Sometimes I Wish I Weren't an Anglophone

It feels blasphemous to even think this, let alone say it out loud. It's almost like a dirty secret, one that I'm ashamed to admit. Of all of the blessings I've had in my life (and there are many), one of them that has most deeply affected my path in life has been the fact that I speak English as my first language and that I come from a rich and powerful nation. My passport currently opens doors for me with no visa required in around 160 countries, and my native language is the lingua franca of basically the entire world.

And yet I sometimes wish I didn't speak English as my first language. 

I don't mean to sound like an ungrateful brat. I'm aware of how much speaking English has helped me thus far in life, and I do realize that I actually make a living just speaking my native language. (Of course, I know the grammar as well; that helps!) But there are moments when I wish I could trade in the status of "native speaker of English" and just speak it well as a second language instead.

Being a native English speaker, especially in Spain right now, means that I am a hot commodity. Spaniards are desperate to learn English, the one thing that they all seem to agree will protect them against the country's current staggering unemployment. Well, either that or it will allow them to move to some other country to work, whichever happens first. Professionals want to learn English to get a better job, and parents want their children to learn English so they will be employable someday too. And all of these people agree that there is no one better to learn from than a native speaker. After all, our pronunciation is perfect, right?

A few weeks ago, in the shared car on the way back from Galicia, we were all talking about our careers, and one of the university students in the back mentioned that he was trying to learn English. The driver threw out the idea that he should try to find a language exchange partner to improve. Unimpressed with the idea, he said "ya tengo un nativo," I already have a native.

Something about that sentence really rubbed me the wrong way, although I kept quiet about it in the moment. He has a native already? Not a friend who helps him with English, not a conversation partner, a native. As though all native English speakers were different models of the same device. What are we, like the latest bit of technology, a talking English machine? A walking interactive dictionary?

It's frustrating enough that just about every time we go on public transit, the people around us are really obviously eavesdropping to see if they can understand a little of what we're saying, as though we were a live-action roleplay for their English exam. But of course, I've learned the hard way that trying to make new friends here when you're a native English speaker can be a minefield as well. Whether it's online or in person, it's really annoying to be talking with someone in the language of the country I moved halfway around the world to be in, only to mention where I come from and have them palpably brighten.

"Oh, you're American!?"
"Yes."
"Wow, I've always wanted to travel to New York City! I'm trying to improve my English, you should help me! Let's get together again sometime!"

If they haven't already, cue them switching to (usually terrible) English on me and me plastering a fake smile on my face and saying "yeah, maybe..." while thinking to myself "NOT!"

Rereading that exchange, I know I sound like a real jerk for not wanting to help these poor people who just want to learn my native language. But is it so wrong of me to want people to be my friends because of who I am, and not what language I speak? Am I a jerk for being annoyed that I've had that same exact exchange, almost word for word, hundreds of times in my five years in Europe?

And most of all, is it a crime to not want to teach English for free when I know I could get paid to do so? Helping people with their English is my job; I do it all day every day with my preferred age group for good money. When I get off work, I just want to relax and think about other things besides explaining when to use the present perfect versus the simple past. I want to talk with people and just have fun. I really do not want to give free English lessons to adults! The way I see it, people asking me right off the bat to help them with their English is like if I were to meet a shopkeeper and immediately ask him if he could give me things for free from his store. No, probably not, right? So why should I have to feel bad about not wanting to help everybody with their English all the time?

 And the thing is, I've been on the other side of the whole 'trying desperately to learn a language' thing, and there have been lots of kind souls who have helped me. So I do often feel guilty for not wanting to return the favor with everyone I meet.  But doing so makes me feel used, like a tool rather than a human being with interests and feelings. I don't mind helping my friends occasionally with their English, but that's because our friendship is based on things other than my native language and their desperation to learn it.

The other annoying part about these people switching to English on me like this is that I feel like since I'm the one who moved halfway around the world to learn another language, I should be allowed the chance to practice that language when I'm not at work. I do often tell people this, and most people are gracious enough to take the hint that I would prefer to speak in their language with them, but some others are really persistent about always trying to practice their bad English on me, and that's when I start to get really annoyed.

There are, of course, ways to practice languages that are of mutual benefit to both parties, like language exchanges. That way, I would be helping the other person with their English, and they would be helping me with French or Spanish or even Galician. I've done a fair amount of these, and they used to be really helpful. In French or Galician, they still might be. But in Spanish, as conceited as this sounds, I feel I've moved past the point where I really need to have someone correcting me all the time. My Spanish is at a level of C1.4 according to the Common European Framework (one microstep away from C2, or totally bilingual, argh), which I know since I took the practice test put out by the Cervantes Institute just the other day. So, I really feel like I'm on a tier where I don't really need language exchanges, because the benefit to me is much smaller than the effort I would need to put out in helping others with their English. Maybe I just need to find partners whose English is at the same level as my Spanish, but those are fairly thin on the ground in Spain. Anyway, I'd rather just have regular conversations in Spanish with people here, without worrying about giving equal time to both languages. Does that make me selfish? Maybe. But like I said, I moved halfway around the world to speak Spanish, so that's what I want to do!

Funnily enough, this was almost never a problem in France. Maybe it's because they're so stereotypically snooty about speaking any language other than their own. Or perhaps it's because they're embarrassed that they have the worst English in Europe (apart from Russia, the Ukraine and Turkey, which...are not really Europe, not to me). Hardly anybody ever forced me to speak in English, although they made an awful lot of mean comments about my French at first. But at the same time, they love to take English words and franglais them because c'est cool. I don't know, France is bizarre. But at least I got to practice a helluva lot of French while I was there!

If I weren't a native English speaker, I like to imagine that I wouldn't have these problems. People wouldn't give me so much unwanted attention for my native language. I would probably be really happy to speak English, because it would be a chance for me to practice too. I could feel proud of my English, as something I'd worked hard on, rather than something I was basically born with. Alas, earwax that will never be the case. For better or for worse, English is and always will be my first language, and I can't escape the fact that the downsides come with the enormous advantages. I guess I'll just have to learn to concentrate more on the benefits of it, like the fact that when I go to Prague for two days, no one expects me to learn Czech, and I get to just speak my first language the whole time with no problems.

I do have to say, as well, that even as I was writing this I was feeling the obnoxiousness of my privilege. "Waaah everyone wants to learn my native language to improve their lives, and I just want to either be left alone or make a profit off of them and they won't let me!" Also, "Waaah people won't let me practice a second language that I'm only learning because I think it's fun, when in truth I have no real pressing need to learn any foreign language because I'm a native speaker of the world's lingua franca!" I know, poor poor me.

But I would love it if people would see me for who I am, instead of as an English machine. That would be pretty awesome. Just sayin'.

Eu amo Galiza

For the first time this Easter holiday, I stayed in Spain. I've been working way too hard the past few months to plan a big elaborate vacation, and I found myself without any desire to travel. For someone like me, who normally thrives on voyaging as far and wide as possible, my dearth of desire definitely meant that I'd been doing too much. 

Still, I'd been a little bummed at the idea of spending my whole vacation sitting around Alcalá. I needed a break, albeit one simple to plan, and so I was happy when my Galician friend who lives in Madrid announced that she was going to go home to see her family for the week, and that I should come with her. 

Not one to wait to be asked twice if I want to go back for a visit to my favorite part of Spain, I jumped at the chance. We immediately booked a Blablacar (car sharing) for the next day, and I went home to get my things together. 

We had to be up bright and early the next morning to meet our fellow passengers, which meant that I spent much of the first part of the voyage dozing. But a few hours later, I woke up to the cry "Estamos en Galicia!!" 

I looked out the window to see that we were in those beautiful green mountains that I love so well, looking down on valleys full of toxo (toe-shoh) in bloom. 

Toxo

Toxo is a prickly plant that to me, represents Galicia. It happens to be the very first word that I learned in galego and didn't already know in Spanish (and I still don't know, or care to know, the translation in English). It's everywhere on the hillsides there, and most of the time it just looks snarly, but in the spring the toxo blooms, and all of the mountains erupt in yellow. Looking out the window at the toxo, I was suddenly transported back to my daily car trips to and from my work in A Cañiza, when I became intimate with the many species of plants on Galician hillsides, and when exactly each one of them is in bloom. When topics of conversation are short, and you have to share a car with the same people for an hour and a half every single day, you learn a lot about nature and the weather! 

Upon seeing the toxo on the hillsides, I suddenly had a feeling of being back home. This year in Spain, I've been fighting a feeling that this isn't where I belong. I felt deceived, because I thought that the love I'd once had for Spain had disappeared. But upon entering Galicia again, I remembered that it wasn't exactly Spain that I'd fallen in love with back in the day, but Galicia. It wasn't until I lived in Vigo that I felt like I could see myself staying where I was long-term. Vigo is the only city I've lived in, to date, that I have felt that way about, that I've really loved. 

So even though it was my friend's house and family that I was visiting, rather than my own, I had the distinct feeling that it was miña terra galega too. I know my Galician friends are laughing at my having written that, but it's the truth. From the moment I got out of the car in Ourense, I felt more at ease and relaxed than I have in months. 

Of course, it didn't hurt that the very first thing we did was visit Ourense's thermal hot springs, which was almost as pleasant on a sunny spring day as on a rainy winter one, although I did get slightly sunburnt. 

Next up was a walk in the woods near my friend's family farm with her little cousins, which also made me feel like I was back at home. My family has a farm out in the middle of nowhere too, and I spent a lot of time in my childhood taking walks in the woods, checking out the different plants and animals, so I could almost imagine that I was back with my own family, going on an adventure. 

When we got back to my friend's village, it was tapas time. Except our tapa of pulpo was nowhere near enough to satisfy my octopus craving, so we decided to order more. "Una media, o una entera?" my friend asked me. Ha! As if there were any doubt in my mind. We gobbled up our entire ración in less than ten minutes. Soooo good. 

The next day, after my first filling Galician meal, being urged by mothers, aunts, and grandmothers to eat máis, máis (more, more!) fish and soup for several hours, we headed off to Os Cañones do Sil (the Sil Canyons). I'd visited them before, in autumn a few years ago, and while the colors were less brilliant this time around, I still loved looking at the vineyards built into the hillsides. 

While the others took a dip in the river, I lay back and relaxed, softly humming "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay" (by Otis Redding) to myself. Sometimes certain songs just FIT specific moments of your life, and for me right now, that one is it. 

In the next few days, we traversed Galicia diagonally, heading mostly through areas that were unknown to me, visiting things on a whim, in typical road trip fashion. 

Sometimes, when you have no particular destination in mind, you run into interesting things, like this graffiti by Gallegos who want independence from the rest of Spain. 

One of our detours was to Sobrado dos Monxes (an apparently famous monastery on the Camino de Santiago), which had one of the most beautiful façades I've ever seen. The details worked into the stone were just astounding, and I can't imagine how much time and effort that must have taken!

Finally, on the fourth day of our trip, I got to see the ocean again! Despite not having grown up near it, I'd lived near the ocean since 2007, up until this year, and my time in the desert in Alcalá has made me yearn for it. Something about the sound of the waves and the infiniteness of the water stretching out beyond the horizon tugs at my heartstrings. Maybe it's knowing that my family is on the other side of that ocean. Maybe it's the endless possibilities of places I could get to over that sea. Maybe it's the impossible numbers of creatures living in the water. Maybe it's how mysterious and unknown so much of the ocean is. Whatever it may be, I feel a pull towards the sea, so I felt good being near it again. 

We walked down to this little spot on the coast, and I crawled up those stairs on my hands and knees (yes, vertigo) to get to this point. I immediately grabbed the ladder for dear life, as the wind threatened to blow me off my feet and into the waves crashing below. Terrified? Just a bit. 

I feel like these pictures speak for themselves. What more could you wish for in life than a place like Galicia? It has crystal blue waters, lush green hillsides, blooming flowers, the nicest people you will ever meet, delicious and abundant and cheap food and it is relatively undiscovered by foreign tourists! Ain't nothing better than that. 

By the end of that day, all of my deep feelings for Galicia had come rushing back. There's a special word for the deep longing Galicians feel when they live away from the province and miss it. It's called morriña. Once again, my gallegos are going to laugh at me, but I genuinely think this is what I've been feeling. The rest of Spain just doesn't measure up to my beloved Galicia, it can't! I've gushed on and on before about my love for this corner of Spain, and that may never go away. 

I was excited to get to do one new thing this time around in Galicia. Since I'd never before stayed in Spain during Easter, I'd never gotten to see its famous processions. While these aren't generally as big of a thing in Galicia as in the south (say, Sevilla), in Ferrol they have some pretty famous ones, and I got to check them out. I was particularly impressed by the barefoot carriers of the Virgin. 

And, stereotypical American, I felt shocked by the men dressed in outfits that looked like they came from a KKK meeting. 

I only had a little more time to soak in all the oceany goodness that I could, so I spent it wandering along beaches as much as possible. Gee, I wonder why they call this part of A Coruña a costa da morte (the coast of death)??

I told my friends I planned on gaining 10 pounds of delicious Galician cooking during this trip, and I was not disappointed. Calamares, pimientos de padron, pulpo, caldo gallego, licor café, and so many other things. My Easter lunch consisted of goose barnacles and albariño with my friend's abuelos, and I could not have been happier about it!

Just before catching my Blablacar back to Madrid, I finally got to do one of those things that you intend to do for years while you live near a place, but never find a good moment for. There's this weird bridge in Ourense that I'd always meant to climb up and get a picture of, but I never did, so I was happy to finally get a chance during this trip!

Overall, my spring break voyage back to Galicia was just what I needed to feel rested and refreshed after a difficult few months. I'll probably never get over my morriña, wishing I could move back to Vigo, but as much as I might love it there, I have to accept that that ship has sailed, and it's time to move on to greener pastures...and perhaps come back to visit as often as my wallet allows me to!

10 Times When Foreign Languages Felt Impossible

I think most of us who have ever tried it can attest that learning to speak a foreign language well is no easy task. Even just making mistakes in front of our peers in school is pretty embarrassing for most language learners, let alone us few brave (crazy?) souls who have moved to a foreign country and look foolish speaking another language every single day of our lives. 

So innocent, if only I'd known what was in store for me...

Of course, it gets easier with time and a great deal of practice, but unfortunately foreign language learning is a lifelong process. Even after years of practice, when you think you know what you're doing, little things can surprise you. You still make mistakes. Silly ones, yes. Things that you thought you should have down by now. Things that will forever give you away as a non-native speaker. 

 Even more annoyingly, there are certain moments when speaking a foreign language is SO MUCH HARDER than it is at others. It's these moments when you feel like everything you've learned has been a waste, when you're completely lost for words. The times you trip up seem to always be at the EXACT moment when you need to sound your best. 

What I've learned is that strong emotions and making sense in a foreign language do not mix. 

I've had a LOT of these uncomfortable instances, some worse than others. To give you an example of the types of moments that make my ability to speak a foreign language go right out the window, here is my list of the top 10 moments when speaking a foreign language felt utterly impossible.

At First:

Getxo

1. I'd just arrived in Spain for the first time, ready for 9 months of studying abroad in Bilbao. I was reasonably confident in my Spanish skills, having taken a few semesters of it before leaving. So the very first day in town, I'd been told by my study abroad program that I needed to make my way to my new apartment on my own and sign the paperwork with my new landlord. I was a little annoyed at not being given more help (even the address indicated on a map would have been nice!), but I thought I knew enough Spanish to figure it out. So I hailed a cab to take me to the little town of Getxo. Except the cabbie didn't know the address I'd told him, and couldn't find it on his GPS. He ended up dropping me near Getxo's main square, telling me to try calling someone to help me. Yes, great idea, if I had a phone OR the landlord's phone number! So, dragging my heavy suitcases behind me, I started walking until I found someone to ask about the street. One terribly annoying thing about Getxo at this time was that all the names for everything had recently been changed into Basque on the street signs, but none of the people in town actually used those names when referring to said places, they still used the old Spanish names. So, almost no one knew what street I wanted. But finally, one little old lady knew where I needed to go, and was happy to give me directions. One problem though. I had no idea how to say the words left or right. So...her directions made absolutely no sense to me. Pretending I'd understood (being too embarrassed to say I hadn't caught a single word), I went off in the direction she'd pointed, hoping for the best. After dragging my suitcases around what felt like half the town, and following several more pointing fingers, I did eventually make it there. And later that night, I looked up "a la izquierda" and "a la derecha" and committed them firmly to memory!

The double RR in Calle Gobelaurre didn't help my cause, I'm sure!

2. A few days later, my new roommates and I were trying to order a pizza over the phone. In general, speaking a foreign language on the phone is utter torture, although I didn't yet know this at the time. But I was about to learn how the absence of body language and hand signals makes a HUGE difference in comprehension. I started ordering the pizza, thinking everything was fine, but the girl on the other end had no idea what I was saying and was getting increasingly agitated. My Spanish was so bad that the worker at Telepizza thought I was a prank caller and hung up on me! 

3. I had lots of problems eating at first! Another day not long after that, I was starving and wanted a chicken kebab. However, I couldn't remember if the word chicken was masculine or feminine in Spanish, so I just took a chance and said one to the worker at the kebab shop. But of course, I picked the wrong one. Pollo means chicken, but change that last O to an A, and suddenly you have a slang word for penis. So yes, I asked for a roasted penis kebab, and the look on the man's face was priceless!

Bilbao

4. My second semester in Bilbao, after many situations like these and realizing that my Spanish needed some serious help, I decided to change from living in an apartment with other Americans to a homestay with a Spanish family. I imagined them taking me in like one of their own, teaching me about the Spanish language and their culture at the same time, like my own parents had done when we had exchange students when I was little. However, that was not to be. I was soon introduced to the world of people who host foreign exchange students mostly for the money said students pay them. I barely saw my host parents in the first few months I was living with them, and we rarely talked. 

By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I wanted to try to rectify the situation and get closer with them, so I asked them if I could try to cook them some traditional American Thanksgiving foods so we could have a little celebration, and they seemed excited about the idea. I'd never cooked Thanksgiving dinner before, so I decided to give myself plenty of time and start in the morning. I was making my way pretty blindly, following directions my mom was giving me on Skype. Around 2pm I'd just taken a squash out of the oven, and my host mom came home, upset. "What are you still doing in the kitchen? My husband will be home any minute wanting his lunch, and you can't still be in here! He's going to be really angry! Finish this up, fast! What do you still have left to do?" 

Surprised, I tried to explain that I was going to pick the seeds out of the squash, then leave it to cool while I made the pie crust, then put that in the pie pan, then I needed to mix the rest of the ingredients together with the squash, and put them in the crust, then cook it all. O sea, not a quick task. I offered to take a break while her husband had his lunch and continue later. But she wasn't having any of that. I'm pretty certain than my explanation of what I had left to do had left something to be desired, since she picked up the bowl of squash, seeds and all, and dumped it into the pie pan. "Finished! Now move it!" Frustrated, I tried once again to explain just how many steps I had left to complete, that there couldn't be seeds in the squash. But now she was angry. "Your Spanish is awful. You don't make any sense. You're not improving at all, and no wonder, you're always on Skype with your American boyfriend and your parents," she yelled. "And what is this nonsense, 'cups, tablespoons?' This is Spain, and if you want to be here, you need to use the metric system!" She went on and on. 

Holding back tears, I continued trying to work and explain to her what I needed to do, but it soon became impossible. I'll never forget the helplessness I felt in that moment, when I just wanted to explain myself, defend myself against my host mom's attacks, and the words simply weren't there. Even if I HAD known the cooking vocabulary I needed, the strong emotions brought up by all the yelling made thinking about verb conjugations and the gender of nouns seriously impossible. All I could think about was not letting her see the tears in my eyes, and how the lump in my throat made it feel like I was choking with even the smallest attempts to talk. Eventually, I had to tell her I was going to stop for awhile. Then I went to my bedroom so I could cry about the whole situation on the phone to my mom. This remains, to date, the hardest time I've ever had speaking Spanish, and that awful feeling will probably never fade from memory completely. 

Yes, the pie did eventually get made, thank god, and I gave most of it to my friends instead of my awful host family!

At Work:

5. A few years later, I was getting off the bus from the airport in Vigo, ready to start working as an auxiliar de conversación. My new boss came to pick me up from the bus station and take me to A Cañiza, where I was going to be working. I'd seen on the internet that the place was remote, but as we headed off into the mountains, I began to realize just how far from everything it really was. He got me all checked into a hotel and told me he'd see me the next day, at the school, which was just next door. "Just walk in and ask for me with the secretary, she'll know where to find me," he said. Jet-lagged out of my mind, I agreed without thinking and made my way up to my room and collapsed into bed. 

A Cañiza

What felt like moments later, I heard a knocking on the door. Confused, I saw the cleaning lady poke her head in. "Son las 12, tienes que irte." It was already noon the next day! I quickly got dressed and checked out, leaving my things at the front desk, and headed over to the school. The secretary did indeed lead me to the director, who quickly introduced me to my new colleagues. So many new people! My head was spinning with all the names. I was quickly led off by the head of the English department, who wanted to know what types of lessons I had planned for the high school students I'd be working with. Huh?? I thought I was just an assistant?? When it became clear that I had never taught before and had no idea what I was doing, she led me back to the staff room, where people suddenly started asking me where I was going to live. "Uhhhh....I don't know," I said, completely overwhelmed. I had thought about it, of course, but I didn't really know what I should do, and I'd been hoping there would be people there to advise me. Soon enough, there was a group of teachers gathered around me, arguing about whether Ourense or Vigo was better, while I tried desperately to follow the conversation through my jetlagged fog, unsure whether I was actually going to get any say in where I'd be living or not. I couldn't figure out how to break into the conversation to give my opinion since they were speaking so fast (not that I was really sure what my opinion was anyway). Finally, it was decided that I would get a ride from one of the English teachers back to Vigo. So that was where I ended up living! 

As we drove 45 minutes back towards Vigo, I indexed my mind for topics to chat about. It had been years since I'd had to make small talk in Spanish, and I had forgotten a lot. I felt super rusty, in addition to still being so jetlagged. We covered the basics in about 10 minutes, where I came from and why I wanted to be in Spain, etc. And then? Wanting to make a good impression on my new coworker, not wanting to be known from the very beginning as the "Awkward American," and not able to remember enough vocabulary to talk about more complicated topics, I started rambling about the only Spanish words I could think of at the time--family. So I talked at length about my nephews and niece...for a full 30 minutes. 

Eventually, as we drove an hour and a half together per day several times a week over the next two years, my skills in making small talk in Spanish got better...a little. And my poor coworker learned a LOT of random things about my nephews and niece! 

One of the best views of Vigo

6. When I was working in A Cañiza, one of my coworkers was always trying to convince me to have lunch with everybody in the comedor. I did sometimes, when I was too lazy to pack myself a lunch, but most days I didn't feel like paying to eat school cafeteria food. However, I also had another reason not to eat with them, which was that it was SO AWKWARD. Most of the time at school, the teachers who didn't speak English would talk to me in Spanish, which was fine. I understood them well enough one-on-one, and my Spanish was improving enormously. However, at lunchtime, when talking to each other, many of them would revert back to their native galego, the beautiful cousin to both Spanish and Portuguese spoken in Galicia. I have no problem with galego, I think it's a very pretty language, but back then, especially at first, I couldn't understand a word they were saying. And this was exacerbated at lunchtime, when the cries of the children were mixed with forks clanking on plates, when there was a group of 15 Spaniards all excited to talk to one another and constantly interrupting in increasingly louder voices. I would sit there, trying with all my might to follow along for about the first 10 minutes, until I got too tired and gave up, staring off into space. This isn't the only time I've felt bewildered during a mealtime conversation surrounded by foreigners, but I've rarely felt as lost as I did when surrounded by people shouting and interrupting each other in galego.

Xa.

7. One morning earlier this school year in Alcalá, I woke up to a terrible text message from my mom. "Grandma fell. Not expected to live." Distraught, and knowing that they would be flying out to Arizona in the morning and I couldn't call until they arrived, I was distracted all morning at school. Finally, at lunch time it was late enough that I could go outside and try to call. Cursing Skype for not connecting me immediately when I felt like I was going to go crazy if I didn't hear something soon, I eventually got some more details via Whatsapp until I had to go back to eat some lunch before my next class. Unable to stop thinking about it all, unable to cover the distress on my face, the second I walked into the lunchroom everyone knew something was wrong. A group of teachers gathered around me as I sat down, wanting to know if I was all right. Although I appreciated their concern so much, trying to explain the situation in Spanish seemed impossible, when I needed technical medical vocabulary that I've never learned. The second the first words left my lips, tears started running down my face. A hug from someone helped more than she probably knew, but I was incredibly grateful when they let me stop talking and eat my green beans in silence, dabbing at my eyes as I chewed. It was so embarrassing to have cried like that in front of everyone, especially when Spanish culture is so much about showing a proper face to the world, but in that moment I was a sad emotional American, and I didn't care. But once again, I learned that speaking another language when you're crying feels almost impossible.

In Love:

8. I wish I could say this has only happened to me once, but it's a recurring incident. I'm single, so most of the years I've been in Europe I've been dating, or flirting with, or had a crush on different guys. Dating is hard enough in your own culture, but add different body language and a foreign tongue on top of that, and you have a guaranteed recipe for looking stupid. Something you have to know about Spaniards is that they touch each other WAY more than Americans do. Most of the time, this overly touchiness just makes me feel vaguely uncomfortable, but there have been several occasions where I got confused and thought that the fact that some guy kept touching me meant he was into me. So, I thought, I would try to flirt back. Except, oh my god is flirting about a million times harder in another language. You have no idea what the typical expressions for flirting are, you want desperately to sound smooth, except that with every word that leaves your mouth, you cringe, knowing you sound like Tarzan. "You boy. Me girl. We date?"And then, it turns out, he was just touching you because he's Spanish and that's what they do. Uffda! 

9. Last year in France, I actually did go out with a guy for awhile. Long enough for him to introduce me to first his grandparents and then his parents. His grandparents were adorable and hilarious, particularly the grandpa, who kept telling me funny stories about fighting in World War II and his American penpal who may or may not have been dead, since he hadn't heard from her in awhile. He immediately put me at ease with his humor and his incessant conversation, which didn't require me to talk very much. Meeting the Frenchie's parents, however, made me infinitely more nervous. Was I supposed to use vous with them or not? Would my French hold up to extended conversation? I was lucky, because I ended up using tu and they weren't offended, and they were very nice. However, sounding good in French with them wasn't easy, especially when they fed me tiny sea snails while we were doing so, which I was supposed to pull out of their shell with a safety pin, put on bread, and eat. Goodbye, any hopes of not sounding OR looking foolish! 

10. A couple of times here in Europe, I've gone out with a guy long enough that we felt ready to say the L word to each other. Except, in a foreign language, it's not the L word. And that's really hard. If expressing your emotions in general in another language is bizarre, because the act of using that other language turns off your emotions and makes you more rational, then trying to express this particular emotion is SUPER difficult. In my experience, having someone tell you te quiero or je t'aime just doesn't, can't, mean as much as if it were in your native language. To me, those words will never have the same impact as saying, in English, I love you. It is what it is, but that doesn't make speaking another language in this situation any easier!

In the end, this is the only solution to sounding like an idiot in a foreign language, whether the situation is happy or sad. Laugh it off, there's nothing else you can do about it!

Please, god, tell me I'm not the only one to have had these ridiculously hard moments speaking a foreign language. Am I???

Boas Festas!

As you may have already read in some of my earlier posts, for the first time ever this year I'm not going home for Christmas. At least, not in the traditional sense. If you consider that we all have multiple homes, home is where the heart is, etc., then sure. I came home to Vigo this year instead of to America. And honestly, though of course I'm missing my family, I'm pretty thrilled about it.

It's probably been pretty obvious to most people that, although France is cool so far, a lot of the time my heart has been aching for Spain. For Galicia. For Vigo. So coming back here, seeing my friends who are more like family, speaking a language I dominate fairly well, eating foodstuffs I'd been craving for months, really feels wonderful. In a sense, it does feel like a homecoming.

So although I know my family back in the States is missing me (and I them), and even though that family is about to get just a little bit bigger (bienvenido a sobrino #7!), I'm not tragically crying my eyes out because I can't be there. Especially because I'm obviously very familiar with American Christmas traditions; cookies and eggnog and Santa Claus, etc. However, this year I finally get to learn about Spanish Christmas, eat shrimp and turrón and talk about the Reyes Magos (3 Wise Men)...who actually are coming on the same day I leave back to France, but I'm going to talk about them anyway, because I'm curious.

So I'm excited to learn, to try new things, and to be in a place I feel like I belong, even if it isn't where I originally came from.

Boas festas to you and yours,

with love from Alisabroad

Magosto

Despite my constant attempts to live in the present and enjoy the time I have in France, there are some days when it's impossible not to look back and miss my time in Spain. Today is one of them, when I'm thinking about what I was doing at approximately this time last year.

Vigo, you're still in my heart!

In Galicia, fall is chestnut (castaña) season. They start falling from the trees, and as you walk along the city streets you find a vendor roasting them on what seems like every corner. They're a very popular fall/winter snack that has a deliciously hearty taste. 

They're so popular, in fact, that there's an entire festival devoted to them! This festival is known as Magosto. At schools in Galicia, one day in the middle of November each student is supposed to bring a sack full of chestnuts to school, and then the teachers build a big bonfire on the playground and roast said chestnuts. Then everyone gets to munch on them...mmm, delicious. 

And as you might expect on a party day at school, the students get a little rambunctious. The tradition is that students take ash from the roasted chestnuts and run around trying to give each other (and any teacher they can catch unawares) a black mark on their face.

Of course, as the foreigner last year I had my fair share of kids (and even one of the other teachers!) smearing me with ash. By the end of the party, I looked like I'd literally walked through hell and back. But hey, it was worth it to experience another Galician festival and eat as many free roasted chestnuts as I wanted. 

Magosto at my school last year

So, Galicia, I'm feeling a little bit of morriña today. But I have exciting news, I'll be back in terra galega for Christmas, and I couldn't be more thrilled about it! Since that's only about a month away, today I get to leave off with hasta pronto! Yippee! 

To My Colleagues

Aos meus compañeiros de traballo que descubriron o meu blog--quero dicirvos moitas grazas por todo o que fixestes para min nestes dous anos. Dende o principio, déstesme a benvida como unha compañeira, non só "a estranxeira," e sempre estivestes interesados no meu país, na miña cultura, na miña lengua, e o que é máis, en min como persoa.

Non é fácil desprazarse dun país a outro, onde non tes ningún coñecido, onde non entendes os costumes, e onde non falas perfectamente o idioma. Pero facilitástesmo, aceptástesme, e agradezo iso moito. Quero pedir perdón por todas as veces que non vos entendín, ou o idioma ou os vosos costumes, e quero dicirvos grazas por ser pacientes comigo mentres aprendía da cultura e das linguas aquí. Como espero que se pode ver neste texto pequeno, aprendín un mogollón, e quero dicirvos grazas pola axuda.

CPI da Cañiza é un pequeno colexio marabilloso, e as memorias que teño diso sempre serán de xente cariñosa e alumnos moi monos. Paseimo moi ben traballando convosco, e vou botar de menos o colexio e a xente moito.

Moitas grazas por axudar a contribuír a 2 anos moi felices nun lugar excelente.

Con cariño,
Alisa

Feliz Entroido!

Carnaval decorations, Málaga, 2012

One of the many things that Spain has that America lacks is Carnaval (Entroido in Galician). This is basically what Americans think of Mardi Gras, or the last few days before Lent. Depending on where you are, the celebrations can kick off up to a few weeks in advance, with drinking, eating, parades, and costumes. 

In Vigo, things are fairly low-key (for Spain), and the only real way I celebrated was by spending an evening with a group of people all dressed up in this getup:

Can you figure out what it is? If you're not from Vigo, the answer is probably no. I'm dressed as a Vitrasa bus (the local bus system) transformer. More specifically, the number 11 bus, which I take 3 days a week to get to private lessons. So there I am as a human, and when we all "transformed" into buses, they looked like this, with us inside:

It was a lot of work making the costumes, but when we all "transformed" together, it looked pretty cool. If you're my friend on facebook, check it out there! It was quite fun to go out and see all the different costumes (mostly people like us, in groups with a theme). Like a second (better) Halloween!

So Happy Carnaval, everyone! Eat lots of orejas, dress up, and be merry!

I Heart Galicia!

It's no secret that I've never liked Madrid. Like I said a few posts ago, it just doesn't feel like real Spain, and that irks me. It feels so fake, so half-American...so pretentious! So many people there aren't personable. The weather sucks.

Wow, that's all so negative. But I'm just trying to explain why, despite being with an absolutely wonderful family and getting paid to take care of two kids who spoke marvelous English, I was not at my happiest in Madrid. I tried to make the best of it and explore the city, to immerse myself in real castellano (as opposed to a mix of Spanish and Galician), and even to appreciate the scorching heat.

But now that I'm done there (and have been for a month now), I feel like I can just can come out and say it--being back in Galicia is truly glorious. The weather is nice and cool, the food is fantastic and cheap, the people are friendly, and I just feel like I'm back home. I love Galicia and I'm not shy about shouting it from the rooftops!

Who wouldn't love a place like this?? It has everything!

Beautiful beaches--the water on the Islas Cíes was so blue it looked fake

Great views and the ocean to boot

Interesting geological phenomena like la Playa de las Catedrales

Mountains and rivers and great places to go hiking

Famous historical sites like the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela

Interesting musical heritage (bagpipes are cool, just like bowties)

Great food and wine, which also happens to be inexpensive

An interesting language that is not Spanish but still mostly comprehensible (unlike *ahem* Basque)

And last but not least, Celta de Vigo, a newly first-division fútbol team! (photo by the awesome Xose)

So, if you haven't been here, come! If you have, then you know exactly what I'm talking about. Que viva Galicia!