An American Education

Classic red phone booths, the smell of fish and chips, familiar sights and sounds of English signs and conversation…

…Definitely not Spain.

The scenery most directly pointed to Britain but how did 2 Euros and a thirty-minute bus ride land me in the UK?

Gibraltar's unique location

Gibraltar. A rock the size of Pittsford Plaza (for those of you not from Rochester, about 2 1/3 miles around), sits on the southern-most tip of Europe. A small isthmus connects Gibraltar to Spain while Morocco can be clearly seen across across the Mediteranian. This unique and teeny British territory comes complete with a complicated history and a handful of highly debated topics, important and not to be ignored. Yet, my story is not affected by numerous conquests, a unique tax situation or an abundant amount of oil tankers. It only requires a beach, some new British friends and most importantly: 

a piece of American athletic equipment.   

Through "couch surfing," a great social network, we met two locals who offered to show us around the tip-top “cheerio” streets of “Little Spanish UK.”

The shameful but necessary photo stuffed into a phone booth.

While getting to know each other one of our new friends pulled out a familiar object. It was, to our great surprise, an American football!

“Can you teach me how to throw this?” he said in a marvelous British accent.

I flashed an excited grin. My tomboy years of striving to imitate my big brother would finally be put to use!

For the next two hours three highly uncoordinated Americans attempted to duplicate an NFL game…yet after many throws directly into the sand, a dive into the ocean and a crash landing into 3 sunbathing teenage girls…we decided the simple act of spiraling the ball was a lofty enough goal for the day.

 

A view of "The Rock (Gibraltar)"

As the sun set, there I stood, my fingers grasping the laces of America, toes in British sand, Spain less than 2 miles away and only a 35-mile stretch of water between northern Africa and a lesson on the proper techniques of a killer American touchdown dance.

By the end of our visit two Gibraltan citizens could catch a football one-handed while holding a beer in the other, I think we did our job - America would be proud.

Spanish Doors are Confusing

Necesito...ABAJO! = loosely translated, I need...DOWN!

A few weeks before this statement was uttered I taught my American friend an important Spanish social custom. Forget, "Hello, how are you?" or "Nice to meet you," her first lesson consisted of lifting a glass and memorizing this key phrase, "Ariba, abajo, al centro, pa dentro!"

In America, we say cheers and clink glasses.  Across the Atlantic, a bit more effort is put into taking a drink with friends.

With a cold cerveza (beer) in hand I walked my friend through the motions:

Ariba (lift the glass towards the sky), Abajo (bring it down), Al centro (out in front), pa dentro (drink!)

Like good students, we sat in a bar practicing the new phrase, aware of eyes watching us in amusement but determined to make the motions second nature.


It wasn't until a few weeks later that our hard work paid off.

Knock, knock, knock...a little louder, knock, knock, knock...much louder, THUD, THUD, THUD!
"JENNIFER! EMERGENCIA!! EMERGENCIA!!"

Five minutes later I was out the door. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, put on a hat to cover my disheveled hairdo, shoved my old Stanford hoodie over my head and sprinted down the street, once again looking like "that crazy American girl" in Spain.

Out of breath, I arrived at a Spanish apartment door to the sound of my friend desperately trying to get out.

Our Spanish amigo had, out of habit, locked the door as he left for work that morning. In Spain, without a key the door cannot be opened from the inside.  My friend had awoken in this locked apartment without a key and without a cell phone. No way to contact the outside world...besides the balcony.

She carefully crawled through the small window onto a wobbly balcony two stories up. As she seriously considered a Tarzan-like escape, a little old Spanish man walked onto the deserted street below.


Panicked, She yelled down to him, "ughhhh, Hola...." Without any previous experience with the Spanish language and two weeks in Spain, I will forever be impressed with this American girl and her epic escape from a locked apartment.

Apparently, the little old man from the street thought she was in danger and called the police!

Upon my arrival I acted as translator, one ear to the door and my friend's voice, the other towards two policemen and a tiny sweet old man. Yes, I stood in a hallway with Spanish officers, at first nervously attempting to explain my friend's situation (it took me half an hour to explain that she did not get in an argument with her boyfriend, and he did not lock her in his apartment) and ultimately laughing together while my friend giggled with embarrassment from behind the door.


Finally, after a long morning of panic, misunderstanding and general hilarity... the door to the apartment finally opened.

Since the door incident my American friend has learned an impressive amount of Spanish but in this case it turned out that a drinking custum was her "key" to freedom.




"Ariba, abajo, al centro, pa dentro."

 Standing on that balcony, these words swirled through her head. She needed to be "down" from the balcony, so this is what the sweet old man on the street heard:

"Necesito...ABAJO!" - "I need...DOWN!"


I guess all the Spanish we really need to know is at the bar next door.

Carnival in Cadiz "Now that's a Fiesta"

How was I to know that my neighbor, an Egyptian pharaoh, passing a bottle of Spain’s finest Cruzcampo to 

 two prison escapees would be the most normal thing I see all night. Our hour-long bus ride full of singing, photos and anticipation commenced a true Spanish fiesta…and in my case, a once in a lifetime fiesta.

As far as carnivals are concerned, Cadiz’s places second to the world famous fiesta in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Cadiz in March is a destination for Spaniards and foreigners alike, a fact made clear from my encounter with not only one but two native New Yorkers.

Festive Carnival Lights

Carnival is celebrated around the world right before Lent. According to the Roman Catholic tradition, it sets the stage for one last chance to “let loose” before the 40 strict days of Lent.

Cadiz takes full advantage of  “letting loose.” During the day Cadiz host’s parades and singing groups called, “chirigotas,” who are known for their witty songs about politics and other modern topics while the “comparsas” singers represent the more serious side of carnival.

Carnival is known for its extravagant “disfrazes” or costumes. The elaborate, well thought out costumes definitely pay tribute to a country that knows how to have a good time. Gorgeous señoritas in full flamenco dresses walk next to groups of men decked out in cheerleader outfits, a visual of Spain’s modern, diverse culture and the rich history that has made Spain the intriguing place it is today.

I was only privileged to encounter Cadiz after sunset when the city transformed into a never-ending party of costumes, food and booze.

Just a Tasting of Costumes

The continuous parade of outrageous attire and vibrant street light decoration made Cadiz a city of excitement and constant surprises. Suffice to say, the excessive amount of alcohol probably added to the entertainment.

The first four hours of my Carnival experience enclosed me in a glass jar of colorful marbles. Cadiz was that glass container and I was a white marble hidden in the center, almost impossible to find.

Cruzcampo

For a good part of the night I was pressed against a complete stranger, sequins and feathers would find their way from one person to the next, while obstacle courses of beer bottles and discarded cardboard costume parts proved treacherous for an unfortunate few.

It was nearly impossible to move five inches, forget going to the bathroom. I was forced to expertly watch my liquid intake for the night and only made the frustrating trudge to the toilet twice. (Quite a feet for the girl who makes the family stop once or twice for the hour car ride to grandma’s house.) The “bathrooms” at Carnival were 6 porter potties…6, for everyone. Needless to say, a particular alleyway became the boy’s (and a few adventurous girl’s) bathroom. “Urine” way, as it came to be called, added puddles to the already existing obstacle course, no longer just the 400 meter hurdles but the dreaded steeple chase.

By 2am my allergy to alcohol left me with a tummy full of sprite and gummy candies while I stood in a sea of empty bottles and “very happy” costumed Carnival goers. My gummy-state privileged me to hysterical memories but I think I’ll save those stories for the grandkids.

Black and White Swan

By 4 in the morning, all my skirt feathers had fallen (I was the white swan from Natalie Portman’s ballerina movie, “Black Swan,” although I think some people called me s a flamenco), I had depleted my gummy stash and my two trips through "Urine Way" had left my boots less than dry. The mixture of holding up a drunken amiga, hunger and pure fatigue had caught up with me. The hand on my watch decided to tick at snail’s pace as I disappointingly realized the length of the next few hours. 

Just when my legs where about to give out and sit me on a street full of alcohol, garbage and who knows what else, a tiny light in the distance saved me – A CHURRO STAND. Yellow, florescent bulbs blinked those magical words and invited me to make the long hike (probably 50 feet) to the promised land:

 A 3-euro bag of fried goodness.

With churros in hand, a snoring ballerina on one shoulder and an exhausted chicken on the other, I was content. Glad to have the experience but ready to go.

Our exhausted trio spent the next two hours half asleep and giggling on a roadside curb waiting for the 7:30 bus, a perfect spot to watch the sunrise paint the city of Cadiz in the colors and bliss of its nighttime costumed visitors.

Siesta Siesta

This should have been my second post...this is an account of my first few hours in Spain :)

After 24 hours of travel and only two hours of sleep my eyelids fight the force of gravity that seems to have seriously multiplied at the beautiful Estacion Atocha in Madrid.

(Estacion Atocha: Train station in Madrid. They    

 have a beautiful forest in the middle of the station, complete with birds and turtles.)

The man sitting on the stoop beside me smells of sweaty feet and possibly urine. I not-so subtly spritz the 99 cent airport mouthwash under my seriously traveled arms and hunch over my backpack of electronics.

Spanish words, familiar and foreign, swirl around me eventually forming a word jumble that finally pushes my lids down.

My train station siesta (nap) is a tranquil dream world where I can understand everyone and my words don't evoke a face of total confusion. Unfortunately it is short lived. At first a nudge, then a poke, followed by a full on shake abruptly brings me back to the Estacion.

During the span of a seven hour flight I had gone from promising English teacher to mistaken sleeping homeless bum. As I was lifted to my feet by what I could only assume was a Spanish "rent-a-cop," I knew the surprises in Spain would be anything but ordinary... I hope the rest of them smell better.

Ding-Dong "Welcome to Spain"

Standing in a dark hallway across the Atlantic. Not exactly what I'd planned.

Desperately, I hit the light switch, waiting for a response from the bulb overhead. Once, twice...ten times, still nothing. My shaking hands hold foreign keys searching for the seemingly non-existent lock. With little hope I press the light switch one more time, at that moment a smiling face emerges from a wonderful light behind the door. "Jennifer, that switch is the doorbell," my new host-mom says with a chuckle.

Like it or not, I've announced myself to Spain...or at least to the slightly irritated barrio (neighborhood)  :p

I'm having a great time in my first week! Thank you for the nice comments! The picture is from the window of my new family room. It's cloudy but if you look close the Rock of Gibraltar is in the background. Nine miles beyond is the coast of Morocco :)

Hasta Luego!

Biking 3000 miles across the U.S., maid of honor for my less-than-legal hermanita (little sister), professional toy store vendor and Latin dance enthusiast. What else could a girl possibly add to that o-so impressive resume?

Ideas of a "real job" or grad school have been tossed around but which one of those would guarantee me 24 hour access to my ears' favorite sound, the Spanish language. After a year 1/2 of saving, thanks to the flourishing family business, I'm finally able to move abroad and live out a life-long dream.  I'll be Au Pairing/teaching English/doing any job I can get...minus dancing on street corners (although I'll be dancing as much as humanly possible) during my time on the beautiful Costa del Sol.  Twirling to Spanish beats will no doubt be time consuming but I'm looking forward to staying in touch. Soooo, stop by my page once in a while, let me know what you're up to, maybe learn a little Spanish and hopefully leave with a beautiful sonrisa (smile) :)