriate…to me, it was as if the guy had stood up in the middle of a bar mitzvah and announced that all Jewish people were crap.
There was a moment of awkward silence in the rehearsal room as people realized that the comment had been directed at me. I was shocked, bewildered, and hurt. (additional note – in my previous choral experience, I’d always understood the objective to be that all voices combined as one; it’s important that no one voice stand out.) I was concentrating on hitting the proper notes (the other guy has a tendency to get off key on a regular basis), and immediately took offense to his remarks. However, I’m not one to stand up and make a scene, particularly when I’m new to the culture, the country, and the language.
My mind raced during the remainder of the choir practice. I got more and more angry, more and more hurt, and immediately left the room as the rehearsal came to a close. I smoked three cigarettes in succession outside as I tried to get my composure back. How come the director didn’t thump the guy for speaking out of turn? How come the rest of my section didn’t stand up and flog the guy?
One or two folks smiled a few encouraging words to me as they left rehearsals, but I didn’t feel much better…I was still too shocked.
My sister came out, we had a few words with some of the other choir members about the fact that the other guy was out of order, and then we went home.
I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept thinking that I was the displaced person, and had no business singing in this choir. Furthermore, I allowed myself a moment to wonder if I had any business staying in the country. Perhaps I was making a big deal out of nothing, but with the recent emotions I had been feeling, I wasn’t prepared to just blow this off as a minor incident.
I spent Thursday trying to decide if I should go ahead and leave the choir, allowing for the rest of the group to sing. I didn’t want to completely beat the crap out of the guy, but I’m certainly not feeling inclined to wish him well on his Saint’s Day.
Because I’d been a bit quiet Wednesday night and Thursday, my sister assumed that I’d just blown the comments off. She was a bit surprised when I quietly said that I’d decided to sit out rehearsals on Thursday night, and was likely going to sit out Friday night and the concert, too. We talked about it a little more, and I was glad that she elected not to pressure me too much about my decision, choosing instead to let me collect my own thoughts.
I didn’t have classes Thursday night, and instead spent a few hours getting loopy in Finnegan’s. I wondered if I had made the right decision to drop out of choir. I wondered if I had blown the whole thing out of proportion, and allowed my emotions to get the better of me. I looked forward to a quiet night at home with my brother in law as I stumbled home from the metro to dinner.
I arrived home as my sister was leaving the house for choir. “There’s still time to go,” she said as she collected her music and keys. “Nope. I need a bit of time, okay?” I replied.
Fran and I were chatting in the kitchen about his new mobile phone when the landline rang: a choir member was calling to speak with me. She gave me the full court press, and indicated that she was speaking on behalf of the entire choir. I said I needed a bit of time to think things through, but appreciated her call.
I slept a bit better that night, mostly on account that I had consumed so many pints.
Friday morning, I got up before Lynne took Daniel to school. She mentioned that my absence from practice the previous evening had raised an uproar; the choir discussed it for thirty minutes, and I think the entire alto section threatened to come over and kidnap me from home and take me back to choir. Everyone was truly sorry that the incident happened, and also that I felt so hurt about it. My sister was sent home with countless messages from choir members asking that I please come back to the next rehearsal. The director made an additional apology that he fully intended to have a word with the other guy, as this type of incident couldn’t be tolerated.
While I would have preferred that all of this had simply passed by quietly, I was quite touched by the reaction of the choir members, and thought about it during the rest of the morning.
At lunchtime, another choir member phoned to see how I was doing…and to ask that I please come that evening to practice; they needed me there, and they wanted me there.
One of the exercises I do with my students is to have them fill out the “getting to know you” questionnaire that floated around the email circles several years ago. In it are several questions like, “do you prefer to sleep with one pillow or two?” or “do you like pizza more than lasagne?” and stuff like that. One of my favorite questions is, “Have you ever gone out of your way to befriend someone?” If the student doesn’t understand the question, I explain that the question is basically, “do you ever try to make someone feel more welcome?”
The question has always interested me because I’m intrigued by human nature. I know plenty of Spaniards that have gone out of their way to make me feel welcome here. I now know many more.
Friday night, I met up with Lynne and a few others to have some quick tapas, then we headed to the music society to rehearse. Upon my arrival, I was overwhelmed as all the choir members came up to give me hugs, kisses, handshakes, etc. So much for a quiet return to the show, eh.
One of the more active choir members presented me with a letter on behalf of the choir expressing their interest in having me remain a member of the choir. The director personally reiterated the same thing.
Truly touched, I did turn supershy, and was ready to get on with things, particularly the rehearsal. It was time to put the incidents and events of the week behind me. We had a concert in two days time.
We practiced with the orchestra that evening, and though I was glad to be back with everyone, I was a bit nervous about our ability. Things didn’t seem to be coming together. I also wondered where the other guy happened to be; he wasn’t in practice.
It was past midnight when we finished rehearsals, and we were a ways from being ready for primetime. But, we would meet on Sunday afternoon before that evening’s concert….needing a little luck. I found out on the way home that my little buddy had gotten himself a four week vacation from singing in the choir.
A few of us went for late coffees and ice creams, and Lynne and I got home around 2 or so. Even with an espresso, I was asleep as soon as I hit the pillow. It had been an emotional week and I was drained.
Saturday was pretty relaxing, and a pretty good Bryan day. After a little family time during the first half of the day, I hit Finnegan’s to watch the FA Cup Final. I haven’t missed one of these in at least 10 years, but this is the first one I’ve watched from Europe. The rest of the times have been in the Dubliner, at 9am in the morning.
I thought happily of those good times as I watched Liverpool and West Ham. I didn’t have a particular team I wanted to support in this particular match, but did want to see a good game. I was fortunate, because this game was even better than last year’s Arsenal-Man U final. Finnegan’s was packed, and I found myself powering through ciders at an alarming pace. One of the barmaids gave me a concerned glance as the game went to extra time. I was holding my own, though knew that I’d have to be sure not to fall asleep on the metro on the way home, cos´ I was well on my way to being hammered (excuse the W Ham pun).
I had a nice conversation with an Englishman who had lived in the area for three years or so. He was pretty drunk himself, and finally said farewell as Liverpool stopped the final penalty and won the cup.
Finnegan’s cleared out pretty quickly, and I stayed behind and drank a couple of Corona’s, just for old times sake, and also to soak up some of the sweetness that a handful of ciders tends to leave.
I slept very late on Sunday, allowing for the alcohol to leave my system, and allowing for some much needed rest. Lynne and I spent a little time practicing, then got ready to meet the choir to travel to the Palau.
It was a warm day, so once again, I carried my dress shirt and coat separately. I would put them on before we went on stage.
The Palau overlooks the riverbed that runs through Valencia. It’s a beautiful building surrounded by nice fountains, but I was a bit surprised to find that the auditorium itself was rather small. I was delighted to find the acoustics excellent. We were going to be singing with a second choir, similar in size to ours. However, this was really our first time to sing with them, which made for some rather frantic moments some two hours before we were to perform the real deal.
I suited up, and one fellow smoker and I went outside (through the emergency exit) for a quick smoke, which turned quicker as the security guy came to tell us that we weren’t allowed to do that.
Back inside to find our places for the performance, and at 7.45pm, we were all waiting in the stairwell off-stage for our big moment. I took the time to get warmer and warmer, and then unfortunately allowed myself to remember all the previous times that I’ve been singing on stage in a choir and have passed out cold. Three times in my life. Besides that, I’ve passed out two other times, both at church related functions (though you need not assume that this is the reason for why I don’t attend church on a regular basis). So, I’m sweaty, thinking bad things, and getting that little panic going, and then it’s time.
Out on to stage we go into a packed house. I had just convinced myself that, after an entire choir had just gone out of their way to welcome me into their community, the least I could do would be to remain vertical for the duration of Gloria. Vivaldi fans will know that this is a 30 minute deal, so this was not going to be as easy as just a couple musical numbers.
The orchestra started, the director was zipping along, and BAM.
“Gloria! Gloria!” we sang, yours truly included (vertically upright).
A bit of sweat, a few wrong notes, and half an hour later, we finished our last “Amen.”
The audience went nuts with applause, and seemed truly appreciative.
Five minutes later, I’m outside trying to cool off and smoke a couple of cigarettes in record time.
Handshakes with the director, pats on the back to other choir members, we congratulated ourselves on completing the task at hand. My sister and I later agreed that we probably needed a few more rehearsals (like a month), but we can be overly critical of ourselves, as we know the music that we were singing. It’s a necessary part of performing, I think, to acknowledge where one might have done better. However, it’s equally important to appreciate the fact that people enjoyed the performance so much, having no idea that any mistakes were even made.
So with great relief, I finished a pretty tough week doing something pretty cool.
Personal crisis abated, its time to look forward. I’ve got tons of Spanish to learn, and I’ve got a new student who has a huge project due in about 8 weeks. I’ve just got to take things one step at a time, and take it as it comes. Sobre la marcha, as the saying goes here.
Arsenal-Barcelona on Wednesday. The Champs League Final. So much for an emotionless week.
keep the faith
bryan
15/5/06
True, I don’t really physically appear Spanish, but, since I’m NOT Spanish, that makes perfect sense. The language barrier continues to become less of an obstacle, though it’s a slow process. It’s easy to become frustrated, because just when I’m thinking I’m understanding what’s going on in a conversation, I blink, and in an instant, I don’t have the slightest idea as to what’s happening. A friend of mine in Dallas used to say that sometimes, after a full day of speaking and listening in English, her second language, she would just be wiped out, and wanted to speak in Spanish. I have a much better understanding of this after a few months immersed in Spanish. Some days my head hurts so much that I collapse in exhaustion, unable to think or speak in any language.
Then I go to sleep, wake up the next morning, and do it all over again.
Now, I made the decision to come to Spain, of course, and arrived expecting plenty of challenges, including countless obstacles with the language, and to a certain extent, some difficulties feeling accepted as part of community.
Besides staying pretty involved at Casa Americana, the cultural center where I teach, I have allowed my sister to talk me into attending some rehearsals with the community choir of Alboraya’s music society. “It’s a good bunch of people, it’s fun, and you’ll be able to stay close to music.” As usual, she was right, and I found myself looking forward to rehearsals each week. Besides the mere social gathering, the choir was preparing for an upcoming concert in El Palau de Musica; we had been invited to join another choir along with an orchestra in singing Vivaldi’s Gloria.
As I mentioned in a previous write up, this is not the time to let opportunity slip by. Singing with an orchestra in a really nice music hall? How could I pass that up? My only previous experience like that was when I got to accompany Joe Jackson in a show in the London Palladium, but since that actually only happened in my dreams…
Besides the music hall experience, we were going to sing in Latin, so it’s not as if I really had to understand Spanish in order to sing the piece.
So, through April, we met two to three times a week for choir rehearsals. Frequently, I would hammer out the bass part on the piano for our section; my sister was doing the same for the altos. Rehearsals were fairly interesting. Most of the time, they were conducted in Valenciano, which I really don’t understand at all. It’s one thing when you’re quietly sitting on the back row of the choir, but when you’re with seven other guys trying to learn a really complicated section of music, look out. I appreciated the fact that our section leader (who knows the music well and was able to direct us…he simply needed me to play the notes on the piano as he recognized that I played better) was most patient with me as he asked for several phrases and strings to be replayed over and over. Never mind the music scale in Spanish goes “Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, si do,”.
Once, he kept saying, “mi, mi, mi,” and I failed to realize that he was asking me to play the note E. (In English music theory, we learned the scale by letters; C, D, E, F, G, A, B, and C). Furthermore, I didn’t quite know the word for “measure” in Spanish (or in Valenciano). Some nights I didn’t know if I was helping or hurting the group.
Just when I was thinking I should leave the piano plunking to someone else, several guys thanked me profusely for helping them to learn their part. It felt good to be appreciated.
Choir practice usually runs from 10pm to midnight. After a few hours teaching English, singing for a few hours wasn’t always at the top of my list of what I felt like doing. But, I kept showing up at rehearsals, and found a little time to practice at home, too.
I was starting to get a bit worried as we neared the end of April. Gloria is a rather complicated piece, and most of the choir doesn’t read music. Thus, they have to learn by hearing the part over and over again (thus the significance of me playing the bass line repeatedly for my section). The only problem with this was when we tried to join all the parts together: sopranos, altos, tenors, and bases. The words train wreck came to mind once or twice as we tried to sync up. However, we were meeting a lot, and I felt that we might have a chance of pulling it together in time for the concert.
Outside of choir, I finished up April, and then spent a few crazy days taking care of my nephew. My parents helped, too. Probably a not so relaxing way to spend the final days of their visit, but Lynne was in Barcelona and Fran was in Madrid. So, the three of us rallied, and Lynne and Fran returned at the weekend to discover their child was intact.
Sunday, the 8th of May was Mother’s Day in Spain. We celebrated by having one last family dinner, then my parents hit the airport and returned to the states. It was an interesting departure. I was sad to see my folks go, but was ready for a bit of a break. (uh, my sister and brother in law are probably saying that same thing right about now, after I’ve camped in their house for 3 months). At any rate, I think the past three months finally caught up with me by the second week of May.
One of the observations I have made after living in Spain for three months was that there are moments where you might not feel as welcome as you might like. It’s not as if people are running around telling you to get out of their country, but there’s a cold feeling you get from people. I experienced this same thing when I moved to Boston from Texas. As difficult as that move was at times, I ultimately preferred living in that area to living in the southwest.
I wasn’t freaking out or anything, but did mention my observation to a couple of people during coffee or intercambios. One girl, whose kid goes to the same school as Daniel, mentioned that she felt the same thing on a regular basis: it’s not an American thing. Nor was it only a Spanish thing. Basically, some cities, some regions, some areas of Spain (like in many other parts of the world) might appear a bit more closed to outsiders…non-natives, if you will. Let me be quick to say that I’m not judging Spain. Many cultures tend to be a bit more reserved and closed initially, then gradually become more accepting with time. As I mentioned before, I prefer the northeast to the southwest in the United States. Even with the close knit communities where you feel like a stranger, I feel a comfort level that is difficult to describe.
At any rate, I was experiencing a period where I was feeling a little distant from the rest of the community. Maybe I was having a letdown after my parents left. Maybe I was feeling a little short on music (I only have 50 cds over here). No sé.
Meanwhile, Arsenal finished their domestic season in style, completing a come from behind win to steal fourth place in the league, ensuring that they’d play European football in the next season. All this on the last day of the season, in their last ever match in Highbury stadium. Quite the emotional bit. And, they’ve still got a final to play against Barcelona, which has kept me up one or two nights recently.
Back to choir practice. We held rehearsals every night last week, with the exception of Monday. The concert was coming quickly, and we still had a lot of work to do.
I was feeling a bit out of sorts, but was making it to rehearsals, and enjoying myself, all things considered. I was still having some panicky moments about our progress, but I was beginning to think that we might just be able to pull it off. Maybe.
On Wednesday night, the 10th, I finished up my class, metroed to Alboraya, had a quick beer, then joined the rehearsal. Emotions were a bit tense, particularly from the director, who was kind of on the hook for having us prepared to sing this in the first place. Since there was no looking back, our choir was going to perform regardless of the fact of whether we knew the music or not. I was feeling pretty comfortable with my own ability; I’d been practicing at home, and pretty much knew the music. (note – true, I haven’t sung in a choir in 18 years, but I’ve stayed fairly close to music since that time (and yes, getting your ears blown out at a rock show DOES count). I’d argue that I can play piano better than I can sing, but I can also argue that I don’t sing like a complete dink. Part Shane McGowan, and part lead singer of Moenia. Unusual combination, I agree, but then again, I’m a bit unusual, raro.
So I’m minding my own business, singing in practice with the rest of the group, and I’m thinking a bit about the weird feeling I’d been having over the past week. Suddenly, the director stops us and makes a comment to the guy immediately to my right: “You’re singing too loud. Tone it down.” This other guy has been a bit odd from the get go, but here I am, an American, singing in the community choir of Alboraya, Spain. I’m not thinking it’s my place to start passing judgement.
The next thing I know, this guy, who just got dinged by the director, takes a pot shot at me, and responded to the director that I basically wasn’t contributing. In short, I immediately felt the guy had thrown me under a bus. It was the kind of comment that was beyond inappropriate…to me, it was as if the guy had stood up in the middle of a bar mitzvah and announced that all Jewish people were crap.
There was a moment of awkward silence in the rehearsal room as people realized that the comment had been directed at me. I was shocked, bewildered, and hurt. (additional note – in my previous choral experience, I’d always understood the objective to be that all voices combined as one; it’s important that no one voice stand out.) I was concentrating on hitting the proper notes (the other guy has a tendency to get off key on a regular basis), and immediately took offense to his remarks. However, I’m not one to stand up and make a scene, particularly when I’m new to the culture, the country, and the language.
My mind raced during the remainder of the choir practice. I got more and more angry, more and more hurt, and immediately left the room as the rehearsal came to a close. I smoked three cigarettes in succession outside as I tried to get my composure back. How come the director didn’t thump the guy for speaking out of turn? How come the rest of my section didn’t stand up and flog the guy?
One or two folks smiled a few encouraging words to me as they left rehearsals, but I didn’t feel much better…I was still too shocked.
My sister came out, we had a few words with some of the other choir members about the fact that the other guy was out of order, and then we went home.
I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept thinking that I was the displaced person, and had no business singing in this choir. Furthermore, I allowed myself a moment to wonder if I had any business staying in the country. Perhaps I was making a big deal out of nothing, but with the recent emotions I had been feeling, I wasn’t prepared to just blow this off as a minor incident.
I spent Thursday trying to decide if I should go ahead and leave the choir, allowing for the rest of the group to sing. I didn’t want to completely beat the crap out of the guy, but I’m certainly not feeling inclined to wish him well on his Saint’s Day.
Because I’d been a bit quiet Wednesday night and Thursday, my sister assumed that I’d just blown the comments off. She was a bit surprised when I quietly said that I’d decided to sit out rehearsals on Thursday night, and was likely going to sit out Friday night and the concert, too. We talked about it a little more, and I was glad that she elected not to pressure me too much about my decision, choosing instead to let me collect my own thoughts.
I didn’t have classes Thursday night, and instead spent a few hours getting loopy in Finnegan’s. I wondered if I had made the right decision to drop out of choir. I wondered if I had blown the whole thing out of proportion, and allowed my emotions to get the better of me. I looked forward to a quiet night at home with my brother in law as I stumbled home from the metro to dinner.
I arrived home as my sister was leaving the house for choir. “There’s still time to go,” she said as she collected her music and keys. “Nope. I need a bit of time, okay?” I replied.
Fran and I were chatting in the kitchen about his new mobile phone when the landline rang: a choir member was calling to speak with me. She gave me the full court press, and indicated that she was speaking on behalf of the entire choir. I said I needed a bit of time to think things through, but appreciated her call.
I slept a bit better that night, mostly on account that I had consumed so many pints.
Friday morning, I got up before Lynne took Daniel to school. She mentioned that my absence from practice the previous evening had raised an uproar; the choir discussed it for thirty minutes, and I think the entire alto section threatened to come over and kidnap me from home and take me back to choir. Everyone was truly sorry that the incident happened, and also that I felt so hurt about it. My sister was sent home with countless messages from choir members asking that I please come back to the next rehearsal. The director made an additional apology that he fully intended to have a word with the other guy, as this type of incident couldn’t be tolerated.
While I would have preferred that all of this had simply passed by quietly, I was quite touched by the reaction of the choir members, and thought about it during the rest of the morning.
At lunchtime, another choir member phoned to see how I was doing…and to ask that I please come that evening to practice; they needed me there, and they wanted me there.
One of the exercises I do with my students is to have them fill out the “getting to know you” questionnaire that floated around the email circles several years ago. In it are several questions like, “do you prefer to sleep with one pillow or two?” or “do you like pizza more than lasagne?” and stuff like that. One of my favorite questions is, “Have you ever gone out of your way to befriend someone?” If the student doesn’t understand the question, I explain that the question is basically, “do you ever try to make someone feel more welcome?”
The question has always interested me because I’m intrigued by human nature. I know plenty of Spaniards that have gone out of their way to make me feel welcome here. I now know many more.
Friday night, I met up with Lynne and a few others to have some quick tapas, then we headed to the music society to rehearse. Upon my arrival, I was overwhelmed as all the choir members came up to give me hugs, kisses, handshakes, etc. So much for a quiet return to the show, eh.
One of the more active choir members presented me with a letter on behalf of the choir expressing their interest in having me remain a member of the choir. The director personally reiterated the same thing.
Truly touched, I did turn supershy, and was ready to get on with things, particularly the rehearsal. It was time to put the incidents and events of the week behind me. We had a concert in two days time.
We practiced with the orchestra that evening, and though I was glad to be back with everyone, I was a bit nervous about our ability. Things didn’t seem to be coming together. I also wondered where the other guy happened to be; he wasn’t in practice.
It was past midnight when we finished rehearsals, and we were a ways from being ready for primetime. But, we would meet on Sunday afternoon before that evening’s concert….needing a little luck. I found out on the way home that my little buddy had gotten himself a four week vacation from singing in the choir.
A few of us went for late coffees and ice creams, and Lynne and I got home around 2 or so. Even with an espresso, I was asleep as soon as I hit the pillow. It had been an emotional week and I was drained.
Saturday was pretty relaxing, and a pretty good Bryan day. After a little family time during the first half of the day, I hit Finnegan’s to watch the FA Cup Final. I haven’t missed one of these in at least 10 years, but this is the first one I’ve watched from Europe. The rest of the times have been in the Dubliner, at 9am in the morning.
I thought happily of those good times as I watched Liverpool and West Ham. I didn’t have a particular team I wanted to support in this particular match, but did want to see a good game. I was fortunate, because this game was even better than last year’s Arsenal-Man U final. Finnegan’s was packed, and I found myself powering through ciders at an alarming pace. One of the barmaids gave me a concerned glance as the game went to extra time. I was holding my own, though knew that I’d have to be sure not to fall asleep on the metro on the way home, cos´ I was well on my way to being hammered (excuse the W Ham pun).
I had a nice conversation with an Englishman who had lived in the area for three years or so. He was pretty drunk himself, and finally said farewell as Liverpool stopped the final penalty and won the cup.
Finnegan’s cleared out pretty quickly, and I stayed behind and drank a couple of Corona’s, just for old times sake, and also to soak up some of the sweetness that a handful of ciders tends to leave.
I slept very late on Sunday, allowing for the alcohol to leave my system, and allowing for some much needed rest. Lynne and I spent a little time practicing, then got ready to meet the choir to travel to the Palau.
It was a warm day, so once again, I carried my dress shirt and coat separately. I would put them on before we went on stage.
The Palau overlooks the riverbed that runs through Valencia. It’s a beautiful building surrounded by nice fountains, but I was a bit surprised to find that the auditorium itself was rather small. I was delighted to find the acoustics excellent. We were going to be singing with a second choir, similar in size to ours. However, this was really our first time to sing with them, which made for some rather frantic moments some two hours before we were to perform the real deal.
I suited up, and one fellow smoker and I went outside (through the emergency exit) for a quick smoke, which turned quicker as the security guy came to tell us that we weren’t allowed to do that.
Back inside to find our places for the performance, and at 7.45pm, we were all waiting in the stairwell off-stage for our big moment. I took the time to get warmer and warmer, and then unfortunately allowed myself to remember all the previous times that I’ve been singing on stage in a choir and have passed out cold. Three times in my life. Besides that, I’ve passed out two other times, both at church related functions (though you need not assume that this is the reason for why I don’t attend church on a regular basis). So, I’m sweaty, thinking bad things, and getting that little panic going, and then it’s time.
Out on to stage we go into a packed house. I had just convinced myself that, after an entire choir had just gone out of their way to welcome me into their community, the least I could do would be to remain vertical for the duration of Gloria. Vivaldi fans will know that this is a 30 minute deal, so this was not going to be as easy as just a couple musical numbers.
The orchestra started, the director was zipping along, and BAM.
“Gloria! Gloria!” we sang, yours truly included (vertically upright).
A bit of sweat, a few wrong notes, and half an hour later, we finished our last “Amen.”
The audience went nuts with applause, and seemed truly appreciative.
Five minutes later, I’m outside trying to cool off and smoke a couple of cigarettes in record time.
Handshakes with the director, pats on the back to other choir members, we congratulated ourselves on completing the task at hand. My sister and I later agreed that we probably needed a few more rehearsals (like a month), but we can be overly critical of ourselves, as we know the music that we were singing. It’s a necessary part of performing, I think, to acknowledge where one might have done better. However, it’s equally important to appreciate the fact that people enjoyed the performance so much, having no idea that any mistakes were even made.
So with great relief, I finished a pretty tough week doing something pretty cool.
Personal crisis abated, its time to look forward. I’ve got tons of Spanish to learn, and I’ve got a new student who has a huge project due in about 8 weeks. I’ve just got to take things one step at a time, and take it as it comes. Sobre la marcha, as the saying goes here.
Arsenal-Barcelona on Wednesday. The Champs League Final. So much for an emotionless week.
keep the faith
bryan
15/5/06
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
The Jesus and Mary Chain
OK, I was having my coffee this morning up on the terrace when I began humming a song that I hadn't heard in awhile. I have no idea why I was thinking about TJMC, but just when I was about to burst into song, I started thinking about the confusion I've had with names since I've been in Spain.
Normally, I've always been pretty good at remembering names, though in the last couple of years several friends have had children, and 4 or 5 of those little girls are named Isabella. I happen to really like that name, but suddenly had a tendancy to call every little girl Isabella. I have no valid explanation for this.
Upon arriving in Spain, I was already struggling with the language, particularly in situations when I'd meet someone for the first time. I've more or less gotten over the language hurdle, but now have a new problem: everyone seems to have the same name.
This is not a new phenomenon to the world, but it is to me, because now, on top of having to understand the language, I've got to really focus on remembering the name of the person I'm talking to. Maria Jose is so common, that I've repeatedly botched it, even when they go by their nickname.
There are countless nicknames, as I was informed when I first joined a gym. There were three women standing there, and Maria Josefina introuced herself to me ("I go by Maria Jose"), then introduced me to girl that worked there (also Maria Josefina, but she goes by Pepa), and finally to the third girl, again named Maria Josefina, but she goes by Mariajo. Neat.
I haven't been able to keep them straight since that first day (with the exception of Pepa), so just smile and wave when I see them.
I thought it would be easier with the guys. I was wrong; it's just as tricky. Jose or Juan is super commmon, and it's perfectly understandable. However, trying to remember Juan Carlos, Jose Carlos, Juan Manuel, Jose Manuel after having a few glasses of wine is almost impossible, for me at least.
No disrepect for these names or the culture is intended here. I truly appreciate the significance and think it's wonderful. That said, my personal trick has always been to find some sort of association to help me remember people's names, much the way the Old Monk referred to me as ESBryan. How many guys could they possibly have coming into their bar that would have 6 or 7 pints of Fuller's each night I certainly don't know, but they were able to keep my name straight.
I've had a habit of using a person's workplace in conjunction with their name, especially since I rarely know someone's last name. Thus, Dubliner Julie will always be Dubliner Julie, even when she leaves that bar and works in some other place. The same goes for Fireside Beth.
If not the workplace association, I'll find other means. I have a good friend Paula from the states, and over here, I would refer to her as Paula intercambio. This helped me differentiate her from someone else with the same last name. I was perfectly content with this, until I started another intercambio with a girl here. Her name is Paola. Paula - Paola. Hmmm, I've had a few slip ups, simply because sometimes my Spanish "au" sounds like my Spanish "ao".
In the states, I've got a good friend named Chris. In Spain, I know at least 6 Cristinas, several of which go by Cris. This made for some confusion when I was explaining to Intercambio Cris how Stateside Chris and I had been in London the weekend before. I had just figured out a way to minimize further confusion, when Cris (mother of a schoolfriend of Daniel) walked up, said hello, and introduced us to the woman with her, also named Cris. Yikes.
Scrambling to find a way to associate all the names, I looked at the baby girl in the stroller being pushed by the second Cris and said, "Wow, how pretty your child is. What's her name?"
"Isabella."
I give up. I'm going for another coffee.
cheers
bryan
Normally, I've always been pretty good at remembering names, though in the last couple of years several friends have had children, and 4 or 5 of those little girls are named Isabella. I happen to really like that name, but suddenly had a tendancy to call every little girl Isabella. I have no valid explanation for this.
Upon arriving in Spain, I was already struggling with the language, particularly in situations when I'd meet someone for the first time. I've more or less gotten over the language hurdle, but now have a new problem: everyone seems to have the same name.
This is not a new phenomenon to the world, but it is to me, because now, on top of having to understand the language, I've got to really focus on remembering the name of the person I'm talking to. Maria Jose is so common, that I've repeatedly botched it, even when they go by their nickname.
There are countless nicknames, as I was informed when I first joined a gym. There were three women standing there, and Maria Josefina introuced herself to me ("I go by Maria Jose"), then introduced me to girl that worked there (also Maria Josefina, but she goes by Pepa), and finally to the third girl, again named Maria Josefina, but she goes by Mariajo. Neat.
I haven't been able to keep them straight since that first day (with the exception of Pepa), so just smile and wave when I see them.
I thought it would be easier with the guys. I was wrong; it's just as tricky. Jose or Juan is super commmon, and it's perfectly understandable. However, trying to remember Juan Carlos, Jose Carlos, Juan Manuel, Jose Manuel after having a few glasses of wine is almost impossible, for me at least.
No disrepect for these names or the culture is intended here. I truly appreciate the significance and think it's wonderful. That said, my personal trick has always been to find some sort of association to help me remember people's names, much the way the Old Monk referred to me as ESBryan. How many guys could they possibly have coming into their bar that would have 6 or 7 pints of Fuller's each night I certainly don't know, but they were able to keep my name straight.
I've had a habit of using a person's workplace in conjunction with their name, especially since I rarely know someone's last name. Thus, Dubliner Julie will always be Dubliner Julie, even when she leaves that bar and works in some other place. The same goes for Fireside Beth.
If not the workplace association, I'll find other means. I have a good friend Paula from the states, and over here, I would refer to her as Paula intercambio. This helped me differentiate her from someone else with the same last name. I was perfectly content with this, until I started another intercambio with a girl here. Her name is Paola. Paula - Paola. Hmmm, I've had a few slip ups, simply because sometimes my Spanish "au" sounds like my Spanish "ao".
In the states, I've got a good friend named Chris. In Spain, I know at least 6 Cristinas, several of which go by Cris. This made for some confusion when I was explaining to Intercambio Cris how Stateside Chris and I had been in London the weekend before. I had just figured out a way to minimize further confusion, when Cris (mother of a schoolfriend of Daniel) walked up, said hello, and introduced us to the woman with her, also named Cris. Yikes.
Scrambling to find a way to associate all the names, I looked at the baby girl in the stroller being pushed by the second Cris and said, "Wow, how pretty your child is. What's her name?"
"Isabella."
I give up. I'm going for another coffee.
cheers
bryan
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