Saturday 27 June 2009

we'll miss you...

Yesterday I waved goodbye to my first job here in Spain - for 6 months I've been teaching at a language academy in Pueblo Nuevo, but in October Kate and I are starting new jobs at a different academy in O'Donnell. Thursday night saw me making repeated trips to local bars with my adult students as we toasted the end of the academic year and said goodbyes (mostly in Spanish). All of my students said they were sad I was leaving and that they had been hoping that I was going to be their teacher the following year. I, rather disloyally, suggested that if they really wanted to continue in my class they could always move academies with me:

"Where is your new academy?"
"It's in O'Donnell - 6 metro stops away."
"Oh no, that's too far. I come here because it is so near my house."

They aren't going to miss me that much then!!

Friday 26 June 2009

On Being Loved And Left

So, today we bid a fond farewell to our latest batch of trainee teachers.
In the UK overt physical contact with your teachers is generally discouraged, as they're mostly keen to keep their CAB records clean, or at least avoid gossip and disapproval in the institutions where they teach grown-ups.

Not so in Spain. A kiss on each cheek and earnest wishes of good fortune for the future are exchanged - and not even after all concerned have sunk a goodbye beer or two. Nope, emotional scenes of farewell happen inside the classroom itself.

I remember our tutor indulgently watching the hugs, kisses and wellings-up that accompanied our own partings with the unfortunate students we practised on during our CELTA course. Given the sometimes painful experiences we'd put them through in the name of teaching them English, their affectionate goodbyes were very heartwarming and possibly undeserved.

When I told our tutor I was genuinely sorry I wouldn't be seeing them any more, he smiled and said "Of course you are. They're special because they were your first." Which made it sound a bit like a collective loss of virginity. Which in some ways, it was. The nervousness beforehand, the adrenalin surge of excitement during, the anti-climax of an off-target attempt, the need for a cigarette or beer afterwards...

Anyway, it's kind of nice to know you've booked yourself an eternally special little place in a language teacher's heart. Even after so much mangling of their beloved mother tongue. Besos y abrazos, as they say here in Spain.

(Correcto, mis profesuros?)

Saturday 20 June 2009

swimming and studying

My plan to spend every morning/lunchtime last week in the pool was scuppered by an e mail Kate received on Tuesday night. Anabel, the training coordinator at International House, needed some extra students for her course for new Spanish teachers, with the lessons (which would be free for us) running from 9.30am until 11.30am every morning - were we available?

It was very nice of her to think of us - we'd obviously built up a reputation as 'good' students - but I was a little confused as at the end of the last course in May she had told us that there weren't any more until July. When we turned up on Thursday, it became clear that what she had meant was - "there weren't any more for your level." Kate and I, previously among the best students in our Spanish classes, are now firmly chasing the game, having joined a class that is clearly more advanced than our last.

Our very first exercise centered around a tense we'd never come across before, the pluscuamperfecto, which is formed by using the imperfect tense of haber as an auxiliary verb with the main verb in past participle. As this is basically the same as French, and as its usage is the same as the English past perfect, we were quickly able to grasp the salient points, though our usage continued to be clumsy as we'd only just got the hang of past participles, preterito and the imperfect tense, let alone using them in unison. Confused? So were we.

Here's an example:
Cuando llegre al stadio, el partido ya habia empezado = (when I arrived at the stadium, the match had already started.)
'llegre' here is in the preterito indefinido, the Spanish equivalent of the English present simple, 'habia empezado' being the pluscuamperfecto of empezar (to start); like the English past perfect its used to talk about a finished action in the past that had happened before something else happened. So in order to use this tense correctly we had to remember the endings and formation of three other tenses!

Later in the class we were thrown into verb collocations - which verbs are followed by an infinitive and which by a gerund. Seeing as we've never been taught how to form the gerund, this was definitely asking us to run before we can walk.... we're just about keeping up! However, I haven't let all of this set me back; I've still managed to go swimming 6 days out of 7 this week!

Monday 15 June 2009

Those Chueca Ni-iiights

Chueca is the "gay" district of Madrid, which is something of a novelty for us (sure there is Frogmore street in Bristol, but as it runs behind the Council House and past the Carling Academy it hardly feels like its own area), and so partly through curiosity and partly through chance we've found ourselves there a couple of times recently. The first time was to look for shoes - the whole of Calle de Augusto is lined with shoe shops - a couple of weeks ago, then on Saturday night we ended up meeting a couple of friends there, Jero and Jose.

It's amazing how, without really noticing it or intending to, a night out in Madrid invariably ends up being a late one. After a day of lesson-planning, backgammon and swimming in our communal pool, we had intended just to pop out for a couple of drinks to get out the house. Naturally we didn't leave until 10.30pm, heading first to Alsono Martinez then wandering down towards Cheuca stopping in a very cosy candlelit bar on Calle Belen called - imaginatively - Cafe Bar Madrid. There we encountered a charming group of English lads, who donated some beer to us when they were summoned to their table in the Indian Restaurant across the road. Meanwhile texts were arriving from Jero giving an approximate e.t.a. of midnight in Plaza Chueca.

Waiting by the Metro exit under skies that threatened a downpour (which would have been pretty welcome - temperatures were around 34 degrees) we admired the different tribes coming and going, holding hands, or just hanging around in the perpetual botellon. Haircuts, fag-hags, drag queens (disappointingly few), kings, emos, bears - in fact calling Chueca a "gay" area seemed to be a bit unfair to all the other genders and sexualities having fun. There were even a few straight couples, like us.
Jose and Jero turned up just before one, and after some fun sharing litros on the pavement and spotting Spanish celebrities who may or may not be out of the closet, we decided to head off to dance. Some things in Spain are cheaper than back in the UK, but nightclub drinks aren't one of them. 21 euros for 3 drinks (one of them a tonic water) - ouch! We boogied on down to some Spanish pop, Kate getting a dancing lesson from the fleet-footed Jero, before heading off to flag a taxi on Gran Via at 3am. Lots of fun and great company. We'd only intended to go for a couple of drinks, but that's the Chueca effect I guess: a general departure from the norm.

Saturday 13 June 2009

exciting news

Our swimming pool is finally open for the summer!

Hurrah!! An excuse for Kate to wear very little and an opportunity to get some refreshing exercise.

Friday 12 June 2009

Striding in the Sierra

To the north of Madrid, still bearing patches of snow despite it being the middle of June, is the Sierra de Guadalajara, its peak visible from large areas of the city. It was to the Siete Picos, one of the mountains in the range, standing at 2138 metres, that our new expat friend, Jon enticed us with a minimum of persuasion. We don't get a huge amount of serious exercise and, while neither of us are huge hiking fans, we've got some decent boots and are always willing to explore new areas of Spain.


The trip didn't get off to a particularly good start. After Jon had mis-read the bus timetable, meaning we missed the bus at Plaza Castilla, we then collectively missed the train at Atocha, thanks to the reduced bank holiday Metro service. So despite our early start (7am) we didn't make it to our starting point of Puerta de Navacerrada until midday after three trains and a protracted coffee stop in Villalba. The journey, and company, was extremely pleasant though, the railway offering spectacular views of the countryside as we climbed to what is - in winter - one of the busiest ski-runs in the world (unsurprising, given its proximity to a city of 3.6 million people.)
After a steep start, we made it to the top of the ridge that runs between the peaks, lunching in the shade of the first. The path varied between a broad, sandy track that would have been fine for bikes to a rocky scramble, barely visible among flowering gorse bushes, boulders and twisted scotch pine. The sheer abundance of flora and fauna was wonderful, the ground strewn with wildflowers of all colors tended by some amazing insects, with birdsong the only sound further down the slopes as the topography changed and the trees became taller and thicker.Jon is an experienced walker and holds a Mountain Leader qualification, and was keeping us on the right track (even when it wasn't visible) with his map and trusty compass. We only made one minor wrong turn, and that was when we were faced with a path that looked much steeper than Jon had anticipated. A quick attempt to find another way down the mountain demonstrated that, short of abseiling or making a massive detour, it was in fact the path. It was pretty steep, but that increased the enjoyment as we scrambled over rocks and trees following a line of mini-cairns marking the route til we arrived at an ice-cold spring where we gratefully refilled our water-bottles. There was hardly any breeze and we were sweating buckets in the sunshine.
5pm saw us arriving in Cercedilla, the terminus of the mountain railway, sipping a well earned cold beer on a cafe terrace before catching the train back to Madrid. We were slightly foot-sore, with touches of sunburn in places, but otherwise unscathed. Jon had plans to go to the cinema before catching an overnight train to Lisbon - Kate and I could hardly keep our eyes open!!

Wednesday 10 June 2009

looks like we got out just in time...

This rather excellent and accessible essay by John Lancaster about the origins and nature of the World Economic crisis ends on a rather depressing note about the UK, and echoes several things I've been thinking for a while: namely that the UK doesn't make anything, is entirely too dependent on the services sector and should have joined the Euro ages ago.

What with these gloomy predictions and the fact that the UK representation in Brussels includes a bunch of xenophobic idiots called the UKip and BNP, has made me think that Kate and I left just in time. Anyone else want to join the exodus? The weather's good and so's the food...

(Here's the link in case the one above doesn't work: http://www.lrb.co.uk/v31/n10/lanc01_.html)

Sunday 7 June 2009

Ingredients for a classic Madrid weekend

1. Language practice with wine and food - invite Spanish and Venezualan friends home for traditional English cuisine (curry)

2. Visit the enormous Madrid book fair in Retiro park - tomes in dozens of languages, catering to tastes ranging from obscure Manga to far left Argentinian political polemic and pretty much everything else you can think of. Note to self - next time don't leave it until twenty minutes before closing time to try and browse the 357 stalls.


3. Drink coffee in Plaza Chueca - Chueca is Madrid's gay district and if a visitor couldn't work that out from the number of same-sex couples ambling hand-in-hand, the barrio's mixture of saunas and shoe shops would probably give it away. We sat on a bar terraza sipping our drinks watching local colour in the form of a young man who looked like he'd been kicked out of the house by his boyfriend that morning, hit the bottle in despair and passed out on a stone bench at the side of the plaza. As we watched, he crumpled gently onto the ground among his flowing scarves and other belongings and was covered with a coat by a solicitous passer-by. "He's been sleeping there since this morning," she told a table of lads who were also enjoying the spectacle.


4. Have a cana in La Latina. We avoided the temptation to go inside the dingy-looking but gloriously named Latina Turner and opted for another of the many funky bars in the area...

5... then ended up in La Alhambra in the Sevilla area, an authentically feeling Spanish bar, for another cana and some patatas con salsas.
6. Watch the Madrid version of Critical Mass swarm around the glorieta beside Metro La Latina - as it was Saturday evening, it didn't cause much of a traffic gridlock, but there was a big chequered flag, some colourful wrestling costumes and a goodly number of cyclists shouting and blowing whistles. Five minutes of carnival, if nothing else.

7. Eat left over curry at home.

8. Get up early(ish) on Sunday morning and go to the Rastro to hunt for bargain sandals. There were plenty in evidence, but I was too fussy to actually buy any. A pleasant stroll, though and we enjoyed the didgeridoo player and the man creating an incredibly haunting tune using 24 glasses and his fingertips. We didn't buy the CD though.

9. Drink fresh orange juice and cafe con leche on the terraza of Taberna Tirso de Molina and buy flowers (in Theo's case) from the neighbouring stall to present to the wife. Aw!

10. More Spanish practice - meet friends fresh from the European vote for a few drinks outside a bar in Atocha. Olga's husband Fernando speaks no English, so it was another excellent opportunity to give our newly acquired language a decent airing. I found myself actually understanding a fair bit of what they said to me too - yes!!

11. Go home and eat more left over curry.

12. Finish the left over fruit crumble as well. Yum.

Friday 5 June 2009

from Demons to Angels

or: Never Underestimate The Power Of The Sticker

At least where 8 year-olds are concerned. On Tuesday night I was wondering if my decision to start teaching two children's classes was a spectacular mis-kick on my part. I had watched my predecessor handle the groups without too much trouble a few days earlier, so armed with the trusty text-book and
a lesson plan I figured under-tens would love, I cruised confidently into the classroom.
I exited an hour later feeling like Joyce Grenfell on Mogadon. My lovely English lesson had swiftly degenerated into an exercise that fell somewhere between crowd control and mayhem. After months of teaching obedient and attentive adults, it was a severe culture shock to be faced with seven cheeky and boistrous kids who started rioting the moment the lesson got exciting or any hint of boredom set in. For the first time since I began teaching English I hovered on the verge of despair. No matter that I had only agreed to take the classes during June, it already felt like a lifetime.
I decided against threatening the miscreants with any form of automatic weapon and turned instead to the internet. Interestingly, my search key-words of "EFL children discipline" produced a hugely popular discussion thread entitled "Spanish children and discipline problems" at the top of the list. I immediately started to feel a bit better.
I began my second class by re-seating the children in a formation less popular with them but a whole lot more popular with me (necessary separation of troublemakers). I then took out a green pen and made ten marks on the whiteboard, which the children counted. I explained that any bad behaviour or speaking in Spanish would result in a mark being erased and if there were none left at the end of the class, none of the children would receive a sticker. There was a shocked silence as they digested this this awful prospect.
My predecessor had been in the habit of giving the children a sticker at the end of each class and I had continued the tradition in my first class, so they know the stickers were available. I had noted their immediate interest and attention when I had produced them, so was reasonably confident my threat would be taken seriously. But even I wasn't prepared for its dramatic effect.
"All the class, no sticker?" asked one. I confirmed that indeed, innocent and guilty alike would leave empty-handed. Peer pressure to behave well was all part of the plan. They could, I pointed out, earn lost marks back if they were super-good. But only SUPER good.
Next we got down to work. This time I was strict about accepting answers only if a hand was up first - on Tuesday, I had allowed a certain amount of calling out, not wanting to quench their youthful enthusiasm. Big mistake.
Tuesday's lesson had been full of lively vocab games and speaking practice brimming with actions and energy - which was all very well, except (as another teacher mentioned casually in the staffroom) you need "coolers" as well as "warmers", or the whole thing becomes less of a lesson and more of a birthday party. Or a war. So the textbooks came out and we sat down in an orderly fashion and started looking at a comic strip together.
I hadn't appreciated the magic of picture books, but the way they all started making that high-pitched grunting noise kids do if they have their hands up and really want to say something made me realise we were on to something here. The heady excitement that greeted my request to tell me about picture number one was unprecedented in my teaching experience.
And so the lesson continued enjoyably - for all of us, I think. The one time I had to wave my board eraser in the direction of the green marks produced such a stern telling off from the culprit's classmates; "No, no! Speak Eengleesh! Eengleesh!" that I didn't have to say another word on the subject. They all politely asked for (and received) an animal sticker (educational, y'see) at the end and trotted cheerily out. I exhaled. Now I was in with a chance of actually teaching them something. At least the odds had shifted in my favour.
I fear a group of sullen and recalcitrant teenagers won't be so easily bribed into good behaviour with animal stickers, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. For now, I've awarded myself a seahorse.

Thursday 4 June 2009

Un corte de pelo or The Haircut


At best, Theo submits to haircuts with resignation, at worst with a mild form of panic (especially when asked what style he wants). He puts it down to youthful traumas involving side-partings, but personally, I believe it has more to do with his low to non-existent patience threshold and general hatred of being fussed over
.

No such reservations in my case, but even I had been putting off making an appointment for a much-needed trim because of concerns about communicating with a hairdresser whose language I can only just speak and barely understand.


Luckily, our friends David and Nataly came up with the ideal so
lution and it was called Jurgen. They both rated his hairdressing skills highly, but the fact that he came with a virtually perfect command of English and disarmingly low price-tags sealed the deal.

I telephoned his one-man salon in Atocha and made the appointment in Spanish - but the moment I told him my name was Kate, he switched into English, adding gratifyingly that until that moment he hadn't been able to place my accent (on second thoughts, maybe that wasn't such a compliment...)

Anyway, at the agreed time, Theo and I arrived in Calle de Alcalen to find a jolly, bearded German standing at his door awaiting our arrival. The salon was simply, if sparsely furnished, a single room with a rough stone floor that opened straight onto the narrow street. No frills. But it was all clean and well-ordered and had an air of efficient bustle about it, created entirely by Jurgen himself.

Jurgen had spent ten years living in the UK and has been in Madrid for the last five, which means he can do fluent hairdresser chat in three languages, switching seamlessly between them, depending on whether he was talking to Theo and me, his mother (who telephoned partway through my cut) or the various elderly Spanish women who filed in to have their colours done.

It also lent a certain breadth to the conversation, which included Jurgen's professional development (from a wannabe make-up artist onwards); German hair-styling qualifications (stringent); his mother's health (failing); the benefits of young men (fast recovery rates) and the relative merits of fellatio and cunnilingus.

This latter was loudly discussed in the hearing of Carmen and Pilar, both of whom were in their seventies and who clearly had no idea of the graphic turn taken by the conversation. Jurgen's ten years in Britain had not been in vain - he had a confident command of all the best-known Anglo Saxon synonyms on the subject.

Our haircuts were satisfactory - especially given the fact that we paid just over twenty euros for the two (including a wash and blow-dry in my case). Theo commented that his new style (short back and sides) made him look a bit gay, but I've got a proud history as a faghag, so that's not necessarily a bad thing. The only slightly worrying development is his tendency to comb in a side-parting.

Fashionably misspelt

It's pretty popular here in Spain to use English in fashion and advertising; I guess the marketteers think it adds a certain je ne sais quoi to their brands. However the copywriters regularly get it wrong; the other day on the Metro I was amused by a trendy T-shirt which posed the question "Optimist or Pessimist: is the glass hall-full or half-vacuum?"

At least with that one you knew what they meant. However there's a new bus stop advert near our flat for sunglasses with the tag-line "A Point of You". I've no idea whether they wanted to say 'a part of you' or 'a point of view'. Either way, they are both pretty crap tag-lines.

Monday 1 June 2009

I'm a bit chilly... open the window!

After a rather playful debate between our three flatmates - Jorge, Pete and Alex - the air-conditioning has gone on in our flat. Alex, who pays the bills, wanted it set at 27C, while English Pete was lobbying for 22. I think they settled at 24 in the end.

To be honest Kate and I hadn't been that bothered by the heat. True we had been sleeping on top of the covers, but I think after spending last summer sleeping in 38 degree heat in Sheena, our campervan/solar oven, we've become somewhat inured to warm, windless nights. In fact for us, it's a bit too cold tonight and we've actually opened the window to let a bit of heat back in. Pete, meanwhile, after 4 years in Spain clearly hasn't acclimatised and sleeps with what sounds like a jet engine fanning his room.