"After 6 months in Spain, you're probably having good days and bad days with the language. Six months from now, you'll notice an even bigger difference...and you'll get better."
My friend Rafa made this remark to me last Friday night while we were eating at a Pakistani restaurant.
Rafa pretty much hit it on the head with his comment, and I spent most of the weekend thinking, recapping the past six months.
Without a doubt, my Spanish is much much better, and it continues to improve. Sure, I still have frequent moments where I get totally lost, confused, and unable to speak, but being lost, confused, and speechless is something I experienced just as much in the US for my first 35 years, too. A change in culture and language is simply a change is culture and language.
True, I've been frustrated on two levels, regarding the first six months here in Spain. First, I expected to be comprehending the language quite a bit better, but I've realized that it's a slow process. I'm comforted knowing that every day, I notice an improvement (though it’s accompanied by random days of brain implosion and complete inability to understand fuck all.)
Most frustrating for me, though, is my lack of speech. Contrary to popular myth, I'm rather quiet, and prefer to listen instead of speaking. Sure, I have had many moments where I've gabbed incessantly throughout my life, most notably in the past five to eight years. Since my arrival in Spain, I tend to be a bit more reluctant to speak. I'm careful not to say, "afraid to speak", here, though I have to believe that in a cultural immersion, there is a subconscious bit where you don't speak as much, lest someone you're talking to starts talking about racism in western Europe or some topic that's beyond your scope of language expression.
When I started Spanish classes a month ago, I panicked on the first day of school, as all of my classmates seemed to have an advanced ability at conversation and expression in Spanish. Four weeks later, I've realized that their ability in the language isn't really that much better, but their desire to express is.
To some extent, I'm envious of those that like to speak so much. In college (and in high school and junior high), it was rare for me to open up in discussions, and God forbid we had to do an oral report. Funny, though, that in my career over the past ten years, I had almost no problem opening my gob and spewing all kinds of statements, both bullshit and sensible.
A couple of weeks ago, I had a chance to get to talk to a classmate about her experience in Spain. This girl is German, and is one of he nicest persons I've ever met in my life. She's only nineteen, but exhibits a maturity of someone who has had many different experiences in life, experiences that she not only has learned from, but has also appreciated.
We were at a disco on the waterfront in the middle of the night, conversing in both Spanish and English, and I discovered that underneath all the poise
and charm, she was just as nervous about the experience when she arrived in Spain as I was. She was equally intimidated about her ability with the language, meeting people, etc.
Months later, of course, she was (and remains) on top of her game. I was most intimidated when I first met her. Sure, she's cute, and happy, and smart, but she made the effort in the new culture, and has been rewarded with an excellent experience; her efforts really paid off. I learned a great deal from her during our three weeks in class together. She returns to Germany in fall to begin university, but I look forward to seeing her again one day.
She made the effort.
I believe I've made the effort to integrate myself in Spain, but I frequently think I should be doing more. One of my initial personal goals was to take advantage of every opportunity. Sometimes I don't do that. I don't beat myself up too much about it, but I do remind myself of my goal.
Here is where I struggle. I don’t like to speak just to speak. I prefer to have something to say. However, in a culture where I need to learn and master a language, I need to speak as much as possible. My teacher put it best today when she told us to practice, practice, and practice more. Practicing is much more beneficial than memorization.
The people in my class that speak the best practice a ton, especially en casa. Me? I can't seem to get in a regular habit of conversing at home with my brother in law in Spanish, even though it's a golden opportunity. Hopefully one day soon, we'll just start speaking in Spanish. Knowing how ironic my life is, probably when we're in the EEUU in August.
Several people have complimented me on my speaking ability, and that’s a big boost. No doubt confidence has it's place in learning a language. My goal for the second half of this year is to use this confidence to my advantage and just speak more. Easy to write, hard to do. But, for every day that I have that's total crap, it seems as if the following day I find myself having an incredible experience that, in blunt terms, is just fucking cool.
I'm looking forward to a few weeks stateside, catching up with friends, seeing the neighbourhood, and preparing myself for the next stint in Spain. It's just getting better and better.
keep the faith
bryan
Finnegan's
07/24/06
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Burned Streets
On top of the World Cup, new Spanish verb tenses (pluscuamperfecto???!!!), the heat, and my mother’s broken ankle, I’ve been thinking about the Arcadia and the block of Lower Greenville that burned down a few weeks back in Dallas.
In summer of 1988, about 18 years ago, I dragged Chris McKee down to the Arcadia to see a “Monsters of Rock” show, which included a pretty heavy line up of Three on a Hill, Shallow Reign, and a group which would eventually become Course of Empire. I was really into Shallow Reign at the time, and Chris went along because he likes live shows.
The concert was great, we yucked it up (bryan’s way of saying he wasn’t old enough to drink, though Chris was), and I bought a red shirt with the Shallow Reign logo. I proceeded to wear that shirt with great frequency over the next few years. It was red at the advice of Chris, who had commented that “everyone else had black or white.” Ten years later, Mitch asked me if the shirt was brand new (as it appeared to be). Maybe it was the brand of t-shirt, maybe the band (who collapsed in a cloud of cocaine by 1990), or perhaps it was the venue.
What made the shirt last? I’m saying the venue, the Arcadia. The Arcadia was the type of place where you could go to an eclectic show with a khaki-wearing friend and stand in a crowd of alternativos all clad in black.
That monsters of rock show wasn’t my first visit to the Arcadia, but certainly one of the more memorable ones. I’d seen several Three on a Hill shows in the venue already, and also a band known briefly as Havana 3AM, who featured non other than Paul Simonon, the former bassist of the Clash.
To a great extent, I was more happy at the Arcadia than at any other venue in Dallas.
That same summer, I had the chance to see Erasure play one of their campy shows. It turned out to be a significant bonding moment between my sister and me. I had asked a rather popular girl from my high school (I had just graduated) to attend the show, and she had accepted. However, two hours before the show started, the girl blew me off. I was so upset that I almost didn’t go to the concert. My sister had tickets, too, and was going with some other friends. She told me to come on, anyway. In the end, we stood curb side waiting to enter the Arcadia for the show, sharing a bottle of MadDog 20/20. Now if that’s not about the cutest big sister-little brother story you’ve ever heard…
For sure (whoops, sorry about the Valley Girl reference), I saw every show I could at the Arcadia. The Alarm played an excellent show there (my first opportunity to be able to look directly into Mike Peters’ eyes from 10 feet away), TOAH, and a handful of Course of Empire shows. This was early, early CÖE; their guitarist wasn’t old enough to drink alcohol there, either. We both lacked three more years before we would be legal.
I caught the odd show there over the next several years when I was home from college. By 1993, though, it was no longer a venue for live shows, but instead had been converted to a disco. I never was that heavy into the club scene, but in 92-93, my favorite bar, the London Tavern, was right next door, so I’d make the odd appearance in the disco periodically, mostly to see if I knew any of the Arcadia dancers (those girls that get to dance on the platforms high above the floor).
As the decade progressed, I moved away from the club scene and onto the pub scene. The London Tavern closed (and relocated to Addison, where I rediscovered it years later when playing soccer at Inwood).
Though I was spending most of the time at the Dubliner, and later the Monk, I still kept abreast of the places in the vicinity of the Arcadia, particularly Nuevo Leon, an excellent Mexican restaurant.
It’s no shock to anyone that I’m a huge fan of Mexican food, and I’ve always found N.L. to be super tasty. I found plenty of opportunities to eat there once I moved to Little Goliad, which was 4 minutes staggering distance away.
One brilliant occasion, I walked down to N.L. to meet Pablo and some folks for dinner, but arrived a bit early. Tom Lambert showed bit early, too, and he and I seized the opportunity to have five or six margaritas each as we waited for everyone else. I can’t remember all that much about the rest of the evening, but Tom and I had an excellent time.
Since then, I’ve enjoyed their margaritas (frozen or rocks) regularly. My last visit was about a year ago with Paula, my Colombian friend who was helping me learn Spanish. We rocked out to frozen margaritas and drew diagrams (including one of my brain) and wrote Spanish phrases on the table cloth for several hours. And we got home safely.
Now, as that block of my home town no longer exists, I have only the memories to hold on to. It’s a bit of a new experience for me, finding that physical places from my past have disappeared. However, I’m not the first one to have these feelings, and I certainly won’t be the last.
keep the faith
bryan
Finnegan’s 11/7/06
In summer of 1988, about 18 years ago, I dragged Chris McKee down to the Arcadia to see a “Monsters of Rock” show, which included a pretty heavy line up of Three on a Hill, Shallow Reign, and a group which would eventually become Course of Empire. I was really into Shallow Reign at the time, and Chris went along because he likes live shows.
The concert was great, we yucked it up (bryan’s way of saying he wasn’t old enough to drink, though Chris was), and I bought a red shirt with the Shallow Reign logo. I proceeded to wear that shirt with great frequency over the next few years. It was red at the advice of Chris, who had commented that “everyone else had black or white.” Ten years later, Mitch asked me if the shirt was brand new (as it appeared to be). Maybe it was the brand of t-shirt, maybe the band (who collapsed in a cloud of cocaine by 1990), or perhaps it was the venue.
What made the shirt last? I’m saying the venue, the Arcadia. The Arcadia was the type of place where you could go to an eclectic show with a khaki-wearing friend and stand in a crowd of alternativos all clad in black.
That monsters of rock show wasn’t my first visit to the Arcadia, but certainly one of the more memorable ones. I’d seen several Three on a Hill shows in the venue already, and also a band known briefly as Havana 3AM, who featured non other than Paul Simonon, the former bassist of the Clash.
To a great extent, I was more happy at the Arcadia than at any other venue in Dallas.
That same summer, I had the chance to see Erasure play one of their campy shows. It turned out to be a significant bonding moment between my sister and me. I had asked a rather popular girl from my high school (I had just graduated) to attend the show, and she had accepted. However, two hours before the show started, the girl blew me off. I was so upset that I almost didn’t go to the concert. My sister had tickets, too, and was going with some other friends. She told me to come on, anyway. In the end, we stood curb side waiting to enter the Arcadia for the show, sharing a bottle of MadDog 20/20. Now if that’s not about the cutest big sister-little brother story you’ve ever heard…
For sure (whoops, sorry about the Valley Girl reference), I saw every show I could at the Arcadia. The Alarm played an excellent show there (my first opportunity to be able to look directly into Mike Peters’ eyes from 10 feet away), TOAH, and a handful of Course of Empire shows. This was early, early CÖE; their guitarist wasn’t old enough to drink alcohol there, either. We both lacked three more years before we would be legal.
I caught the odd show there over the next several years when I was home from college. By 1993, though, it was no longer a venue for live shows, but instead had been converted to a disco. I never was that heavy into the club scene, but in 92-93, my favorite bar, the London Tavern, was right next door, so I’d make the odd appearance in the disco periodically, mostly to see if I knew any of the Arcadia dancers (those girls that get to dance on the platforms high above the floor).
As the decade progressed, I moved away from the club scene and onto the pub scene. The London Tavern closed (and relocated to Addison, where I rediscovered it years later when playing soccer at Inwood).
Though I was spending most of the time at the Dubliner, and later the Monk, I still kept abreast of the places in the vicinity of the Arcadia, particularly Nuevo Leon, an excellent Mexican restaurant.
It’s no shock to anyone that I’m a huge fan of Mexican food, and I’ve always found N.L. to be super tasty. I found plenty of opportunities to eat there once I moved to Little Goliad, which was 4 minutes staggering distance away.
One brilliant occasion, I walked down to N.L. to meet Pablo and some folks for dinner, but arrived a bit early. Tom Lambert showed bit early, too, and he and I seized the opportunity to have five or six margaritas each as we waited for everyone else. I can’t remember all that much about the rest of the evening, but Tom and I had an excellent time.
Since then, I’ve enjoyed their margaritas (frozen or rocks) regularly. My last visit was about a year ago with Paula, my Colombian friend who was helping me learn Spanish. We rocked out to frozen margaritas and drew diagrams (including one of my brain) and wrote Spanish phrases on the table cloth for several hours. And we got home safely.
Now, as that block of my home town no longer exists, I have only the memories to hold on to. It’s a bit of a new experience for me, finding that physical places from my past have disappeared. However, I’m not the first one to have these feelings, and I certainly won’t be the last.
keep the faith
bryan
Finnegan’s 11/7/06
Motion's Got the World in Love
So it’s July 11th. In a flash of a month, the World Cup has finished. I managed to jot down a few thoughts after the first week of the tournament, but couldn’t find time to get them posted. Three weeks later, it feels more like three months. Why? I’ve been a bit preoccupied.
Two weeks ago, I enrolled in intensive Spanish classes, and since June 26th, I’ve spent my mornings in a little language school just off La Plaza de la Reina. Classes are from 9.30-1.30, then I have to teach at Casa Americana in the evenings. The sudden change in my schedule has caught me by surprise, but I’ve adjusted finally, and have even managed to stay current on visits to the gym, too.
Babylon Idomas is the name of the school, and I’m glad I’m in there. On my initial interview, I had a brief conversation with an instructor who ultimately put me in a advanced intermediate level, level 4 out of 6. The first week was particularly tough, as I was a bit intimidated by my classmates and my teacher. Everyone seemed to know quite a bit more than me. There’s a Dutch girl, two German girls, a Russian guy, and a Swedish guy. There was an American girl who tended to complain about Spain at every opportunity, so I was kind of glad when she didn’t return for the second week.
In my first class, we jumped right in to subjuntivo, which has driven many non-native Spanish speakers crazy. I wouldn’t consider Sr. Subjuntivo to be my friend, but I’ve been more or less able to hold my own. After the first week, I felt much less intimidated around my classmates. True, they all seem to be able to speak better than me, but I discovered that most have just finished an Erasmus experience, so have had a bit more exposure to Spanish than I have.
I’ve given an oral report on Punk (hazlo tú mismo…DIY) and learn something cool every day, even when my ability to comprehend sometimes just up and takes a break without my permission. (This, er, actually happens more than I care to admit. There’s nothing quite like just standing there, everything seemingly going ok, when suddenly, you don’t have the slightest idea what anyone is saying.)
Last Friday, I discovered that one of my teachers, Lourdes, was born in Sevilla, but raised in Ireland. She speaks exactly like Andrea Corr, and that alone is enough to keep me blushing throughout class (not that she speaks Spanish with an Irish accent). She happens to resemble Ms. Corr, also, which has helped my attendance.
The experience is just what I need at this stage of my time in Spain. No, I probably don’t deserve points for timing, as I finish my classes at the end of July, then head to the US for a few weeks during August. However, there was no other time for me to take classes.
The feeling of having a full day over the past couple of weeks has really been great. On several occasions, I’ve left the house at 8am, and returned around midnight. It’s nice to know that I haven’t gotten completely complacent with 20 hour work weeks over the past four months. I can still get up and get things done.
Now, it’s hot as shit in Valencia, and there’s simply no polite way to put it. The heat can be so awful that you find yourself wanting to say every bad word you’ve ever learned in your life all at once…to your mother. (not that one would be so foolish)
Seriously, it becomes increasingly difficult not to burst into tears when you find yourself, on a crowded metro, soaked to the skin with sweat, five stops away from your destination. I’ve long since abandoned the idea of trying to keep neat, fresh and tidy on the way to class. I’m just going to be a sweaty bastard, and everyone can just deal with it.
I had taken to dressing in very little around the house, until my sister quietly pointed out that Daniel kept trying to go around without a shirt on. Now, I leave the sans shirt trick for times on the terrace. We’re still working on a solution to when I wear a towel to and from the shower. Sometimes, I stop off in the kitchen to make a coffee, and one day, my nephew saw me, stripped off, then put a small towel around himself and said, “Somos iguales!” Um, we might need to change that trend.
I’ve been amazed at the effect the heat has on others in Valencia. Most folks seem to look fresher than I do, but it’s not as if they like the heat any better. Last weekend, the Pope came to Valencia, and I had to wonder just who thought that one and a half days out in the incredible heat listening to the Pope would be a good idea. Yet, one million people came for the event.
In college, Pablo once told me of a nightmare he’d had where all the Catholics got herded onto a cattle car of a train. Last Friday on the metro, I lived this nightmare, but knew I was the only smiling protestant on the train.
A visit from the Pope is significant, and I respected the matter greatly. That said, I wasn’t too keen on a hot, sweaty city becoming more crowded with a bunch of visitors. For most of last week, the city prepared for a two day shutdown. Security was at a high level, and many areas were blocked off. It was most unfortunate, then, when Valencia experienced a tragic accident on the metro five days before the Pope arrived. 40 plus people were killed, and exactly the kind of thing that adds a lot of tension to a pretty tense situation already.
But that was last week. Monday, the metros were running again, the Pope’s visit was more or less a success, and the streets, the city, are more or less back to normal. And we will always remember the victims of the metro accident.
July in Valencia tends to be a pretty slow time, as everyone suffers through the heat and prepares for their August vacations. I’m one of those individuals who is sweating things out for a few more weeks until August 4th, when I head to Dallas for three weeks. I won’t miss the incredible heat in Valencia, but believe that it’s likely just as hot in Dallas.
Despite the heat, August is always a cool month for me, because club soccer resumes. Yep, we’re four weeks away from the return of Premiership, Bundesliga, Serie A, La Liga, and Ligue 1.
So now for the soccer moment.
Chris emailed me a couple of weeks back and said, “what am I going to do after the World Cup…until August?” Exactly.
Football is football, and it’s a necessity. After group stage in World Cup, I became dismayed. The games weren’t shaping up to be all that great, and almost all my teams weren’t performing well. Since the final has already been won (congrats to Italia), I can now pass some commentary, particularly on the knock-out stages.
The US? They shouldn’t have even come to the tournament, as far as I’m concerned. Their play lacked heart, feeling, and technique. Before you go thinking I’m anti-American, let me say that England didn’t play any better, and they were fortunate to get out of the first round, themselves. Quite disappointing, really.
Other teams fared better, but still got knocked out before the quarters. Spain, Ecuador, Holland, and Mexico all really impressed me, particularly Spain and Mexico.
I pulled for France in the final, and knew at the first penalty that they would lose to Italy. I had hoped to see Germany-France, and believe that the Germany-Italy semi-final was one of the best, if not the best matches of the tournament. In the end for Germany, though, it wasn’t meant to be.
France played a bit better towards the end of the Cup, but after Zidane was sent off, which was after Henry, Ribery, and Viera had been subbed, I didn’t see how France could find victory.
In a word, Germany 2006 was boring.
Sure, I watched as many games as I could, and did manage to see most of the knock out matches (after group stage). And I kept watching, even when the games were boring.
I’ve spoken with others about this, and they’ve said similar things: the cup just wasn’t all that exciting.
On a more positive note, every one of the players from Arsenal performed very well at this tournament. Hell, even some of their ex-players, too.
To answer Chris’ question from early on, we’re going to remember how well these Arsenal players did in Germany from now until opening day of Premiership. That’s what we’re going to do between the World Cup and August 15th.
See you in August
keep the faith
bryan
11/7/06
Finnegan’s
Er…girlfriends? Loads of them are about. They just all have other boyfriends.
Two weeks ago, I enrolled in intensive Spanish classes, and since June 26th, I’ve spent my mornings in a little language school just off La Plaza de la Reina. Classes are from 9.30-1.30, then I have to teach at Casa Americana in the evenings. The sudden change in my schedule has caught me by surprise, but I’ve adjusted finally, and have even managed to stay current on visits to the gym, too.
Babylon Idomas is the name of the school, and I’m glad I’m in there. On my initial interview, I had a brief conversation with an instructor who ultimately put me in a advanced intermediate level, level 4 out of 6. The first week was particularly tough, as I was a bit intimidated by my classmates and my teacher. Everyone seemed to know quite a bit more than me. There’s a Dutch girl, two German girls, a Russian guy, and a Swedish guy. There was an American girl who tended to complain about Spain at every opportunity, so I was kind of glad when she didn’t return for the second week.
In my first class, we jumped right in to subjuntivo, which has driven many non-native Spanish speakers crazy. I wouldn’t consider Sr. Subjuntivo to be my friend, but I’ve been more or less able to hold my own. After the first week, I felt much less intimidated around my classmates. True, they all seem to be able to speak better than me, but I discovered that most have just finished an Erasmus experience, so have had a bit more exposure to Spanish than I have.
I’ve given an oral report on Punk (hazlo tú mismo…DIY) and learn something cool every day, even when my ability to comprehend sometimes just up and takes a break without my permission. (This, er, actually happens more than I care to admit. There’s nothing quite like just standing there, everything seemingly going ok, when suddenly, you don’t have the slightest idea what anyone is saying.)
Last Friday, I discovered that one of my teachers, Lourdes, was born in Sevilla, but raised in Ireland. She speaks exactly like Andrea Corr, and that alone is enough to keep me blushing throughout class (not that she speaks Spanish with an Irish accent). She happens to resemble Ms. Corr, also, which has helped my attendance.
The experience is just what I need at this stage of my time in Spain. No, I probably don’t deserve points for timing, as I finish my classes at the end of July, then head to the US for a few weeks during August. However, there was no other time for me to take classes.
The feeling of having a full day over the past couple of weeks has really been great. On several occasions, I’ve left the house at 8am, and returned around midnight. It’s nice to know that I haven’t gotten completely complacent with 20 hour work weeks over the past four months. I can still get up and get things done.
Now, it’s hot as shit in Valencia, and there’s simply no polite way to put it. The heat can be so awful that you find yourself wanting to say every bad word you’ve ever learned in your life all at once…to your mother. (not that one would be so foolish)
Seriously, it becomes increasingly difficult not to burst into tears when you find yourself, on a crowded metro, soaked to the skin with sweat, five stops away from your destination. I’ve long since abandoned the idea of trying to keep neat, fresh and tidy on the way to class. I’m just going to be a sweaty bastard, and everyone can just deal with it.
I had taken to dressing in very little around the house, until my sister quietly pointed out that Daniel kept trying to go around without a shirt on. Now, I leave the sans shirt trick for times on the terrace. We’re still working on a solution to when I wear a towel to and from the shower. Sometimes, I stop off in the kitchen to make a coffee, and one day, my nephew saw me, stripped off, then put a small towel around himself and said, “Somos iguales!” Um, we might need to change that trend.
I’ve been amazed at the effect the heat has on others in Valencia. Most folks seem to look fresher than I do, but it’s not as if they like the heat any better. Last weekend, the Pope came to Valencia, and I had to wonder just who thought that one and a half days out in the incredible heat listening to the Pope would be a good idea. Yet, one million people came for the event.
In college, Pablo once told me of a nightmare he’d had where all the Catholics got herded onto a cattle car of a train. Last Friday on the metro, I lived this nightmare, but knew I was the only smiling protestant on the train.
A visit from the Pope is significant, and I respected the matter greatly. That said, I wasn’t too keen on a hot, sweaty city becoming more crowded with a bunch of visitors. For most of last week, the city prepared for a two day shutdown. Security was at a high level, and many areas were blocked off. It was most unfortunate, then, when Valencia experienced a tragic accident on the metro five days before the Pope arrived. 40 plus people were killed, and exactly the kind of thing that adds a lot of tension to a pretty tense situation already.
But that was last week. Monday, the metros were running again, the Pope’s visit was more or less a success, and the streets, the city, are more or less back to normal. And we will always remember the victims of the metro accident.
July in Valencia tends to be a pretty slow time, as everyone suffers through the heat and prepares for their August vacations. I’m one of those individuals who is sweating things out for a few more weeks until August 4th, when I head to Dallas for three weeks. I won’t miss the incredible heat in Valencia, but believe that it’s likely just as hot in Dallas.
Despite the heat, August is always a cool month for me, because club soccer resumes. Yep, we’re four weeks away from the return of Premiership, Bundesliga, Serie A, La Liga, and Ligue 1.
So now for the soccer moment.
Chris emailed me a couple of weeks back and said, “what am I going to do after the World Cup…until August?” Exactly.
Football is football, and it’s a necessity. After group stage in World Cup, I became dismayed. The games weren’t shaping up to be all that great, and almost all my teams weren’t performing well. Since the final has already been won (congrats to Italia), I can now pass some commentary, particularly on the knock-out stages.
The US? They shouldn’t have even come to the tournament, as far as I’m concerned. Their play lacked heart, feeling, and technique. Before you go thinking I’m anti-American, let me say that England didn’t play any better, and they were fortunate to get out of the first round, themselves. Quite disappointing, really.
Other teams fared better, but still got knocked out before the quarters. Spain, Ecuador, Holland, and Mexico all really impressed me, particularly Spain and Mexico.
I pulled for France in the final, and knew at the first penalty that they would lose to Italy. I had hoped to see Germany-France, and believe that the Germany-Italy semi-final was one of the best, if not the best matches of the tournament. In the end for Germany, though, it wasn’t meant to be.
France played a bit better towards the end of the Cup, but after Zidane was sent off, which was after Henry, Ribery, and Viera had been subbed, I didn’t see how France could find victory.
In a word, Germany 2006 was boring.
Sure, I watched as many games as I could, and did manage to see most of the knock out matches (after group stage). And I kept watching, even when the games were boring.
I’ve spoken with others about this, and they’ve said similar things: the cup just wasn’t all that exciting.
On a more positive note, every one of the players from Arsenal performed very well at this tournament. Hell, even some of their ex-players, too.
To answer Chris’ question from early on, we’re going to remember how well these Arsenal players did in Germany from now until opening day of Premiership. That’s what we’re going to do between the World Cup and August 15th.
See you in August
keep the faith
bryan
11/7/06
Finnegan’s
Er…girlfriends? Loads of them are about. They just all have other boyfriends.
World in Motion
I’ve always liked the fact that I was born in an even year – 1970. It makes it easy to remember my age, for one thing. I especially like noting it as a World Cup year. True, I remember nothing of the World Cup Final in 1970; I didn’t even know what a World Cup was until 1978, but I learned quickly.
1982 was a significant year as I was in England during the tournament, which was being held in Spain. Everywhere we travelled, people were talking about the Word Cup, particularly since England was playing so well (they lost in one of the early knock out rounds). I watched several matches that year via television at bed and breakfasts that my family was staying in. The whole experience of football in Europe left a pretty big impression, as I was able to see that this game was not simply a sport that kids nine and ten years old played, as it was in the US. I asked for a Subbuteo soccer game that Christmas just like the ones I’d seen all the kids in the UK playing with, and of course the first team I got was England. Every time I heard the name Peter Shilton, I would stop and remember, “Wow, he’s the best English goal keeper ever!”
1986 was a bit more sketchy for me, though I was certainly aware that Mexico was the host. I saw several matches, but owe my distraction during the tournament that I had just had hip surgery, and was beginning a six month stint on crutches. It was more important to be pissy and difficult and complain that I wasn’t able to do anything as opposed to following an international soccer tournament.
Italia 1990. My sister was actually in Italy that summer for a couple of weeks, though by complete coincidence. I was fortunate to get a couple of little pennants and things that she brought back as souvenirs, though. It was a big event for the US, as they qualified for the first time in years (four decades, actually). Sure, they went home after 3 games, but that certainly didn’t come as a surprise. New Order released a song that summer, “Love’s Got the World in Motion,” which has gone down as one of my favorite NO songs ever, not so much because the song was that great, but because it was about the greatest sport. Besides, they had a Subbuteo mix. England lost in penalities in one of the knock out stages, and I seem to remember Peter Shilton, who was now 40 years old, guessed the correct side for the penalty, but was too slow to make the save. Nate K and myself (and a few others) cooked out at my house for the final, drank loads of beer, and danced around the backyard to that song. I can remember the events of England’s exit that year, but I can’t remember where my parents were that summer. Huh.
1994 USA. While I’m unfortunate to have missed the matches that were played in Dallas, I was delighted that at least the tournament got some local attention. Pablo has the better stories from those few weeks, but Tim and I made some pretty good stories ourselves. We covered our apartment in just about every sign and flag available from a local sports bar where Tim’s girlfriend worked. Plenty of beer coasters and posters, too. We even made a soccer ball out of Christmas lights on our living room wall. It looked pretty cool, though it kind of looked more like a donut than a soccer ball. No matter. Quite a festive year.
France 1998 was also pretty special for me. I was living in Boston onsite at a customer’s facility, reporting to a boss several thousand miles away in Texas. This made it easier to break away from the office to watch matches, and I saw almost all of them on the screens at an Irish bar I liked.
England played well that year, as Michael Owen and David Beckham were starting to reach their stride. I was devastated, however, when England lost on penalties to Argentina. The manager of the Irish bar begged me not to destroy the establishment (he thought I was a hooligan, for some reason), and of course I didn’t even think of trashing the place. In fact, I went back to watch the final between France and Brazil, where France won in fantastic fashion.
When 2002 Korea/Japan came around, I prepared myself for 30 days of matches. I made it a personal goal to see every match, and somehow I managed the task at the great expense of my performance at work. I watched most of the matches at Little Goliad on a 13 inch tv, but caught a few matches at the Dubliner, and a couple at the Monk, including England’s loss to Brazil, who went on to win the whole tournament. Had England not lost to Brazil (i.e., had David Seaman not fucked up and instead actually saved Ronaldinho’s free kick,) I think England would have gone on to win the whole thing. Alas, I could speculate forever…
The problem I’ve also had is the lack of coverage for WC qualifiers and the actual World Cup in the States. Yes, the Spanish stations broadcast every match, which is fine if you understand Spanish. ESPN and ABC tend to provide a little bit of coverage, but favor the US strongly. Since the US usually exits in the first or second round, the stateside coverage drops off rapidly after the second week of the tournament. Pay for view is OK, but unless you’re Lori McKee, you pay full price for matches shown on Setanta, usually $20 a pop. (Lori caught the football bug after Euro 2002, and made frequent trips to the Dub on match days, though she never quite had to pay as much as I did)
I didn’t miss any of England’s qualifiers for 2006 (come to think of it, I didn’t miss any of their qualifiers for 2002, either). It’s nice to have the Dubliner for many reasons, but WC qualifiers mark some of my most favorite times at that bar. See how fun it can be to go to the Dub at 9am to watch 6 hours of football and drink pints? By the start of the second match, you suddenly are talking with other patrons, who likely have been doing exactly as you have. The end result is that everyone has a great great time, only you can’t recall much about it the following week. Once, during a qualifier for 2002 I met a Dutch girl that left a huge impression on me (oh, is that what they call it?). I searched for months for that girl whose name I couldn’t remember, and come on, how many Dutch girls whose name began with an S were working as waitresses in Dallas, anyway?
I looked forward to Alemania 2006 with great anticipation. I’d be in the same continent during the World Cup, for one thing. Also, Spain doesn’t have much interest in other sports like baseball and basketball (which occupy the airwaves in the US during summer), so I wouldn’t have to jockey with other bar patrons about watching a game on television. Now, I am forever grateful to Gabe for telling the staff at the Monk that “unless Bryan comes in and asks for a soccer game to be put on, do NOT switch from baseball or basketball,” but would he have done the same for me during the NBA finals this year? I don’t know, but was kind of glad not to have to find out. It was a simply a non issue for me here. It seems that EVERY bar in Europe is tuned to the match during the World Cup, period.
Alas, I failed to realize a couple of things until right before the tournament started this year. First, Spain pulled a broadcast trick, and showed MOST matches on commercial television, but not all. Several matches were on Canal plus, a satellite channel, and one that we don’t have at Lynne and Fran’s. Fortunately, Finnegan’s (as well as many other places around Valencia) was showing all matches.
Solving the problem of where to watch matches was relatively easy in comparison to my second problem. In Spain, I work in the evenings, now. That’s precisely when the majority of the matches were being held. Thus, I’ve really had to plan my time carefully, and that hasn’t prevented me from missing several matches. Take the opener between Germany and Costa Rica for example. 4-2 was the result, and quite the match. I was sitting in a stuffy classroom with two scientists discussing their upcoming trip to London. Just another Friday afternoon English conversation class.
I did get home in time for Ecuador-Poland, and noticed right off the bat that the Ecuadorian team apparently has been hitting the weight room. A lot. Those guys were buff, buff, buff. And they play well, too.
On the first Saturday of the event, June 10, I planned to watch England play Paraguay from Finnegan’s. I had a class until 2pm, but then hustled over to the bar and arrived about 20 minutes before 3pm, when the game was to begin. Finnegan’s was packed with rowdy English fans. It was a hot day, and the viewing screens aren’t tops. The projector screen (the biggest in the bar) is pretty washed out (worse than Trinity Hall), so unless you stand directly in front of it, you can’t see much. Since I arrived late, I was closer to the outside of the bar than to the inside.
I’d been in this situation countless times before, so like always, I fought for space, wished I hadn’t brought my backpack, and ordered two (gasp!) Coronitas. I needed a lighter beer to help me through the heat, and I also wanted a bottle in my hand just in case someone got frisky. (ergo the statement I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. McKee, do I get a prize for using the word “lobotomy” in a story?)
The game commenced, but from my vantage point, I couldn’t see all that well. Since I was standing near the entrance, I was constantly jostled as people kept ordering beers (Do you take pounds here?) In the end, I was a bit overwhelmed by the amount of fans. At halftime, I decided to head home for a quieter, hopefully cooler place. England were up 1-0, and the game wasn’t all that great, anyway. I vowed to arrive earlier for the next match.
A few hours later, I was feeling more comfortable as I watched Sweden play Trinidad and Tobago, and then a buddy called me asking to meet for beers and a night out later that evening. Sounded good to me.
I found Victor at the metro stop in town, right next to a Calatrava bridge, and we walked a few blocks to meet a few other guys at a pub. Victor is a military officer, as were his four friends. I was to be the gancho, which amused me, as I never have, and never will be that type of guy. Though military, these guys are great, and really funny. I followed along in Spanish as much as I could, with Victor and Juan helping to translate when I got lost. After a pint in a pub, we changed locations and had a couple of drinks at a cocktail lounge, then arrived at a disco close to 1am, which was a bit early, actually. Soon, I realized why we got there so early, as the place quickly filled to capacity within 30 minutes.
Drinks at the discos are expensive (so is cover charge, for that matter), but I switched to Jack and Coke hoping I wouldn’t repeat my last bad experience with Jack Daniels, which was about 10 years ago. The scene at the disco was incredible, partly because I’m not known for hitting the club scene. I was enjoying the scenery, if you will, and through the course of the evening discovered that my five new friends are even more shy than I am. I explained that I thought I’d be a bit worthless as the gancho because of this, not least of all because approaching pretty girls on a dance floor isn’t a concept that I’m familiar with, even after a few drinks.
The music got better (it was a bit more Spanish rock than electronica), the girls got prettier, and the place got more full. After an unsuccessful attempt to chat up some girls, Victor and Juan decided to change locations, and we headed to another disco. After all, it was only 4am.
The evening caught up with us, and we left after two drinks. I caught a taxi home, and got to bed as the sun was coming up.
Football? Oh yeah. I did see some of Argentina-Ivory Cost at St Patrick’s, the pub where we’d begun our evening.
That Sunday was pretty lazy, and I did keep any eye on the scores, though I didn’t watch any match all the way through. I was feeling a little let down, since very few of the games had been all that exciting anyway. Thus far, however, Germany, Ecuador, Argentina, Holland, and Ivory Coast had impressed me.
Monday, June 12th. I caught most of Japan-Australia, but left for school before the end, and missed the exciting Aussie victory. I got to school, but my student never showed up (unexcused absence, which means I get paid anyway). Thus, I missed the drumming that the US took from the Czechs.
Obviously a football crazy country follows World Cup very closely. It’s nice to open the daily paper in Spain to loads of coverage about all of the teams. At 3pm that Tuesday afternoon, the country stopped to watch Spain’s first match of the tournament. We were not let down as Spain won 3-0 in quite a convincing style. Sure, there were two more games to play, but the nation was encouraged after the victory.
Of course I had to work on Thursday during England-T&T, but I dropped by Finnegan’s and caught the replay of the last 15 minutes, during which England won. I was glad to see England had two wins, but was far from impressed.
Friday evening, we had our end of school year dinner for the Casa Americana staff and students. I congratulated the Argentinean girl (who’s bar was catering the dinner) on the day’s match: Argentina 6, Serbia diddly squat. Argentina was definitely meeting expectations of being a strong team. Most of the discussion during dinner was about how well Spain was playing and what their chances were against some monster team like Argentina or Brazil.
On Saturday, I was a bit surprised to see Ghana show strongly against the Czech Republic, and concluded that the US would most likely take the early bus home from the tournament. After watching another poor display by the US against Italy, I was convinced that the US wouldn’t get out of round one. In both matches, they never appeared to perform at all. The group, however, was going to be crazy since Ghana, Italy, and the Czechs all still showed capability of advancing.
Spain celebrates Father’s day in March, so I almost forgot to call my dad on June 18th. Football wise, Australia played hard against Brazil, but couldn’t get a result. France was showing the same complacency of England, which was not encouraging. Argentina, Germany, and Ecuador looked like tough opponents during the knock out stages.
I was antsy about my class on Monday evening, not because of my student, but because of the match between Spain and Tunisia. It was my luck that this student showed up, and I had to remind him that his nation was playing football that evening. Of all five people in Spain who had no interest in the World Cup, one was my student. In the end (with a couple of hints from me), he elected to end class early, which enabled me to get home for the second half of the match.
I arrived home to find Lynne and Fran both watching the match. Somehow they’d both caught the spirit of the World Cup. Spain came from a goal behind to win 3-1, and I was particularly pleased to see young Cesc Fabregas from Arsenal play such an important role in both victories of Spain.
Lucky for me that my late class on Tuesday cancelled, and I decided to have a quiet beer in a bar in Alboraia for the Sweden-England match. Both teams had already advanced to the next round, so the objective was to determine who would top the group. I wanted to watch a good football match, and I pretty much did. A 2-2 draw was a fair result, as Sweden played hard to get themselves back in the match as England considered their complacency.
Wednesday was the first day of summer. It’s already hot as crap in Spain, so big whoop. I had lunch with Stephanie and Rafa at Finnegan’s, then stayed on to watch Mexico –Portugal. Mexico was needing a good result and some luck in order to advance. A few people showed up to watch the match, including one Portuguese and a group of Mexicans. We discovered the Portuguese when he stood up to cheer the early goal against Mexico. The Mexican group was friendly, and by halftime, we were all enjoying pints together. An Irish guy who didn’t speak much Spanish showed up, and suddenly I discovered that all of the Mexicans spoke English, and so did the guy from Portugal. I continued to speak in Spanish with everyone, except the Irishman.
I sort of got caught up in the moment, and kept ordering pints, believing I could sober up by 8pm for my class. It didn’t help when my student called at 6pm to cancel. Yes, it saved me from embarrassing myself in class, but pretty well ensured that I’d be done for later, particularly since the Irish guy and I were drinking at such a frantic pace.
Our little group decided to change venues for the late match (Argentina-Holland), and we trekked over to St. Patrick’s. I tried to hide the fact that I had the hiccups, but when I staggered and almost fell into the street in front of a taxi cab, I think everyone knew that I was fucked. Sure, the Irish wasn’t any better than I was, but the Portuguese and the Mexicans were several steps closer to sobriety.
I skipped a round at St. Patrick’s, and managed to have a conversation with a French guy who had shown up at some point. We talked about Daft Punk and a few other groups. The match was headed for a draw, but I marvelled at how the Dutch fans were quite a bit less overwhelming than the English fans from the other week, even in their bright orange. The Dutch girls tend to be really cute, but I didn’t score any points with them when I stood up in front of a group of them trying to watch the game. I was trying to say my goodbyes to my own little group, but I wasn’t faring all that well. Somehow, I managed to bid everyone adios, staggered outside, got a cab, and got home around 11.15pm. 9 hours of pints. Ouch.
I woke up at 4am partially clothed and with the lights on, not to mention the beginnings of a headache. I still got to the gym by early afternoon, but was regretting the amount I’d consumed during the previous evening. Fortunately, my student never showed that evening (another paid unexcused absence). This gave me time to quietly learn that Ghana beat US, officially ending their World Cup. I also discovered with great sadness that the Arcadia theatre had burned down in Dallas. I didn’t completely learn my lesson from the night before too well, because I went for a few more beers with my intercambio Paola, but was home in bed fairly early.
Spain won their third match with their reserves that Friday afternoon of June 23. I welcomed that quiet Friday evening at home, and the quick chat with Tim was really cool. Finding out that my mom broke her ankle wasn’t as cool, especially since she wasn’t doing anything like practicing a bicycle kick or anything…
Yesterday, Germany eliminated Sweden, and Argentina eliminated Mexico. I wanted Mexico to advance, but they lost to a strong squad. Perhaps the best match of the tournament so far, in my opinion. Heavy drama, strong play, and an absolutely brilliant goal to win the match. However, Mexico deserves to be proud of their showing in Germany.
It’s now Sunday noon, June 25th, and I’m lounging on the terrace probably getting a sunburn. England plays this afternoon, and I won’t be surprised if Ecuador surprise the world. Veremos.
keep the faith
bryan at c/ Tomas Trenor
June 25, 2006
1982 was a significant year as I was in England during the tournament, which was being held in Spain. Everywhere we travelled, people were talking about the Word Cup, particularly since England was playing so well (they lost in one of the early knock out rounds). I watched several matches that year via television at bed and breakfasts that my family was staying in. The whole experience of football in Europe left a pretty big impression, as I was able to see that this game was not simply a sport that kids nine and ten years old played, as it was in the US. I asked for a Subbuteo soccer game that Christmas just like the ones I’d seen all the kids in the UK playing with, and of course the first team I got was England. Every time I heard the name Peter Shilton, I would stop and remember, “Wow, he’s the best English goal keeper ever!”
1986 was a bit more sketchy for me, though I was certainly aware that Mexico was the host. I saw several matches, but owe my distraction during the tournament that I had just had hip surgery, and was beginning a six month stint on crutches. It was more important to be pissy and difficult and complain that I wasn’t able to do anything as opposed to following an international soccer tournament.
Italia 1990. My sister was actually in Italy that summer for a couple of weeks, though by complete coincidence. I was fortunate to get a couple of little pennants and things that she brought back as souvenirs, though. It was a big event for the US, as they qualified for the first time in years (four decades, actually). Sure, they went home after 3 games, but that certainly didn’t come as a surprise. New Order released a song that summer, “Love’s Got the World in Motion,” which has gone down as one of my favorite NO songs ever, not so much because the song was that great, but because it was about the greatest sport. Besides, they had a Subbuteo mix. England lost in penalities in one of the knock out stages, and I seem to remember Peter Shilton, who was now 40 years old, guessed the correct side for the penalty, but was too slow to make the save. Nate K and myself (and a few others) cooked out at my house for the final, drank loads of beer, and danced around the backyard to that song. I can remember the events of England’s exit that year, but I can’t remember where my parents were that summer. Huh.
1994 USA. While I’m unfortunate to have missed the matches that were played in Dallas, I was delighted that at least the tournament got some local attention. Pablo has the better stories from those few weeks, but Tim and I made some pretty good stories ourselves. We covered our apartment in just about every sign and flag available from a local sports bar where Tim’s girlfriend worked. Plenty of beer coasters and posters, too. We even made a soccer ball out of Christmas lights on our living room wall. It looked pretty cool, though it kind of looked more like a donut than a soccer ball. No matter. Quite a festive year.
France 1998 was also pretty special for me. I was living in Boston onsite at a customer’s facility, reporting to a boss several thousand miles away in Texas. This made it easier to break away from the office to watch matches, and I saw almost all of them on the screens at an Irish bar I liked.
England played well that year, as Michael Owen and David Beckham were starting to reach their stride. I was devastated, however, when England lost on penalties to Argentina. The manager of the Irish bar begged me not to destroy the establishment (he thought I was a hooligan, for some reason), and of course I didn’t even think of trashing the place. In fact, I went back to watch the final between France and Brazil, where France won in fantastic fashion.
When 2002 Korea/Japan came around, I prepared myself for 30 days of matches. I made it a personal goal to see every match, and somehow I managed the task at the great expense of my performance at work. I watched most of the matches at Little Goliad on a 13 inch tv, but caught a few matches at the Dubliner, and a couple at the Monk, including England’s loss to Brazil, who went on to win the whole tournament. Had England not lost to Brazil (i.e., had David Seaman not fucked up and instead actually saved Ronaldinho’s free kick,) I think England would have gone on to win the whole thing. Alas, I could speculate forever…
The problem I’ve also had is the lack of coverage for WC qualifiers and the actual World Cup in the States. Yes, the Spanish stations broadcast every match, which is fine if you understand Spanish. ESPN and ABC tend to provide a little bit of coverage, but favor the US strongly. Since the US usually exits in the first or second round, the stateside coverage drops off rapidly after the second week of the tournament. Pay for view is OK, but unless you’re Lori McKee, you pay full price for matches shown on Setanta, usually $20 a pop. (Lori caught the football bug after Euro 2002, and made frequent trips to the Dub on match days, though she never quite had to pay as much as I did)
I didn’t miss any of England’s qualifiers for 2006 (come to think of it, I didn’t miss any of their qualifiers for 2002, either). It’s nice to have the Dubliner for many reasons, but WC qualifiers mark some of my most favorite times at that bar. See how fun it can be to go to the Dub at 9am to watch 6 hours of football and drink pints? By the start of the second match, you suddenly are talking with other patrons, who likely have been doing exactly as you have. The end result is that everyone has a great great time, only you can’t recall much about it the following week. Once, during a qualifier for 2002 I met a Dutch girl that left a huge impression on me (oh, is that what they call it?). I searched for months for that girl whose name I couldn’t remember, and come on, how many Dutch girls whose name began with an S were working as waitresses in Dallas, anyway?
I looked forward to Alemania 2006 with great anticipation. I’d be in the same continent during the World Cup, for one thing. Also, Spain doesn’t have much interest in other sports like baseball and basketball (which occupy the airwaves in the US during summer), so I wouldn’t have to jockey with other bar patrons about watching a game on television. Now, I am forever grateful to Gabe for telling the staff at the Monk that “unless Bryan comes in and asks for a soccer game to be put on, do NOT switch from baseball or basketball,” but would he have done the same for me during the NBA finals this year? I don’t know, but was kind of glad not to have to find out. It was a simply a non issue for me here. It seems that EVERY bar in Europe is tuned to the match during the World Cup, period.
Alas, I failed to realize a couple of things until right before the tournament started this year. First, Spain pulled a broadcast trick, and showed MOST matches on commercial television, but not all. Several matches were on Canal plus, a satellite channel, and one that we don’t have at Lynne and Fran’s. Fortunately, Finnegan’s (as well as many other places around Valencia) was showing all matches.
Solving the problem of where to watch matches was relatively easy in comparison to my second problem. In Spain, I work in the evenings, now. That’s precisely when the majority of the matches were being held. Thus, I’ve really had to plan my time carefully, and that hasn’t prevented me from missing several matches. Take the opener between Germany and Costa Rica for example. 4-2 was the result, and quite the match. I was sitting in a stuffy classroom with two scientists discussing their upcoming trip to London. Just another Friday afternoon English conversation class.
I did get home in time for Ecuador-Poland, and noticed right off the bat that the Ecuadorian team apparently has been hitting the weight room. A lot. Those guys were buff, buff, buff. And they play well, too.
On the first Saturday of the event, June 10, I planned to watch England play Paraguay from Finnegan’s. I had a class until 2pm, but then hustled over to the bar and arrived about 20 minutes before 3pm, when the game was to begin. Finnegan’s was packed with rowdy English fans. It was a hot day, and the viewing screens aren’t tops. The projector screen (the biggest in the bar) is pretty washed out (worse than Trinity Hall), so unless you stand directly in front of it, you can’t see much. Since I arrived late, I was closer to the outside of the bar than to the inside.
I’d been in this situation countless times before, so like always, I fought for space, wished I hadn’t brought my backpack, and ordered two (gasp!) Coronitas. I needed a lighter beer to help me through the heat, and I also wanted a bottle in my hand just in case someone got frisky. (ergo the statement I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. McKee, do I get a prize for using the word “lobotomy” in a story?)
The game commenced, but from my vantage point, I couldn’t see all that well. Since I was standing near the entrance, I was constantly jostled as people kept ordering beers (Do you take pounds here?) In the end, I was a bit overwhelmed by the amount of fans. At halftime, I decided to head home for a quieter, hopefully cooler place. England were up 1-0, and the game wasn’t all that great, anyway. I vowed to arrive earlier for the next match.
A few hours later, I was feeling more comfortable as I watched Sweden play Trinidad and Tobago, and then a buddy called me asking to meet for beers and a night out later that evening. Sounded good to me.
I found Victor at the metro stop in town, right next to a Calatrava bridge, and we walked a few blocks to meet a few other guys at a pub. Victor is a military officer, as were his four friends. I was to be the gancho, which amused me, as I never have, and never will be that type of guy. Though military, these guys are great, and really funny. I followed along in Spanish as much as I could, with Victor and Juan helping to translate when I got lost. After a pint in a pub, we changed locations and had a couple of drinks at a cocktail lounge, then arrived at a disco close to 1am, which was a bit early, actually. Soon, I realized why we got there so early, as the place quickly filled to capacity within 30 minutes.
Drinks at the discos are expensive (so is cover charge, for that matter), but I switched to Jack and Coke hoping I wouldn’t repeat my last bad experience with Jack Daniels, which was about 10 years ago. The scene at the disco was incredible, partly because I’m not known for hitting the club scene. I was enjoying the scenery, if you will, and through the course of the evening discovered that my five new friends are even more shy than I am. I explained that I thought I’d be a bit worthless as the gancho because of this, not least of all because approaching pretty girls on a dance floor isn’t a concept that I’m familiar with, even after a few drinks.
The music got better (it was a bit more Spanish rock than electronica), the girls got prettier, and the place got more full. After an unsuccessful attempt to chat up some girls, Victor and Juan decided to change locations, and we headed to another disco. After all, it was only 4am.
The evening caught up with us, and we left after two drinks. I caught a taxi home, and got to bed as the sun was coming up.
Football? Oh yeah. I did see some of Argentina-Ivory Cost at St Patrick’s, the pub where we’d begun our evening.
That Sunday was pretty lazy, and I did keep any eye on the scores, though I didn’t watch any match all the way through. I was feeling a little let down, since very few of the games had been all that exciting anyway. Thus far, however, Germany, Ecuador, Argentina, Holland, and Ivory Coast had impressed me.
Monday, June 12th. I caught most of Japan-Australia, but left for school before the end, and missed the exciting Aussie victory. I got to school, but my student never showed up (unexcused absence, which means I get paid anyway). Thus, I missed the drumming that the US took from the Czechs.
Obviously a football crazy country follows World Cup very closely. It’s nice to open the daily paper in Spain to loads of coverage about all of the teams. At 3pm that Tuesday afternoon, the country stopped to watch Spain’s first match of the tournament. We were not let down as Spain won 3-0 in quite a convincing style. Sure, there were two more games to play, but the nation was encouraged after the victory.
Of course I had to work on Thursday during England-T&T, but I dropped by Finnegan’s and caught the replay of the last 15 minutes, during which England won. I was glad to see England had two wins, but was far from impressed.
Friday evening, we had our end of school year dinner for the Casa Americana staff and students. I congratulated the Argentinean girl (who’s bar was catering the dinner) on the day’s match: Argentina 6, Serbia diddly squat. Argentina was definitely meeting expectations of being a strong team. Most of the discussion during dinner was about how well Spain was playing and what their chances were against some monster team like Argentina or Brazil.
On Saturday, I was a bit surprised to see Ghana show strongly against the Czech Republic, and concluded that the US would most likely take the early bus home from the tournament. After watching another poor display by the US against Italy, I was convinced that the US wouldn’t get out of round one. In both matches, they never appeared to perform at all. The group, however, was going to be crazy since Ghana, Italy, and the Czechs all still showed capability of advancing.
Spain celebrates Father’s day in March, so I almost forgot to call my dad on June 18th. Football wise, Australia played hard against Brazil, but couldn’t get a result. France was showing the same complacency of England, which was not encouraging. Argentina, Germany, and Ecuador looked like tough opponents during the knock out stages.
I was antsy about my class on Monday evening, not because of my student, but because of the match between Spain and Tunisia. It was my luck that this student showed up, and I had to remind him that his nation was playing football that evening. Of all five people in Spain who had no interest in the World Cup, one was my student. In the end (with a couple of hints from me), he elected to end class early, which enabled me to get home for the second half of the match.
I arrived home to find Lynne and Fran both watching the match. Somehow they’d both caught the spirit of the World Cup. Spain came from a goal behind to win 3-1, and I was particularly pleased to see young Cesc Fabregas from Arsenal play such an important role in both victories of Spain.
Lucky for me that my late class on Tuesday cancelled, and I decided to have a quiet beer in a bar in Alboraia for the Sweden-England match. Both teams had already advanced to the next round, so the objective was to determine who would top the group. I wanted to watch a good football match, and I pretty much did. A 2-2 draw was a fair result, as Sweden played hard to get themselves back in the match as England considered their complacency.
Wednesday was the first day of summer. It’s already hot as crap in Spain, so big whoop. I had lunch with Stephanie and Rafa at Finnegan’s, then stayed on to watch Mexico –Portugal. Mexico was needing a good result and some luck in order to advance. A few people showed up to watch the match, including one Portuguese and a group of Mexicans. We discovered the Portuguese when he stood up to cheer the early goal against Mexico. The Mexican group was friendly, and by halftime, we were all enjoying pints together. An Irish guy who didn’t speak much Spanish showed up, and suddenly I discovered that all of the Mexicans spoke English, and so did the guy from Portugal. I continued to speak in Spanish with everyone, except the Irishman.
I sort of got caught up in the moment, and kept ordering pints, believing I could sober up by 8pm for my class. It didn’t help when my student called at 6pm to cancel. Yes, it saved me from embarrassing myself in class, but pretty well ensured that I’d be done for later, particularly since the Irish guy and I were drinking at such a frantic pace.
Our little group decided to change venues for the late match (Argentina-Holland), and we trekked over to St. Patrick’s. I tried to hide the fact that I had the hiccups, but when I staggered and almost fell into the street in front of a taxi cab, I think everyone knew that I was fucked. Sure, the Irish wasn’t any better than I was, but the Portuguese and the Mexicans were several steps closer to sobriety.
I skipped a round at St. Patrick’s, and managed to have a conversation with a French guy who had shown up at some point. We talked about Daft Punk and a few other groups. The match was headed for a draw, but I marvelled at how the Dutch fans were quite a bit less overwhelming than the English fans from the other week, even in their bright orange. The Dutch girls tend to be really cute, but I didn’t score any points with them when I stood up in front of a group of them trying to watch the game. I was trying to say my goodbyes to my own little group, but I wasn’t faring all that well. Somehow, I managed to bid everyone adios, staggered outside, got a cab, and got home around 11.15pm. 9 hours of pints. Ouch.
I woke up at 4am partially clothed and with the lights on, not to mention the beginnings of a headache. I still got to the gym by early afternoon, but was regretting the amount I’d consumed during the previous evening. Fortunately, my student never showed that evening (another paid unexcused absence). This gave me time to quietly learn that Ghana beat US, officially ending their World Cup. I also discovered with great sadness that the Arcadia theatre had burned down in Dallas. I didn’t completely learn my lesson from the night before too well, because I went for a few more beers with my intercambio Paola, but was home in bed fairly early.
Spain won their third match with their reserves that Friday afternoon of June 23. I welcomed that quiet Friday evening at home, and the quick chat with Tim was really cool. Finding out that my mom broke her ankle wasn’t as cool, especially since she wasn’t doing anything like practicing a bicycle kick or anything…
Yesterday, Germany eliminated Sweden, and Argentina eliminated Mexico. I wanted Mexico to advance, but they lost to a strong squad. Perhaps the best match of the tournament so far, in my opinion. Heavy drama, strong play, and an absolutely brilliant goal to win the match. However, Mexico deserves to be proud of their showing in Germany.
It’s now Sunday noon, June 25th, and I’m lounging on the terrace probably getting a sunburn. England plays this afternoon, and I won’t be surprised if Ecuador surprise the world. Veremos.
keep the faith
bryan at c/ Tomas Trenor
June 25, 2006
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