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
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