So after a few weeks struggle, I finally find myself putting pen to paper again. No need to ask forgiveness; I've just been busy.
After many months of planning and preparation, my grandfather and step-grandmother completed an emotionally and physically exhausting move to consolidate a large home in North Carolina and a large home in Dallas into a small home in Dallas. I have to imagine that it's got to be very difficult to leave your home after so many years, so many memories. Alas, as you get older, downsizing to a smaller habitat in which you can better manage your independence is sometimes necessary.
No sooner had Daddy Monk and Twila settled into their new north Dallas habitat, my grandmother from Dallas announced her intent to follow suit. After many years in the same house near Preston and Royal, she will be moving to an apartment in the nearby area in order to be closer to her friends, have less headaches involving maintaining a house that is starting to need more and more repairs.
I've spent a lot of time reflecting on these significant changes over the past few weeks. As a grandchild, I don't particularly like the idea that my grandparents no longer live in their houses that I'm familiar with, particularly my Grandmommy. I've only known her one house in my lifetime.
True, the happy memories of going over the hills and through the woods to grandparents house will remain happy memories. My own selfishness aside, though, I wonder how my grandparents are dealing with their changes...leaving their homes after so many years.
In my own life, despite my tendency to bounce around a bit, I make my own attchments, mostly mental, to people, places, and every once in a while, to things. Take the past nine months, for example. I have lived in Meliana with Lynne, Fran, and Daniel. Let it be said that their place is perfectly suited for three, and as we moved through 2006, the house got smaller, and I got bigger. Though I didn't really want to be there, preferring my own independence, I LIKED being there, feeling the attachment of family and a sense of home.
Unfortunately, circumstances throughout summer and fall made things incredibly difficult. Difficult for me to leave, and frustrating for everyone that I continued to stay. Ultimately, with a great rush of relief, Lynne and Fran secured some immediate short term solution for me, and by the first of November, I was living in Alboraya in an apartment of my own.
For the first week in my new place, I dealt with the guilt and frustrations of having overstayed my welcome with Lynne and Fran. It was never my intent, yet I somehow couldn't avoid it. I should have found a better way instead of imposing on family way too long. For that, I am truly sorry.
As I pushed through the guilt, I also dealt with the new environment, one away from family that I'm close to. Sure, it is more quiet, but part of that is because there's no stereo in the flat. No pizza and movie nights, no wake up hugs from a nephew, no terrace top smokes. All of these are good memories from casa de Tomas Trenor.
How funny that I become attached to situations like these.
How funny that I think about these memories while sitting in a conference room in Weiterstadt, Germany.
On top of the moves and changes I've already made this year, it appears I'm not quite through. I'm a couple of weeks away from a work visa, and with that comes a return to the chaos, excitement, and challenge of program management, this time with the new twist of the job being in Deutschland.
October really was a pensive month for me. I really like Spain, and I'm sorry to be leaving just when I'm starting to feel settled with friends, the language, and a new apartment. But, the opportunity to have employement in a capacity that suits me better...how can I pass that up, especially when it's somewhat tailored to my needs?
I'm certainly excited about this opportunity, and it's finally hitting me as I sit in some crap office park in suburban Franfurt. This will be where I live for the next six months as I do the project I've been hired to do.
I've got tons of decisions to make in the coming days and weeks, but I'm rising to the challenge. Hell, I might be toodling around Bavaria in a VW blaring Alphaville before the end of the year. I feel that I'm off to a relatively good start after meeting some new colleagues. Everyone seems most friendly and eager to help me settle, even when I've slipped into spanish once or twice, not counting the time I said joder in the taxi on the way from the airport; the cab driver covered 35 km in about 8 minutes.
It's hard to leave, but I've got to go. Fortunately, the attachment I've made with Spain is in place, and will remain in place. I think it's a good thing that I feel so sad to leave Valencia. It shows me how much I've enjoyed this experience.
keep the faith
bryan
Feldstrasse 16
Weiterstadt
soundtrack
Alphaville - Forever Young
Madness - Our House
38 Special - Hold On Loosely (But Don't Let Go)
Bouncing Souls - True Believer
Mighty Mighty Bosstones - The Impression That I Get
Joe Jackson - Steppin' Out
Monday, November 20, 2006
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
...too much life running through my veins...
30 days ago, I put up my last post, thinking I'd have a pretty busy month ahead of me with football (Arsenal!), apartment hunting, spanish class, and private english classes. For the most part, I was right, though it certainly didn't happen as I expected. The last two weeks of September were almost unbearably slow. All of my private classes went on hiatus for some reason or other, and I suddenly found myself with a ton of idle time.
I'm sure the wise person would have taken advantage of the opportunity and found adequate housing, but due to some unusual circumstances, my situation was a bit more complicated, nevermind it's a bit difficult to rent apartments in Valencia in the first place. I spent a bit too much time lounging around the pub in hopes that the ideal sitio would drop into my lap.
OK, so that plan didn't work so well, but I did meet some interesting characters, including one man from Doncaster who had a habit of telling me each time he saw me (five or six times) that his favorite movie was Green Street Hooligans. GSH is a pretty good film, I must say; it's about West Ham United football club, stars Frodo Baggins, and is a bit on the violent side. However, no matter what conservation topic we happened to be on, this guy (usually five pints in) would start in again, "Green Street Hooligans" is the BEST movie EVER! (As a side note - I rather enjoyed meeting Ian, and appreciate the fact that he sat with me to watch Arsenal vs. Manchester United, a heart attack inducing match that happens no less than twice a year. As those of you who are passionate about certain teams know, sometimes it's nice to watch a match with an impartial spectator, particularly if you're sitting there trying not to break your beer glass, not hit anybody, and see your team scrape a last minute victory. I was fortunate that we won that day, so didn't even mind hearing the words, "Man, I LOVE Green Street Hooligans!" one more time. Alas, Ian's experience teaching school in Valencia didn't work out, so he chucked back to England almost as quickly as he came. All the best, mate.)
Arsenal football helped me through the slow period of September. After the win over ManU, they have managed to win every match since.
The last days of September picked up, and I got back into Spanish classes a few hours a week, then found a steady intercambio who wants to meet regularly. Neither of these helped keep my cashflow in balance, but at least my spanish is improving.
Out of the blue, a guy I met in early summer rang me up and asked me to play on his football team. After many months on the sidelines, I finally got a chance to return to the pitch, sporting a green jersey sponsored by Paiporta Construcciones, S.A. Cool. Thankfully, I held my own on the field; I haven't forgotten how to play the game.
As October began, I was nearing panic mode. I had no apartment and only limited classes at the center. I've more than overstayed my welcome with Lynne and Fran, so was particularly concerned about the apartment bit. Furthermore, a lack of classes means a lack of income, and that can start to suck in a hurry. Thus, I was a bit down.
I have continued to sing in the choir in Alboraya, and we did have a concert to look forward to early in the month. The choir had been invited to the town of Pont de Suert, and we arranged to stay in a nearby hotel & spa, all located in the Pyrenees Mountains during the holiday weekend Oct 6-9.
Las Saturday, I couldn't help but laugh to myself. Instead of watching Euro 2008 qualifiers in some bar, I was sitting in a woolen mill listening to a woman speaking in Catalan to our choir about how wool is made. In a few hours, I'd be singing a concert; songs to be sung in valenciano, catalan, gaego, italian, and castellano. I have to struggle enough with castellano, the other languages I'm just about hopeless with, but I'm doing it up, anyway. "Wow, I can't believe I'm here," I laughed to myself.
This alone was enough to boggle the mind, but to add to the zany action, less than 48 hours before, I'd received a call from my old company - they had a job with my name on it. What had merely been a quiet discussion in August was suddenly becoming reality. Me, working in my profession again. In Europe. In Germany. Almost immediately.
Holy shit.
So here in October 2006, my mind is going a million miles per hour. It's a triple ride on the super "hopeyoudidn'teatafootlongchilidogforlunchaswe'regonnafuckyouup" roller coaster at Coney Island. Two days ago, I was standing next to Jacobo and Jose Luis trying to find out what happened to my music as we sang "Te Quiero," and today I'm trying to find out the climate in someplace called Weiterstadt.
More details to come soon, but meanwhile, ¿como se dice Keep the Faith in aleman?
bryan
10/10/06
for more information about the hotel in the Pyrenees, visit www.caldesdeboi.com
suggested soundtrack for this post:
Robbie Williams greatest hits
Rock Against Bush compilation vol.2
I'm sure the wise person would have taken advantage of the opportunity and found adequate housing, but due to some unusual circumstances, my situation was a bit more complicated, nevermind it's a bit difficult to rent apartments in Valencia in the first place. I spent a bit too much time lounging around the pub in hopes that the ideal sitio would drop into my lap.
OK, so that plan didn't work so well, but I did meet some interesting characters, including one man from Doncaster who had a habit of telling me each time he saw me (five or six times) that his favorite movie was Green Street Hooligans. GSH is a pretty good film, I must say; it's about West Ham United football club, stars Frodo Baggins, and is a bit on the violent side. However, no matter what conservation topic we happened to be on, this guy (usually five pints in) would start in again, "Green Street Hooligans" is the BEST movie EVER! (As a side note - I rather enjoyed meeting Ian, and appreciate the fact that he sat with me to watch Arsenal vs. Manchester United, a heart attack inducing match that happens no less than twice a year. As those of you who are passionate about certain teams know, sometimes it's nice to watch a match with an impartial spectator, particularly if you're sitting there trying not to break your beer glass, not hit anybody, and see your team scrape a last minute victory. I was fortunate that we won that day, so didn't even mind hearing the words, "Man, I LOVE Green Street Hooligans!" one more time. Alas, Ian's experience teaching school in Valencia didn't work out, so he chucked back to England almost as quickly as he came. All the best, mate.)
Arsenal football helped me through the slow period of September. After the win over ManU, they have managed to win every match since.
The last days of September picked up, and I got back into Spanish classes a few hours a week, then found a steady intercambio who wants to meet regularly. Neither of these helped keep my cashflow in balance, but at least my spanish is improving.
Out of the blue, a guy I met in early summer rang me up and asked me to play on his football team. After many months on the sidelines, I finally got a chance to return to the pitch, sporting a green jersey sponsored by Paiporta Construcciones, S.A. Cool. Thankfully, I held my own on the field; I haven't forgotten how to play the game.
As October began, I was nearing panic mode. I had no apartment and only limited classes at the center. I've more than overstayed my welcome with Lynne and Fran, so was particularly concerned about the apartment bit. Furthermore, a lack of classes means a lack of income, and that can start to suck in a hurry. Thus, I was a bit down.
I have continued to sing in the choir in Alboraya, and we did have a concert to look forward to early in the month. The choir had been invited to the town of Pont de Suert, and we arranged to stay in a nearby hotel & spa, all located in the Pyrenees Mountains during the holiday weekend Oct 6-9.
Las Saturday, I couldn't help but laugh to myself. Instead of watching Euro 2008 qualifiers in some bar, I was sitting in a woolen mill listening to a woman speaking in Catalan to our choir about how wool is made. In a few hours, I'd be singing a concert; songs to be sung in valenciano, catalan, gaego, italian, and castellano. I have to struggle enough with castellano, the other languages I'm just about hopeless with, but I'm doing it up, anyway. "Wow, I can't believe I'm here," I laughed to myself.
This alone was enough to boggle the mind, but to add to the zany action, less than 48 hours before, I'd received a call from my old company - they had a job with my name on it. What had merely been a quiet discussion in August was suddenly becoming reality. Me, working in my profession again. In Europe. In Germany. Almost immediately.
Holy shit.
So here in October 2006, my mind is going a million miles per hour. It's a triple ride on the super "hopeyoudidn'teatafootlongchilidogforlunchaswe'regonnafuckyouup" roller coaster at Coney Island. Two days ago, I was standing next to Jacobo and Jose Luis trying to find out what happened to my music as we sang "Te Quiero," and today I'm trying to find out the climate in someplace called Weiterstadt.
More details to come soon, but meanwhile, ¿como se dice Keep the Faith in aleman?
bryan
10/10/06
for more information about the hotel in the Pyrenees, visit www.caldesdeboi.com
suggested soundtrack for this post:
Robbie Williams greatest hits
Rock Against Bush compilation vol.2
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Quince dias despues
So it’s September 11, and I’ve been back in Spain for almost two weeks, rather a busy two weeks at that. Or, at least a busy week and a half…
I started looking at my return from an August in Texas as a new start in Spain: an opportunity to hit the ground running after a pretty decent six months.
Flying out of Dallas on a Monday evening was a pretty good idea, as I enjoyed a very empty flight to Houston, then at 10pm, found myself on an even less crowded flight to Paris. I was sitting at the back of the plane, and almost everyone had a row to themselves. Those of you who have flown international legs know what a rare treat that can be. As luck would have it, just as the final passengers were boarding, a very pretty girl took her seat right next to me, and we started chatting. We had a nice discussion about her nervousness at take-off, and also the fact that she was going back to Europe to teach English in her hometown, somewhere in the Czech republic.
Before you go thinking, “Attaboy, Bry, way to go!” I’ll explain that, once airborne, “Betty” (who, strangely enough, looked a little like a blonde Betty Rubble) moved to another seat so we’d both have room to stretch out and be more comfortable on the long flight.
She promised to come back and visit (she moved to the seat directly in front of me) a bit later, but about ten minutes after we were in the air, some American guy who apparently had been working on her pretty good in the airport lounge came over and sat with her for most of the rest of the flight.
So, like always, I plugged in the headphones and watched movies for the next several hours by myself, thinking that it might be a good idea to visit Prague sometime soon.
We landed in Paris CDG ten hours later, and really the only thing I found cool was the temperature outside, a nice 18 degrees C. I had to muck around for a few hours, and ended up buying, and reading an entire James Patterson novel. Funny, his bestsellers always seem to serve merely as a four hour distraction for me. I realized halfway through that I had read it before, but I powered on through and finished it by the time we boarded our flight for Valencia.
Our flight was a few minutes late arriving in Valencia, but due to an extremely ridiculous moment of stupidity I’d had the night before in Houston, I had blown all three of my chances trying to remember my PIN number for my Spanish mobile. Thus, I was unable to call anyone to tell them I’d be arriving late. Furthermore, I was going to have to dig up my paperwork on my phone to find the secondary access code so I could get my phone working again. Thankfully they offer such a code for nimrods such as myself.
Lynne was double parked in front of the airport when I exited, and by 11pm, we were back at home.
I got my phone working again, and the text messages started pouring in, playing catch up after three weeks stateside. One message was from Gemma, a girl I’d assisted with a project earlier in June. Her brother urgently needed English practice, and could I start as soon as possible? Cool, I hadn’t been back in town half an hour, and was already back in business.
My first day back in Spain, despite the continued Mediterranean heat. My Spanish clunked back into my head, and I was greatly relieved to find that I hadn’t completely forgotten everything I’d learned in the past months. I met several folks I was acquainted with in the street, at the gym, and in the market, and everyone seemed happy to see me, and I, them. Even the Romanian girl who works in the doner kebab place said hello to me, which was a first. (note – I think that it’s possible that the Romanian mafia operates out of my local kebab shop. Kind of scary, and kind of intriguing. Good kebabs, though)
On my second day back, I met Lynne for a lunch of sushi at an Asian restaurant near her work, which was pretty tasty. I was already in good spirits as I was settling myself back in town, but didn’t pass up an opportunity to have a second carajillo at lunch before heading into city center. I had made the decision to continue with Spanish classes, recognizing the benefit of my six week course in summer. However, I was also embarrassed about seeing my instructors; I did not feel that I had done well on my final examination. In fact, I really think I’d totally screwed my exam.
Alas, all the more reason to enroll in more classes, right? As I rounded the corner of the academy, I was delighted to run into Lourdes, my cool Spanish instructor with the Irish accent, talking to Svenia, one of my German classmates from July. We all had a quick smoke, then headed upstairs to the school, where Lourdes, and the two other instructors that I know proceeded to give me a bit of a hard time about everything…all in good fun. I was sweating, and as the three cute, intimidating girls (fucking lovely, eh? I’m intimidated by my Spanish teachers) continued to joke with me, I started blushing, too. Lourdes and Ines decided to play a bit of matchmaking, and made a huge deal about the fact that the third instructor, Rebecca, didn’t have a boyfriend, and maybe the two of us should hang out, and suddenly she was blushing, also.
The whole incident would have been much much more fun had it not been about 45 degrees C in the room. For the quick conversion, 45 degrees C is about a million degrees Fahrenheit. My black shirt was completely drenched, and starting to stain. Exactly the way I didn’t want things to go.
I somehow managed to escape the girls, agreeing to meet Ines in two weeks for classes (after she returned from her holiday). I collected my certifica, and found that my score was “notable,”, which was an absolute shock. Maybe I know more Spanish than I thought…
Svenia had waited for me during all of this, so I treated her to a drink at a café across the plaza. I had a few minutes before I was to meet Gemma’s brother at Finnegan’s, a few doors down. It turns out that Svenia is teaching German in a school in Valencia for the semester. Pretty cool. Hopefully I can see her again.
As we were finishing our drinks, I glanced over to Finnegan’s and realized that the bar hadn’t opened, yet, and it was 6pm, the time I’d agreed to meet Jose Miguel. I saw a guy standing outside, so ran over and introduced myself, then went back to pay the tab at the other place, bid Svenia hasta luego (Chuss!), then start class with JM.
I always chuckle when a student tries to speak only in Spanish, but I listened and conversed in Spanish with Jose Miguel for about fifteen minutes as he explained why he needed classes. We walked around the barrio a little looking for an alternate venue, but as we circled back, found Finnegan’s open for business, so grabbed a table outside. It turns out that this guy throws back pints like I do, so things went well.
Three hours later, we called it a night, and agreed to meet the following afternoon. He had a job interview with an English speaking company in about five days time, and wanted to meet as much as possible until then.
Friday, September 1st, was my third day back. I spent the morning translating some documents for two colleagues of Gemma’s who were going to give a presentation in another week. I met JM for a couple of beers in the afternoon, then went to the grand opening of a little natural store that my friend Cristina was starting – the kind of place that sells natural stuff. In fact, her store looks a whole lot like the little section at Whole Foods on Greenville where they stock all the supplements and non-food items, like loofas and soaps and shit. Cristina is actually selling a bit of organic food, but only a little.
During these three days, I really only experienced a bit of jet lag (it’s harder, actually, going from Europe to the States), but those three days had been pretty busy. So, I was tired on Saturday morning when I met JM for a bocadillo and beer in Meliana. A bit later, he went off to spend the weekend with his girlfriend, and I went with Lynne, Fran, and Daniel to Concha’s for lunch.
That night, we met Xuso, Mireya, and the kids for a later dinner before watching a local parade of Cristianos and Moros that went through all the streets of Meliana at midnight.
Sunday, I caught up on some rest, anticipating another busy week on the way.
August in Spain, as I’ve mentioned before, is a very quiet month. Many places are closed, and those that remain open tend to open for only a few hours. Finnegan’s, for example, opened around 7pm every afternoon during August, unlike their normal opening hours, which are 10am or 11am during the rest of the year.
My lunchtime routine frequently involves Finnegan’s, so I was glad we were back in September. Monday, the 4th, the first day back in the “laborales” timetable was my first opportunity to get back into my own routine. Clyde was glad to see me, and after comparing our vacation notes, he whipped me up a superfucking fry-up, which I had been looking forward to. You just can’t go wrong with a fry-up (in spite of what your doctor might say), and it helped keep me from being a slobbering drunk at 5.30pm that afternoon when I had to meet my two girls to go over their presentation.
I metroed out to the meeting point at the Polytechnic, then couldn’t find Maryland, who was waiting for me. We talked on the phone three times in 30 minutes as I walked around campus like a moron while she waited for me with the car. I only know one place on the campus (ok, after that stunt, I’m pretty well in the know with the entire layout) but for the life of me couldn’t find it, couldn’t read the damn campus map, and couldn’t find anyone about to ask. She’s a bit on the cute side, but when I eventually found her, I was a dripping, sweaty mess, and she wasn’t all that thrilled to have been kept waiting.
We drove to the second girl’s house, which ironically was right next to a metro stop that I know very well, and spent the next hour and a half going over their project, which they were to present in Jordan the following Monday. At 8pm, we wrapped it up, and Maryland drove me back to Finnegan’s, where I was to meet Jose Miguel for another class.
As I sat waiting for JM, his sister Gemma showed up to have a drink with another friend. We exchanged greetings and agreed to meet soon, and then JM arrived. After briefly greeting his sister, he joined me in the corner, and we proceeded to drink five pints each over the next two hours. I tried to calculate in my head the day’s total consumption (three hour lunch at Finnegan’s, beer at Maria’s, etc), and finally came up with a vague number called…a LOT.
Home in a Taxi to find Lynne waiting with dinner – a fry up. She was like, where have you been, and I was like, er having class with JM. I can’t be the only TEFL instructor that uses his local pub as a classroom and an office, can I? But, I realized that perhaps we’d overdone it a tad. I somehow made it through dinner, though I had to leave one of the sausages for another day.
I had planned to meet with Jose Miguel the next afternoon, but he texted me to say that he was hung over and unable to meet. Besides, his interview was the next day, and he needed to get a good night’s sleep. I wasn’t feeling super duper, myself, but I would have certainly gone had he wanted to. Anything for the sake of education, eh? In the end, I was glad for the night off.
I spent Wednesday doing a last bit of translating for the Jordan bound girls, then met another possible student in the afternoon. Maria and I had granizados for about an hour, agreed to meet on Friday for class, then I headed next door to Finnegan’s. (coincidence…not even close. It’s just conveniently located for class, work, or heavy drinking)
While I was watching a little of the Scotland Euro qualifier and talking a bit with the staff, I met an English-American guy who was currently living in Latvia. He was cheering on Scotland, as they were playing Lithuania, the neighboring country to Latvia. Apparently he had some work mates from there that he had bet money with. Well, one thing led to another, and suddenly I was four pints in and trying to remember what time I’d said I’d be home. Latvian Steve and I continued to talk (he’s a Chelsea fan) about football and whatnot, then Lynne called to see if I could pick up some Dippas on the way home. (note- Dippas are basically Tostitos, but made by Doritos). Sure, no problem, I said. Another pint and two shots of VODKA later, and I said, enough. I told Steve I had to go home, then weaved down calle de la Paz to El Corte Ingles to buy chips and ciggy, then boarded the metro for home. Joder.
I told myself on Thursday that I would not have any beer that day, only to find myself sipping a Mahou at Maria’s house as we finished up their presentation. The girls were to leave for Jordan on Saturday, and this was our last night to prepare and make sure their English was up to snuff.
At 8pm, I wished them both well, then met Lynne for a quick dinner (sandwich and, er, a beer) before choir practice. It was really nice to see everyone from the choir again, but even nicer to finally get to bed at midnight.
My workweek finished with a two and a half hour conversation class on Friday evening, and I was pretty tired when I got home. After a movie and a pizza, I was asleep.
I really haven’t done much since then. Saturday was slow, and Sunday was slower. A couple of movies (yes, Pablo, I have now seen “Kiss Kiss Bang Bang”…good stuff), several coffees, and that’s about it.
So today it’s Monday, 911. The five year anniversary. School started today in Spain, but Daniel didn’t go because he had a fever yesterday. After a morning workout, I really didn’t do all that much, choosing to be a bit lazy. True, life is a bit slower at the moment, but that doesn’t mean that I get that many chances to sit around doing nothing. Today, I just didn’t feel like doing much.
I got to thinking about the events from five years back, then got a bit irked as I thought about the movies that have recently been made in Hollywood…I think there are two or three. I think I now might have some idea how someone my grandfather’s age felt when the first movie about World War II was made, or even how they felt years later when Saving Private Ryan came out. It’s probably the same way some Vietnam vets felt when Platoon or Hamburger Hill was released. When I was seeing those films, I was like, “wow, really powerful film,” and perhaps that wasn’t the same reaction from vets. Maybe they were saying, “Bad deal. Really bad idea to throw the cinematic drama into this.” Or maybe not. I just know that I don’t see myself running to see any movie about 911 anytime soon.
On that particular morning five years ago, I was waiting for my latte at Travis Walk when one of the baristas said, “ohmygod, something has happened in New York.” Ten really shitty hours later after the story had unfolded, Chris, Bennett, and I went to the patio of the Old Monk and sat outside to avoid the CNN, Foxnews, etc. OK, so Bennett wasn’t old enough to sit inside, either, but that’s another cosa. We really didn’t want to sit inside with the television media, anyway.
So after dinner this evening, I skipped the documentaries showing on tv and came upstairs to write. I’ll remember the past without the aid of repeated video footage of first one, then a second tower collapsing in Manhattan. Freddy Mecury sang it, and I saw the same theme last week when I watched Moulin Rouge! The show must go on.
One of the best things about my life right now is that I can better avoid the media. It’s difficult to get CNN, FOX, or whatever broadcast in English. You can do it, but you have to make an effort. I choose not to make that effort, for the most part.
On the other hand, the Spanish media gets going themselves, and it can be a bit much.
However, since I’m still learning Spanish, I can sort of tune out whenever I want.
This is not to say that I’m trying to live under a rock, but I do like the ability to sort of control my knowledge intake.
I wish that I could use better personal restraint with the media relating to European football. Something in me just gets pretty wound up this time of year when the leagues start.
I’ll keep the soccer moment brief, then let you go.
Arsenal. Serious questions must be asked. We’re three games in, and they’ve earned two points. They haven’t won a game yet. Not good. I’ve always been fairly positive about this stuff (that doom and gloom shit I do is more for show…though I do like to brood), but somewhere in Dallas I’ve got a friend who has probably just filled a 30 gallon trash sack with shredded coasters. Be strong, Steve, be strong. (you, too Elizabeth….this has to be particularly fun for you).
All I can say is that Champs league kicks off Tuesday, and Arsenal play Hamburg Wednesday. They go to Man U on Sunday. It stands to be an emotional week. Get those coasters ready.
keep the faith
bryan
c/ Tomas Trenor
09/11/06
I started looking at my return from an August in Texas as a new start in Spain: an opportunity to hit the ground running after a pretty decent six months.
Flying out of Dallas on a Monday evening was a pretty good idea, as I enjoyed a very empty flight to Houston, then at 10pm, found myself on an even less crowded flight to Paris. I was sitting at the back of the plane, and almost everyone had a row to themselves. Those of you who have flown international legs know what a rare treat that can be. As luck would have it, just as the final passengers were boarding, a very pretty girl took her seat right next to me, and we started chatting. We had a nice discussion about her nervousness at take-off, and also the fact that she was going back to Europe to teach English in her hometown, somewhere in the Czech republic.
Before you go thinking, “Attaboy, Bry, way to go!” I’ll explain that, once airborne, “Betty” (who, strangely enough, looked a little like a blonde Betty Rubble) moved to another seat so we’d both have room to stretch out and be more comfortable on the long flight.
She promised to come back and visit (she moved to the seat directly in front of me) a bit later, but about ten minutes after we were in the air, some American guy who apparently had been working on her pretty good in the airport lounge came over and sat with her for most of the rest of the flight.
So, like always, I plugged in the headphones and watched movies for the next several hours by myself, thinking that it might be a good idea to visit Prague sometime soon.
We landed in Paris CDG ten hours later, and really the only thing I found cool was the temperature outside, a nice 18 degrees C. I had to muck around for a few hours, and ended up buying, and reading an entire James Patterson novel. Funny, his bestsellers always seem to serve merely as a four hour distraction for me. I realized halfway through that I had read it before, but I powered on through and finished it by the time we boarded our flight for Valencia.
Our flight was a few minutes late arriving in Valencia, but due to an extremely ridiculous moment of stupidity I’d had the night before in Houston, I had blown all three of my chances trying to remember my PIN number for my Spanish mobile. Thus, I was unable to call anyone to tell them I’d be arriving late. Furthermore, I was going to have to dig up my paperwork on my phone to find the secondary access code so I could get my phone working again. Thankfully they offer such a code for nimrods such as myself.
Lynne was double parked in front of the airport when I exited, and by 11pm, we were back at home.
I got my phone working again, and the text messages started pouring in, playing catch up after three weeks stateside. One message was from Gemma, a girl I’d assisted with a project earlier in June. Her brother urgently needed English practice, and could I start as soon as possible? Cool, I hadn’t been back in town half an hour, and was already back in business.
My first day back in Spain, despite the continued Mediterranean heat. My Spanish clunked back into my head, and I was greatly relieved to find that I hadn’t completely forgotten everything I’d learned in the past months. I met several folks I was acquainted with in the street, at the gym, and in the market, and everyone seemed happy to see me, and I, them. Even the Romanian girl who works in the doner kebab place said hello to me, which was a first. (note – I think that it’s possible that the Romanian mafia operates out of my local kebab shop. Kind of scary, and kind of intriguing. Good kebabs, though)
On my second day back, I met Lynne for a lunch of sushi at an Asian restaurant near her work, which was pretty tasty. I was already in good spirits as I was settling myself back in town, but didn’t pass up an opportunity to have a second carajillo at lunch before heading into city center. I had made the decision to continue with Spanish classes, recognizing the benefit of my six week course in summer. However, I was also embarrassed about seeing my instructors; I did not feel that I had done well on my final examination. In fact, I really think I’d totally screwed my exam.
Alas, all the more reason to enroll in more classes, right? As I rounded the corner of the academy, I was delighted to run into Lourdes, my cool Spanish instructor with the Irish accent, talking to Svenia, one of my German classmates from July. We all had a quick smoke, then headed upstairs to the school, where Lourdes, and the two other instructors that I know proceeded to give me a bit of a hard time about everything…all in good fun. I was sweating, and as the three cute, intimidating girls (fucking lovely, eh? I’m intimidated by my Spanish teachers) continued to joke with me, I started blushing, too. Lourdes and Ines decided to play a bit of matchmaking, and made a huge deal about the fact that the third instructor, Rebecca, didn’t have a boyfriend, and maybe the two of us should hang out, and suddenly she was blushing, also.
The whole incident would have been much much more fun had it not been about 45 degrees C in the room. For the quick conversion, 45 degrees C is about a million degrees Fahrenheit. My black shirt was completely drenched, and starting to stain. Exactly the way I didn’t want things to go.
I somehow managed to escape the girls, agreeing to meet Ines in two weeks for classes (after she returned from her holiday). I collected my certifica, and found that my score was “notable,”, which was an absolute shock. Maybe I know more Spanish than I thought…
Svenia had waited for me during all of this, so I treated her to a drink at a café across the plaza. I had a few minutes before I was to meet Gemma’s brother at Finnegan’s, a few doors down. It turns out that Svenia is teaching German in a school in Valencia for the semester. Pretty cool. Hopefully I can see her again.
As we were finishing our drinks, I glanced over to Finnegan’s and realized that the bar hadn’t opened, yet, and it was 6pm, the time I’d agreed to meet Jose Miguel. I saw a guy standing outside, so ran over and introduced myself, then went back to pay the tab at the other place, bid Svenia hasta luego (Chuss!), then start class with JM.
I always chuckle when a student tries to speak only in Spanish, but I listened and conversed in Spanish with Jose Miguel for about fifteen minutes as he explained why he needed classes. We walked around the barrio a little looking for an alternate venue, but as we circled back, found Finnegan’s open for business, so grabbed a table outside. It turns out that this guy throws back pints like I do, so things went well.
Three hours later, we called it a night, and agreed to meet the following afternoon. He had a job interview with an English speaking company in about five days time, and wanted to meet as much as possible until then.
Friday, September 1st, was my third day back. I spent the morning translating some documents for two colleagues of Gemma’s who were going to give a presentation in another week. I met JM for a couple of beers in the afternoon, then went to the grand opening of a little natural store that my friend Cristina was starting – the kind of place that sells natural stuff. In fact, her store looks a whole lot like the little section at Whole Foods on Greenville where they stock all the supplements and non-food items, like loofas and soaps and shit. Cristina is actually selling a bit of organic food, but only a little.
During these three days, I really only experienced a bit of jet lag (it’s harder, actually, going from Europe to the States), but those three days had been pretty busy. So, I was tired on Saturday morning when I met JM for a bocadillo and beer in Meliana. A bit later, he went off to spend the weekend with his girlfriend, and I went with Lynne, Fran, and Daniel to Concha’s for lunch.
That night, we met Xuso, Mireya, and the kids for a later dinner before watching a local parade of Cristianos and Moros that went through all the streets of Meliana at midnight.
Sunday, I caught up on some rest, anticipating another busy week on the way.
August in Spain, as I’ve mentioned before, is a very quiet month. Many places are closed, and those that remain open tend to open for only a few hours. Finnegan’s, for example, opened around 7pm every afternoon during August, unlike their normal opening hours, which are 10am or 11am during the rest of the year.
My lunchtime routine frequently involves Finnegan’s, so I was glad we were back in September. Monday, the 4th, the first day back in the “laborales” timetable was my first opportunity to get back into my own routine. Clyde was glad to see me, and after comparing our vacation notes, he whipped me up a superfucking fry-up, which I had been looking forward to. You just can’t go wrong with a fry-up (in spite of what your doctor might say), and it helped keep me from being a slobbering drunk at 5.30pm that afternoon when I had to meet my two girls to go over their presentation.
I metroed out to the meeting point at the Polytechnic, then couldn’t find Maryland, who was waiting for me. We talked on the phone three times in 30 minutes as I walked around campus like a moron while she waited for me with the car. I only know one place on the campus (ok, after that stunt, I’m pretty well in the know with the entire layout) but for the life of me couldn’t find it, couldn’t read the damn campus map, and couldn’t find anyone about to ask. She’s a bit on the cute side, but when I eventually found her, I was a dripping, sweaty mess, and she wasn’t all that thrilled to have been kept waiting.
We drove to the second girl’s house, which ironically was right next to a metro stop that I know very well, and spent the next hour and a half going over their project, which they were to present in Jordan the following Monday. At 8pm, we wrapped it up, and Maryland drove me back to Finnegan’s, where I was to meet Jose Miguel for another class.
As I sat waiting for JM, his sister Gemma showed up to have a drink with another friend. We exchanged greetings and agreed to meet soon, and then JM arrived. After briefly greeting his sister, he joined me in the corner, and we proceeded to drink five pints each over the next two hours. I tried to calculate in my head the day’s total consumption (three hour lunch at Finnegan’s, beer at Maria’s, etc), and finally came up with a vague number called…a LOT.
Home in a Taxi to find Lynne waiting with dinner – a fry up. She was like, where have you been, and I was like, er having class with JM. I can’t be the only TEFL instructor that uses his local pub as a classroom and an office, can I? But, I realized that perhaps we’d overdone it a tad. I somehow made it through dinner, though I had to leave one of the sausages for another day.
I had planned to meet with Jose Miguel the next afternoon, but he texted me to say that he was hung over and unable to meet. Besides, his interview was the next day, and he needed to get a good night’s sleep. I wasn’t feeling super duper, myself, but I would have certainly gone had he wanted to. Anything for the sake of education, eh? In the end, I was glad for the night off.
I spent Wednesday doing a last bit of translating for the Jordan bound girls, then met another possible student in the afternoon. Maria and I had granizados for about an hour, agreed to meet on Friday for class, then I headed next door to Finnegan’s. (coincidence…not even close. It’s just conveniently located for class, work, or heavy drinking)
While I was watching a little of the Scotland Euro qualifier and talking a bit with the staff, I met an English-American guy who was currently living in Latvia. He was cheering on Scotland, as they were playing Lithuania, the neighboring country to Latvia. Apparently he had some work mates from there that he had bet money with. Well, one thing led to another, and suddenly I was four pints in and trying to remember what time I’d said I’d be home. Latvian Steve and I continued to talk (he’s a Chelsea fan) about football and whatnot, then Lynne called to see if I could pick up some Dippas on the way home. (note- Dippas are basically Tostitos, but made by Doritos). Sure, no problem, I said. Another pint and two shots of VODKA later, and I said, enough. I told Steve I had to go home, then weaved down calle de la Paz to El Corte Ingles to buy chips and ciggy, then boarded the metro for home. Joder.
I told myself on Thursday that I would not have any beer that day, only to find myself sipping a Mahou at Maria’s house as we finished up their presentation. The girls were to leave for Jordan on Saturday, and this was our last night to prepare and make sure their English was up to snuff.
At 8pm, I wished them both well, then met Lynne for a quick dinner (sandwich and, er, a beer) before choir practice. It was really nice to see everyone from the choir again, but even nicer to finally get to bed at midnight.
My workweek finished with a two and a half hour conversation class on Friday evening, and I was pretty tired when I got home. After a movie and a pizza, I was asleep.
I really haven’t done much since then. Saturday was slow, and Sunday was slower. A couple of movies (yes, Pablo, I have now seen “Kiss Kiss Bang Bang”…good stuff), several coffees, and that’s about it.
So today it’s Monday, 911. The five year anniversary. School started today in Spain, but Daniel didn’t go because he had a fever yesterday. After a morning workout, I really didn’t do all that much, choosing to be a bit lazy. True, life is a bit slower at the moment, but that doesn’t mean that I get that many chances to sit around doing nothing. Today, I just didn’t feel like doing much.
I got to thinking about the events from five years back, then got a bit irked as I thought about the movies that have recently been made in Hollywood…I think there are two or three. I think I now might have some idea how someone my grandfather’s age felt when the first movie about World War II was made, or even how they felt years later when Saving Private Ryan came out. It’s probably the same way some Vietnam vets felt when Platoon or Hamburger Hill was released. When I was seeing those films, I was like, “wow, really powerful film,” and perhaps that wasn’t the same reaction from vets. Maybe they were saying, “Bad deal. Really bad idea to throw the cinematic drama into this.” Or maybe not. I just know that I don’t see myself running to see any movie about 911 anytime soon.
On that particular morning five years ago, I was waiting for my latte at Travis Walk when one of the baristas said, “ohmygod, something has happened in New York.” Ten really shitty hours later after the story had unfolded, Chris, Bennett, and I went to the patio of the Old Monk and sat outside to avoid the CNN, Foxnews, etc. OK, so Bennett wasn’t old enough to sit inside, either, but that’s another cosa. We really didn’t want to sit inside with the television media, anyway.
So after dinner this evening, I skipped the documentaries showing on tv and came upstairs to write. I’ll remember the past without the aid of repeated video footage of first one, then a second tower collapsing in Manhattan. Freddy Mecury sang it, and I saw the same theme last week when I watched Moulin Rouge! The show must go on.
One of the best things about my life right now is that I can better avoid the media. It’s difficult to get CNN, FOX, or whatever broadcast in English. You can do it, but you have to make an effort. I choose not to make that effort, for the most part.
On the other hand, the Spanish media gets going themselves, and it can be a bit much.
However, since I’m still learning Spanish, I can sort of tune out whenever I want.
This is not to say that I’m trying to live under a rock, but I do like the ability to sort of control my knowledge intake.
I wish that I could use better personal restraint with the media relating to European football. Something in me just gets pretty wound up this time of year when the leagues start.
I’ll keep the soccer moment brief, then let you go.
Arsenal. Serious questions must be asked. We’re three games in, and they’ve earned two points. They haven’t won a game yet. Not good. I’ve always been fairly positive about this stuff (that doom and gloom shit I do is more for show…though I do like to brood), but somewhere in Dallas I’ve got a friend who has probably just filled a 30 gallon trash sack with shredded coasters. Be strong, Steve, be strong. (you, too Elizabeth….this has to be particularly fun for you).
All I can say is that Champs league kicks off Tuesday, and Arsenal play Hamburg Wednesday. They go to Man U on Sunday. It stands to be an emotional week. Get those coasters ready.
keep the faith
bryan
c/ Tomas Trenor
09/11/06
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
How I spent my summer vacation...without all the details
I can´t even begin to describe how emotional I have felt during the past three and a half weeks. I was a bit nervous about a visit to Texas in August, wondering how it would feel to see family and friends after a six month break. Finally the day came where I found myself first riding in a taxi to the Valencia airport at 5 in the morning, then trying to wait out a really long layover in Paris, then eventually landing in Houston and clearing customs, and finally rolling into Dallas, where my parents and Uncle Bob met me at the baggage claim. Yes, I was glad to be back in town, but how long would that feeling last, I wondered? Two days, maybe a week?
As it turned out, I can’t think of any place that I rather would have gone for a my summer vacation. OK, maybe Dallas itself wasn’t the best location. Dallas still seems like a lost city that doesn’t know how to find it’s identity. Irving is still a shithole, and Frisco is still thousands of miles away from the Old Monk. I won’t even mention Plano. But, as I drove around the city, visiting my parents house, seeing friends, going to dinner, it felt really good to go back to my hometown, though, as Joe Jackson sings, “I know it will never be the same.”
I hummed that song to myself early Saturday morning after my arrival late the night before. I woke up way early, thanks to jet lag, and by 10am or so, had already done a bunch of shopping, bought a cell phone, purchased some new soccer gear, and then decided to work out my jet lag over a few pints in the Old Monk. Talk about a homecoming: Miriana gave me a big welcome, then Riley and Mike greeted me, and I found myself repeatedly saying, “I’m really glad to be here.”
That was the start of three very rushed weeks, and now, the day after I’ve returned to Spain, it’s just an incredible blur, albeit a blur with many great moments. Thanks to everyone who was able to come out for a beer, maybe two. It meant a lot just to see everyone, even for such a short time. Yes, I missed seeing some of you, and I am truly sorry, but look forward to the next opportunity. I realize that everyone’s life continues to be busy as mine is, so I’m very glad (not to mention surprised) that I got to spend as much time as I did with so many people.
How nice it was to muck around in some of my favorite haunts and see familiar faces, and even meet a couple of new friends. I particularly owe a big thanks to the Old Monk and Idlerich for hosting much of my time, but the Dub and Trinity Hall certainly deserve nods, as well.
During the last couple of days of my trip, I was still saying, “I am glad to be here,” which, to be honest, was a bit of a surprise. It’s a really strange place to be, that place where you’re having a really good time but about to go home, anyway. Thus, it seemed fitting to me to close out my time in Dallas having a few pints at the Monk, just like when I arrived. I find the finality of finishing your glass, snuffing the cig, shaking hands, giving hugs, saying farewell, and hopefully remembering to pay the tab sort of works well for me.
So, I arrived back in Valencia last night, and woke up this morning in a bit of a fog, but with a huge smile on my face. You see, I’m glad to be back here, too. Round two of the Bryan takes on Europe show is starting right about now, and I’m off to a pretty good start. I’ve somehow managed to remember a little Spanish, though I had one conversation today that went ok even though I didn’t completely know what we were talking about. The tobacco salesman greeted me with a smile, and in the grocery store I saw several people I know who all said how glad they were that I was back in town. It’s good to be back.
Since this little piece seems more like liner notes of a CD than anything else, I’ll take the opportunity to thank: JPS for selling ciggy (I was getting really tired of reds), Air France for showing cool movies on the plane (and for friendly attractive staff), Greenhill school for having girls field hockey practice on a Friday afternoon, FSC, Fullers, Stella, that gay guy who threw peppermints at us while walking down the hall at Terrilli’s, Doc Marten, margaritas in general, the compliment of being described as Dicky Barrett (I may actually wear boots, shorts and a tie around Valencia sometime), and finally, a special thank you to little Goliad.
Thanks again for such a nice August
keep the faith
bryan
30/8/06
casa de tomas trenor
As it turned out, I can’t think of any place that I rather would have gone for a my summer vacation. OK, maybe Dallas itself wasn’t the best location. Dallas still seems like a lost city that doesn’t know how to find it’s identity. Irving is still a shithole, and Frisco is still thousands of miles away from the Old Monk. I won’t even mention Plano. But, as I drove around the city, visiting my parents house, seeing friends, going to dinner, it felt really good to go back to my hometown, though, as Joe Jackson sings, “I know it will never be the same.”
I hummed that song to myself early Saturday morning after my arrival late the night before. I woke up way early, thanks to jet lag, and by 10am or so, had already done a bunch of shopping, bought a cell phone, purchased some new soccer gear, and then decided to work out my jet lag over a few pints in the Old Monk. Talk about a homecoming: Miriana gave me a big welcome, then Riley and Mike greeted me, and I found myself repeatedly saying, “I’m really glad to be here.”
That was the start of three very rushed weeks, and now, the day after I’ve returned to Spain, it’s just an incredible blur, albeit a blur with many great moments. Thanks to everyone who was able to come out for a beer, maybe two. It meant a lot just to see everyone, even for such a short time. Yes, I missed seeing some of you, and I am truly sorry, but look forward to the next opportunity. I realize that everyone’s life continues to be busy as mine is, so I’m very glad (not to mention surprised) that I got to spend as much time as I did with so many people.
How nice it was to muck around in some of my favorite haunts and see familiar faces, and even meet a couple of new friends. I particularly owe a big thanks to the Old Monk and Idlerich for hosting much of my time, but the Dub and Trinity Hall certainly deserve nods, as well.
During the last couple of days of my trip, I was still saying, “I am glad to be here,” which, to be honest, was a bit of a surprise. It’s a really strange place to be, that place where you’re having a really good time but about to go home, anyway. Thus, it seemed fitting to me to close out my time in Dallas having a few pints at the Monk, just like when I arrived. I find the finality of finishing your glass, snuffing the cig, shaking hands, giving hugs, saying farewell, and hopefully remembering to pay the tab sort of works well for me.
So, I arrived back in Valencia last night, and woke up this morning in a bit of a fog, but with a huge smile on my face. You see, I’m glad to be back here, too. Round two of the Bryan takes on Europe show is starting right about now, and I’m off to a pretty good start. I’ve somehow managed to remember a little Spanish, though I had one conversation today that went ok even though I didn’t completely know what we were talking about. The tobacco salesman greeted me with a smile, and in the grocery store I saw several people I know who all said how glad they were that I was back in town. It’s good to be back.
Since this little piece seems more like liner notes of a CD than anything else, I’ll take the opportunity to thank: JPS for selling ciggy (I was getting really tired of reds), Air France for showing cool movies on the plane (and for friendly attractive staff), Greenhill school for having girls field hockey practice on a Friday afternoon, FSC, Fullers, Stella, that gay guy who threw peppermints at us while walking down the hall at Terrilli’s, Doc Marten, margaritas in general, the compliment of being described as Dicky Barrett (I may actually wear boots, shorts and a tie around Valencia sometime), and finally, a special thank you to little Goliad.
Thanks again for such a nice August
keep the faith
bryan
30/8/06
casa de tomas trenor
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
...and the heat goes on.
"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
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
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
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Music for the Masses
Fade to last Friday, the second of June. My nephew was home from school, and I was on Daniel duty. He elected to play with Legos, and decided that we’d have more room playing on the table in the living room. “OK, let me just put a new CD on the stereo.”
After a couple of Small Faces tracks, a Guy Clark song “Texas Cookin’” came on, and my nephew looked up from his little Lego structure and said, “Hey, this is funny music, Uncle B. I like it,” then did a little shuck and jive dance on the floor.
“It’s a Pablo special,” I replied. “It just came in the mail.”
“You have a friend named Pablo? I have a friend named Pablo, too!!” he gushed. “Will you introduce me to your friend Pablo?”
“I know. I know your Pablo,” I answered. “and, you’ve met my friend Pablo before in Texas. But, I’ll be happy to introduce you to him again when we go to the states.”
“Oh! Thank you so much, Uncle B!” he said enthusiastically.
We played Legos for the remainder of the CD, which had a bit from the Hollies, Elton J, Van Morrison, and Pete T. Quite the smorgasbord of English-ish songs, designed by young Pablo back in April with the idea that Chris would bring it to London, where we’d be unable to listen as we had no CD player. Of course, in the excitement of Arsenal trip preparation, the CD got left at Goliad, but eventually arrived in Meliana, much to my delight.
As Daniel and I sat on the couch building stuff, I couldn’t help but think that perhaps this was the perfect way to listen to a Pablo CD. Like previous Pascal samplers, this CD was another opportunity to listen to music that I would never think to pick up at the record store, but after one listen, find myself asking why the hell not? Probably for the same reason that Pablo doesn’t blaze around in the Accord listening to Anti-Flag, Minor Threat, or the Mighty Mighty Bosstones…
How important tunes are to one´s life. I survive, I thrive, because I have music flowing through me always. I once wrote a story about a little boy who would die if the music stopped, so he always had to keep loads of stereos and walkmans with him. The story kind of sucked, but the idea seemed cool to me at the time.
I’ve marvelled at music for most of my life time, and am fortunate that both Tim and Pablo had the foresight to supply me with music for my time in Spain.(hint to Tim and Pablo…don’t stop) Pablo always tends to push the limit with off beat stuff that I normally wouldn’t like – much the way a parent has to encourage their child to eat an unusual dish for the first time, only for the child to discover how much they absolutely love it. Tim, on the other hand, expresses the boot wearing, jungle gym climbing, ass kicking psych it up stuff that not only helped us get through college and our twenties, but also prepared us for that day when listening to a given track can instantly take you to that magical place where everything clicks and the world seems to have no problems. Songs like “Happy,” or vintage Van Halen, or some boppy punk song- the kind you’d listen to while driving around without a shirt on in a car without AC, only to get pulled over for speeding, only to feel a bit sheepish that you’re half-naked as the cop tells you and your buddy to tone it down.
My nephew appears to have a high level of appreciation for music, too. This isn’t a huge surprise considering my sister’s own passion for music, and likewise my brother-in-law’s tendency to go completely nutty when he comes across a music video to “Wild Boys” or when he fondly describes a rock concert of El Ultimo de la Fila. Daniel is quick to burst into song, whether in the metro, on the terrace, on the toilet, or wherever. Every time he plays guitar, he sings a rousing chorus that only he knows, which goes right along with the six string power chord. “Oh, I’m sitting on Uncle B’s bed, playing the guitar, and the sky is outside, and the ducks are quacking…”
Daniel has rhythm, also. His interpretation for dance leads me to believe that he’s spending too much time with high school students (though I don’t know when or where). I’m not a big fan of his David Lee Roth tongue wagging, but I don’t know how to discourage that without discouraging the whole music bit. Besides, I can’t be the only one who has played the guitar solo from a Styx song on a broom in Jen’s living room, right? We all have our methods of expression.
We attempted to subdue the young one this past week, particularly on Saturday as he danced and jumped around on the sofa along to a Duran Duran video and German MTV. After all, he had undergone a hernia operation just a few days before, though you wouldn’t necessarily know that as he attempted to re-enact one of the videos where someone did a back flip.
The hernia thing popped up kind of suddenly a couple of months ago. Though somewhat rare for little ones, I myself went through this same operation when I was three, and was glad to add a bit of comfort to the whole scene. No one wants to have to put their kid in hospital, but it’s somewhat more reassuring when everything goes smoothly and quickly.
Rather than give a huge synopsis about the whole eight week period, I’ll simply say Spanish public healthcare and enchufado, leave it at that, and skip to last Tuesday, the day Daniel was to be admitted to hospital; the operation would be the following morning.
Lynne, Daniel, and I ate lunch at a bar down the street, and Daniel knew he was going to the hospital that afternoon. As I headed on to my classes, he gave me a huge hug and a, “I love you Uncle B,” which told me that he was a little bit antsy about things. I was certainly feeling for D and his parents as I metroed to class.
Wednesday morning around 10.30, Lynne phoned to report that the operation was over, and it went well. D was a bit distraught, but this was expected as he came out of anaesthesia. Of course, as I heard him crying in the background, I could sense that both Lynne and Fran were slightly unnerved by things. Within an hour, he did calm down and was able to get some rest.
Lynne had spent Tuesday night sleeping uncomfortably (if at all) on a broken recliner next to Daniel, but Wednesday afternoon, Fran relieved her, which provided a break from the hospital. She and I met for lunch, and recalled our own memories of my operation 33 years ago (I actually remember more than you might think). After an extra carajillo, Lynne headed home to get a shower and a bit of rest before returning to hospital. Meanwhile, I went on to class.
I was minding my own business on the way home from school when Fran sat down next to me on the metro, and we rode the rest of the way to Meliana. Fran gave me the update-Daniel would come home on Thursday, probably late morning Let me just say that meeting someone you know on the metro is right up there with listening to a cool CD you got in the mail.
Sure enough, I had no sooner returned from the gym Thursday mid-morning when Lynne, Fran, and Daniel arrived home. Daniel was walking like someone had just kicked the bejeezus out of his crotch, but apparently that’s just how it goes. My grandmother still tells the story about me running out to greet them after my operation, doubled completely over. Of course, I was walking normally the next day.
It was the same for Daniel. Friday morning he woke up with the same energy level as always, though he was a bit more conscious of his boo-boo.
The idea was for him to take it easy for a few days, but the doctors always seem to say, “He can do whatever he feels like doing.” Well, Daniel certainly felt like doing a lot, and Lynne, Fran, and I wondered how to keep activities to a minimum, especially physical things that might jeopardize the stitches. Things like kicking a ball, dancing to a video, and running on the terrace weren’t supposed to be in the cards, but at least we waited until Saturday.
Needless to say, last week was pretty exhaustive for everyone at Tomas Trenor piso 12. Daniel had surgery, Fran had a few meetings around the office, Lynne had a choir concert, and by Friday we needed a break.
Saturday morning, Lynne suggested a night out on the town, which sounded like a pretty good idea. Unfortunately, Daniel wasn’t so keen on staying with his grandmother, so por fin Fran stayed at home with him, while Lynne and I headed out to meet Stephanie for dinner and drinks.
We met up at Finnegan’s around 9.30, and it was nice to hear my sister laugh-clearly she needed an evening out. While I also needed this, I felt fortunate knowing that I’ll get to go with Fran and Rafa for a guys night out in the near future. But this night was for the giris…
Steph is a good friend to both Lynne and myself, and has already experienced the culture/language barrier situation before. It was nice to be able to relay my challenges in Spain to an understanding ear.
Earlier in the week, I’d eaten at a Mexican restaurant in a cool district of Valencia, and Lynne was eager to try the margaritas that I’d been raving about. Alas, the restaurant was booked, so we had to find another place to go. We ended up at a tapas restaurant, which turned out to be really good. I lost count of the drinks at some point during the evening, but I seem to recall pints, sangria, chupitos, and probably another pint of Guinness thrown in for good measure. We did make it home by four, and I slept until eleven, awaking to only a slight throb of the head.
I ventured out again on Sunday evening, this time to meet one of my students for a drink. She and I needed to plan out our schedules for the remainder of the month. I also needed an opportunity to hear the Spanish perspective on things, and felt much better after a few more pints of Guinness and a chat.
I hit the start of the week straight up, and managed a return trip to my Mexican haunt with another intercambio (hmmm, maybe I’m starting to miss a few things, like margaritas and enchiladas). Fortunately we didn’t get quite as drunk on this visit, so I woke up Tuesday feeling more or less OK to take car of Daniel, who returned from his doctor’s appointment with the intent to play. He’s likely to return to school on Wednesday, but Lynne and Fran wanted to keep him out of school for a few days so as not to allow for the other preschoolers to inadvertently mess his recovery up. It’s been hard to believe that he only had surgery a few days ago.
My nephew’s imagination continues to amaze me, he plays with more characters and scenarios now as his language skills develop. Sure, he’ll switch to Spanish, then to English, then back to Spanish very quickly and casually, but it all means something to him, and me.
So here I sit at Finnegan’s, finishing a beer before I metro off to choir practice. Keep the music flowing, keep the margaritas coming (it’s fucking hot here), and watch those stitches…but do whatever you feel like.
keep the faith
bryan
Finnegan’s June 6th,2006
Last bit –World Cup starts in 3 days…and the club team I support has like 16 players in the various international squads. It kind of makes it hard to support just one team in this tournament. But, I think I´ll get it sorted out in time. C´mon England.
After a couple of Small Faces tracks, a Guy Clark song “Texas Cookin’” came on, and my nephew looked up from his little Lego structure and said, “Hey, this is funny music, Uncle B. I like it,” then did a little shuck and jive dance on the floor.
“It’s a Pablo special,” I replied. “It just came in the mail.”
“You have a friend named Pablo? I have a friend named Pablo, too!!” he gushed. “Will you introduce me to your friend Pablo?”
“I know. I know your Pablo,” I answered. “and, you’ve met my friend Pablo before in Texas. But, I’ll be happy to introduce you to him again when we go to the states.”
“Oh! Thank you so much, Uncle B!” he said enthusiastically.
We played Legos for the remainder of the CD, which had a bit from the Hollies, Elton J, Van Morrison, and Pete T. Quite the smorgasbord of English-ish songs, designed by young Pablo back in April with the idea that Chris would bring it to London, where we’d be unable to listen as we had no CD player. Of course, in the excitement of Arsenal trip preparation, the CD got left at Goliad, but eventually arrived in Meliana, much to my delight.
As Daniel and I sat on the couch building stuff, I couldn’t help but think that perhaps this was the perfect way to listen to a Pablo CD. Like previous Pascal samplers, this CD was another opportunity to listen to music that I would never think to pick up at the record store, but after one listen, find myself asking why the hell not? Probably for the same reason that Pablo doesn’t blaze around in the Accord listening to Anti-Flag, Minor Threat, or the Mighty Mighty Bosstones…
How important tunes are to one´s life. I survive, I thrive, because I have music flowing through me always. I once wrote a story about a little boy who would die if the music stopped, so he always had to keep loads of stereos and walkmans with him. The story kind of sucked, but the idea seemed cool to me at the time.
I’ve marvelled at music for most of my life time, and am fortunate that both Tim and Pablo had the foresight to supply me with music for my time in Spain.(hint to Tim and Pablo…don’t stop) Pablo always tends to push the limit with off beat stuff that I normally wouldn’t like – much the way a parent has to encourage their child to eat an unusual dish for the first time, only for the child to discover how much they absolutely love it. Tim, on the other hand, expresses the boot wearing, jungle gym climbing, ass kicking psych it up stuff that not only helped us get through college and our twenties, but also prepared us for that day when listening to a given track can instantly take you to that magical place where everything clicks and the world seems to have no problems. Songs like “Happy,” or vintage Van Halen, or some boppy punk song- the kind you’d listen to while driving around without a shirt on in a car without AC, only to get pulled over for speeding, only to feel a bit sheepish that you’re half-naked as the cop tells you and your buddy to tone it down.
My nephew appears to have a high level of appreciation for music, too. This isn’t a huge surprise considering my sister’s own passion for music, and likewise my brother-in-law’s tendency to go completely nutty when he comes across a music video to “Wild Boys” or when he fondly describes a rock concert of El Ultimo de la Fila. Daniel is quick to burst into song, whether in the metro, on the terrace, on the toilet, or wherever. Every time he plays guitar, he sings a rousing chorus that only he knows, which goes right along with the six string power chord. “Oh, I’m sitting on Uncle B’s bed, playing the guitar, and the sky is outside, and the ducks are quacking…”
Daniel has rhythm, also. His interpretation for dance leads me to believe that he’s spending too much time with high school students (though I don’t know when or where). I’m not a big fan of his David Lee Roth tongue wagging, but I don’t know how to discourage that without discouraging the whole music bit. Besides, I can’t be the only one who has played the guitar solo from a Styx song on a broom in Jen’s living room, right? We all have our methods of expression.
We attempted to subdue the young one this past week, particularly on Saturday as he danced and jumped around on the sofa along to a Duran Duran video and German MTV. After all, he had undergone a hernia operation just a few days before, though you wouldn’t necessarily know that as he attempted to re-enact one of the videos where someone did a back flip.
The hernia thing popped up kind of suddenly a couple of months ago. Though somewhat rare for little ones, I myself went through this same operation when I was three, and was glad to add a bit of comfort to the whole scene. No one wants to have to put their kid in hospital, but it’s somewhat more reassuring when everything goes smoothly and quickly.
Rather than give a huge synopsis about the whole eight week period, I’ll simply say Spanish public healthcare and enchufado, leave it at that, and skip to last Tuesday, the day Daniel was to be admitted to hospital; the operation would be the following morning.
Lynne, Daniel, and I ate lunch at a bar down the street, and Daniel knew he was going to the hospital that afternoon. As I headed on to my classes, he gave me a huge hug and a, “I love you Uncle B,” which told me that he was a little bit antsy about things. I was certainly feeling for D and his parents as I metroed to class.
Wednesday morning around 10.30, Lynne phoned to report that the operation was over, and it went well. D was a bit distraught, but this was expected as he came out of anaesthesia. Of course, as I heard him crying in the background, I could sense that both Lynne and Fran were slightly unnerved by things. Within an hour, he did calm down and was able to get some rest.
Lynne had spent Tuesday night sleeping uncomfortably (if at all) on a broken recliner next to Daniel, but Wednesday afternoon, Fran relieved her, which provided a break from the hospital. She and I met for lunch, and recalled our own memories of my operation 33 years ago (I actually remember more than you might think). After an extra carajillo, Lynne headed home to get a shower and a bit of rest before returning to hospital. Meanwhile, I went on to class.
I was minding my own business on the way home from school when Fran sat down next to me on the metro, and we rode the rest of the way to Meliana. Fran gave me the update-Daniel would come home on Thursday, probably late morning Let me just say that meeting someone you know on the metro is right up there with listening to a cool CD you got in the mail.
Sure enough, I had no sooner returned from the gym Thursday mid-morning when Lynne, Fran, and Daniel arrived home. Daniel was walking like someone had just kicked the bejeezus out of his crotch, but apparently that’s just how it goes. My grandmother still tells the story about me running out to greet them after my operation, doubled completely over. Of course, I was walking normally the next day.
It was the same for Daniel. Friday morning he woke up with the same energy level as always, though he was a bit more conscious of his boo-boo.
The idea was for him to take it easy for a few days, but the doctors always seem to say, “He can do whatever he feels like doing.” Well, Daniel certainly felt like doing a lot, and Lynne, Fran, and I wondered how to keep activities to a minimum, especially physical things that might jeopardize the stitches. Things like kicking a ball, dancing to a video, and running on the terrace weren’t supposed to be in the cards, but at least we waited until Saturday.
Needless to say, last week was pretty exhaustive for everyone at Tomas Trenor piso 12. Daniel had surgery, Fran had a few meetings around the office, Lynne had a choir concert, and by Friday we needed a break.
Saturday morning, Lynne suggested a night out on the town, which sounded like a pretty good idea. Unfortunately, Daniel wasn’t so keen on staying with his grandmother, so por fin Fran stayed at home with him, while Lynne and I headed out to meet Stephanie for dinner and drinks.
We met up at Finnegan’s around 9.30, and it was nice to hear my sister laugh-clearly she needed an evening out. While I also needed this, I felt fortunate knowing that I’ll get to go with Fran and Rafa for a guys night out in the near future. But this night was for the giris…
Steph is a good friend to both Lynne and myself, and has already experienced the culture/language barrier situation before. It was nice to be able to relay my challenges in Spain to an understanding ear.
Earlier in the week, I’d eaten at a Mexican restaurant in a cool district of Valencia, and Lynne was eager to try the margaritas that I’d been raving about. Alas, the restaurant was booked, so we had to find another place to go. We ended up at a tapas restaurant, which turned out to be really good. I lost count of the drinks at some point during the evening, but I seem to recall pints, sangria, chupitos, and probably another pint of Guinness thrown in for good measure. We did make it home by four, and I slept until eleven, awaking to only a slight throb of the head.
I ventured out again on Sunday evening, this time to meet one of my students for a drink. She and I needed to plan out our schedules for the remainder of the month. I also needed an opportunity to hear the Spanish perspective on things, and felt much better after a few more pints of Guinness and a chat.
I hit the start of the week straight up, and managed a return trip to my Mexican haunt with another intercambio (hmmm, maybe I’m starting to miss a few things, like margaritas and enchiladas). Fortunately we didn’t get quite as drunk on this visit, so I woke up Tuesday feeling more or less OK to take car of Daniel, who returned from his doctor’s appointment with the intent to play. He’s likely to return to school on Wednesday, but Lynne and Fran wanted to keep him out of school for a few days so as not to allow for the other preschoolers to inadvertently mess his recovery up. It’s been hard to believe that he only had surgery a few days ago.
My nephew’s imagination continues to amaze me, he plays with more characters and scenarios now as his language skills develop. Sure, he’ll switch to Spanish, then to English, then back to Spanish very quickly and casually, but it all means something to him, and me.
So here I sit at Finnegan’s, finishing a beer before I metro off to choir practice. Keep the music flowing, keep the margaritas coming (it’s fucking hot here), and watch those stitches…but do whatever you feel like.
keep the faith
bryan
Finnegan’s June 6th,2006
Last bit –World Cup starts in 3 days…and the club team I support has like 16 players in the various international squads. It kind of makes it hard to support just one team in this tournament. But, I think I´ll get it sorted out in time. C´mon England.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
A bit of pop, revolution, drama, intrigue, stupidity, and pride
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
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
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
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