(fine, I'll take my lunch breaks here if you insist)
y MADRID.....(antes de llegar a Santander...)
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Una foto vale mil palabras
(fine, I'll take my lunch breaks here if you insist)
y MADRID.....(antes de llegar a Santander...)
The Landlady Situation (Why hosting couch surfers might cause us to lose our security deposits)
I was getting bored with the whole “adjust to a new country/accent/lifestyle” thing, so I’m glad that I now have an additional challenge here in Spain: avoiding my landlady. Size-wise, Santander falls somewhere in the space between “college town” and “city,” in that there exists a public transportation system inherent of larger urban zones, but not one that functions between the hours of “let’s start drinking” and “woops, now too drunk to walk home”—at which point stumbling in heels on cobblestone becomes the preferred mode of transportation. I partake in no such behavior. (I wear flats.)
(this is 2 blocks from our apartment. Note: cobblestones)
And, as tends to be the case in communities of such size, people tend to know one another and bump into each other on the streets with frequency. Such, unfortunately, happens to be the case with my landlady—the lovely-yet-lunatic, loquacious Victoria—and my roommates.
This would not be a noteworthy situation if the situation were not as follows:
As I mentioned before, the city/college town of Santander is overpopulated by retired and senior citizens. As in, the scent of the salty sea has to seriously struggle to not be masked by the scent of old people cologne.
(Old people. Photo creds: Kim)
I have nothing against old people—I love a lot of old people and hope to live to be very old myself. However, retired, old people tend to have lots of spare time, and tend to like to spend a great quantity of this spare time engaging in conversation younger people who don’t have quite as much spare time. Victoria, our landlady, is no exception to this rule. The combination of “likes to talk” and “lives down the street” in a city where “people are bound to bump into each other on the streets” makes for a very fun (read: sarcasm) situation. We are talking 45 minutes of conversation, minimum, with the empty-nester if you ask her where a bus stop is. And that’s upon running into her causally on the street. The longer conversations (last night’s reached 3 hours, 45 minutes) occur when she shows up without warning at our apartment door. And this tends to be when either A) we are sleeping in after a long night out, B) we have not recently deep-cleaned the apartment, or C) a half-naked Italian opens the door.
I must digress to explain about our apartment situation in order for the gravity of “not having deep-cleaned our apartment” to be fully understood. And then the gravity of the “half-naked Italian” will follow as understood as well. It suffices to say that my roommates (Riki, Kim, and Nicole—see below picture) and I were offered an unbeatable deal on our freshly remodeled, crystal chandelier decorated apartment, which we understand to be the rarely leased lovechild of Victoria and her (less chattersome) husband, Luis.
Victoria offered us the apartment largely because we are seemingly charming, responsible girls who would keep the place spick and span. I’m talking, we could not sign the 15-page lease until we were given an extensive tour of the apartment and what precautionary measures to be taken to keep the place looking like new (and by “like new” I really mean, “like old” because the place is muy abuela as far as interior decorating goes). Of course, we signed the lease (and reluctantly handed over 1000 EURO in cash apiece as a security deposit (see below picture), agreeing to everything Victoria said, while really knowing that we would not actually hire the Romanian housekeeper twice a week per her suggestion, and that a process of intense de-abuela-fication would commence immediately upon moving in, wherein we would opt to make our apartment feel more “our age.” (This would involve removing a hideous floral print plastic tablecloth from the dining room table, investing over 30 euros in scented candles, and hiding several handcrafted wall decorations and over-the-top crucifixes in the recesses of a cabinet that we have since dubbed “the abyss.”)
(Riki and Kim get prepared to hand over our entire first month's paycheck)
The thing is, we weren’t prepared for Victoria to also adopt us as her surrogate daughters, a status which apparently grants her permission to show up uninvited at our door and overstay her welcome, giving us hours upon hours of Spanish lessons (we must correct our accents so we speak proper Spain-Spanish), in addition to endless commentary on the state of the economy (bad) and the state of our apartment (worse). It is a very confusing relationship for us. You see, Victoria is a very nice lady, and seems to love chatting with us “precious ninas,” but she is the type of refined woman whose mere presence makes you suddenly self-conscious of your hangnails and un-ironed shirt. She is the type of mother whose knowledge you value but whose criticism you fear, which translates into “she is the type of landlady who would very likely not return our 1,000 EUROapiece security deposit if you screwed anything up in your crystal chandelier-adorned apartment.”
We are now charged with the challenge of balancing a 20somethings lifestyle (and salary—see: TeachersCannotAffordHousekeepers.com) with the expectation that Victoria could show up at any given minute and find reason to not return our security deposits. So far, we are failing.
Last week, we hosted two “CouchSurfers” (travelers that you meet online and cook dinner for you in return for a free couch to sleep on—not as unsafe as it sounds). They were awesome—one was a 19-year-old surfer from Germany who has been traveling around Europe on bike for the past six months, and who may or not have royal blood (he uses a pseudo last name on Facebook for privacy); and the other was a guy from Italy who we are pretty sure has ties to the mafia (he carries around wads of 50-euro bills and was shocked to learn we find spending 100 euro on a single shirt a waste of money). Not sure why he can’t afford a hotel. But whatever, they cooked a delicious dinner for us (quite a (hilarious) accomplishment, as they had no common vocabulary) and then we went out on the town. And then they slept on our couches. And then Victoria showed up, four hours later, at 10am. We’re not sure why.
(our friend Heinrick (German Prince?) teaches us how to say "Last night I was drunk" in German. Note crystal chandelier in background.)
The (at that point, 100Euro-shirt-less) Italian opened the door (we four girls were sound asleep and somehow missed the incessant doorbell ringing), only to be chided by Victoria for having parked his bicycle and worn high heels on our hardwood floors (he was not responsible for either. Nor does he understand Spanish). We girls later got the brunt of that speech again later from Victoria. And after apologizing profusely, and assuring her that the couch surfers were not dangerous men, we now we play the political game—we want our security deposits back.
The political game involves withstanding the 3-hour Spanish lessons (she literally wrote out the entire Spanish alphabet the other day for Nicole and me, and had us pronounce each letter aloud), inviting Victoria and Luis over for dinner, and making it look like we are always in the process of cleaning our apartment.
The other day, Nicole and I were eating a late lunch when we suddenly heard the doorbell ring in such a manner that we knew it could only be Victoria. We panicked—the kitchen had not been mopped in two days! We obviously did not have time to clean, but decided we could at least make it look like that was our intention. So I ran to the patio to grab the mop and bucket, but failed to realize that it would take a good minute to fill the bucket with enough water to make our cleaning attempt look legitimate. The doorbell continued to ring. We had to answer at some point. I slopped some water on the kitchen floor and assumed the mopping position, which thankfully Victoria acknowledged, upon entering our apartment (accompanied by a cloud of the exact perfume we have been trying to rid our apartment of), with a satisfied nod of the head. But as she then sat down at the dining room table, we became suddenly acutely aware of everything else for which she could upbraid us. The un-table-clothed dining room table (which we were in the middle of eating on), the recently broken Persian blinds (that she stood up to lower—but then stopped—when we insisted that the presence of Peeping Tom construction workers right outside our living room window did not, in fact, creep us out), etc. This anxiety lasted for 3 hours. (This was the incident of the “let’s start from zero, with the Spanish alphabet” lesson.)
(fridge-worthy remnants of the 3-hour Spanish lesson)
Luckily, we got off the hook with that visit—a rarity indeed. If happily enduring 3-hour Spanish lessons is the price we have to pay for ensuring the return of our 1,000Euros apiece at the end of the year, I’ll happily (actually) abide. We’ve now come to expect the visits of Victoria at our apartment, and I think we have learned how to manipulate its appearance to our advantage. (Oh Victoria, having the German and Italian here was such an incredible experience of cultural exchange!) I just hope not to run into Victoria in the streets during those hours when public transportation ceases to function—don’t know what kind of motherly chastising I could handle at that point. Luckily, though, I have an acute sense of smell. If my nostrils detect a whiff of a certain old lady perfume, I will hasten (whether in high heels or flats) down the cobblestone road in the opposite direction.
And, as tends to be the case in communities of such size, people tend to know one another and bump into each other on the streets with frequency. Such, unfortunately, happens to be the case with my landlady—the lovely-yet-lunatic, loquacious Victoria—and my roommates.
This would not be a noteworthy situation if the situation were not as follows:
As I mentioned before, the city/college town of Santander is overpopulated by retired and senior citizens. As in, the scent of the salty sea has to seriously struggle to not be masked by the scent of old people cologne.
I have nothing against old people—I love a lot of old people and hope to live to be very old myself. However, retired, old people tend to have lots of spare time, and tend to like to spend a great quantity of this spare time engaging in conversation younger people who don’t have quite as much spare time. Victoria, our landlady, is no exception to this rule. The combination of “likes to talk” and “lives down the street” in a city where “people are bound to bump into each other on the streets” makes for a very fun (read: sarcasm) situation. We are talking 45 minutes of conversation, minimum, with the empty-nester if you ask her where a bus stop is. And that’s upon running into her causally on the street. The longer conversations (last night’s reached 3 hours, 45 minutes) occur when she shows up without warning at our apartment door. And this tends to be when either A) we are sleeping in after a long night out, B) we have not recently deep-cleaned the apartment, or C) a half-naked Italian opens the door.
I must digress to explain about our apartment situation in order for the gravity of “not having deep-cleaned our apartment” to be fully understood. And then the gravity of the “half-naked Italian” will follow as understood as well. It suffices to say that my roommates (Riki, Kim, and Nicole—see below picture) and I were offered an unbeatable deal on our freshly remodeled, crystal chandelier decorated apartment, which we understand to be the rarely leased lovechild of Victoria and her (less chattersome) husband, Luis.
Victoria offered us the apartment largely because we are seemingly charming, responsible girls who would keep the place spick and span. I’m talking, we could not sign the 15-page lease until we were given an extensive tour of the apartment and what precautionary measures to be taken to keep the place looking like new (and by “like new” I really mean, “like old” because the place is muy abuela as far as interior decorating goes). Of course, we signed the lease (and reluctantly handed over 1000 EURO in cash apiece as a security deposit (see below picture), agreeing to everything Victoria said, while really knowing that we would not actually hire the Romanian housekeeper twice a week per her suggestion, and that a process of intense de-abuela-fication would commence immediately upon moving in, wherein we would opt to make our apartment feel more “our age.” (This would involve removing a hideous floral print plastic tablecloth from the dining room table, investing over 30 euros in scented candles, and hiding several handcrafted wall decorations and over-the-top crucifixes in the recesses of a cabinet that we have since dubbed “the abyss.”)
The thing is, we weren’t prepared for Victoria to also adopt us as her surrogate daughters, a status which apparently grants her permission to show up uninvited at our door and overstay her welcome, giving us hours upon hours of Spanish lessons (we must correct our accents so we speak proper Spain-Spanish), in addition to endless commentary on the state of the economy (bad) and the state of our apartment (worse). It is a very confusing relationship for us. You see, Victoria is a very nice lady, and seems to love chatting with us “precious ninas,” but she is the type of refined woman whose mere presence makes you suddenly self-conscious of your hangnails and un-ironed shirt. She is the type of mother whose knowledge you value but whose criticism you fear, which translates into “she is the type of landlady who would very likely not return our 1,000 EUROapiece security deposit if you screwed anything up in your crystal chandelier-adorned apartment.”
We are now charged with the challenge of balancing a 20somethings lifestyle (and salary—see: TeachersCannotAffordHousekeepers.com) with the expectation that Victoria could show up at any given minute and find reason to not return our security deposits. So far, we are failing.
Last week, we hosted two “CouchSurfers” (travelers that you meet online and cook dinner for you in return for a free couch to sleep on—not as unsafe as it sounds). They were awesome—one was a 19-year-old surfer from Germany who has been traveling around Europe on bike for the past six months, and who may or not have royal blood (he uses a pseudo last name on Facebook for privacy); and the other was a guy from Italy who we are pretty sure has ties to the mafia (he carries around wads of 50-euro bills and was shocked to learn we find spending 100 euro on a single shirt a waste of money). Not sure why he can’t afford a hotel. But whatever, they cooked a delicious dinner for us (quite a (hilarious) accomplishment, as they had no common vocabulary) and then we went out on the town. And then they slept on our couches. And then Victoria showed up, four hours later, at 10am. We’re not sure why.
The (at that point, 100Euro-shirt-less) Italian opened the door (we four girls were sound asleep and somehow missed the incessant doorbell ringing), only to be chided by Victoria for having parked his bicycle and worn high heels on our hardwood floors (he was not responsible for either. Nor does he understand Spanish). We girls later got the brunt of that speech again later from Victoria. And after apologizing profusely, and assuring her that the couch surfers were not dangerous men, we now we play the political game—we want our security deposits back.
The political game involves withstanding the 3-hour Spanish lessons (she literally wrote out the entire Spanish alphabet the other day for Nicole and me, and had us pronounce each letter aloud), inviting Victoria and Luis over for dinner, and making it look like we are always in the process of cleaning our apartment.
The other day, Nicole and I were eating a late lunch when we suddenly heard the doorbell ring in such a manner that we knew it could only be Victoria. We panicked—the kitchen had not been mopped in two days! We obviously did not have time to clean, but decided we could at least make it look like that was our intention. So I ran to the patio to grab the mop and bucket, but failed to realize that it would take a good minute to fill the bucket with enough water to make our cleaning attempt look legitimate. The doorbell continued to ring. We had to answer at some point. I slopped some water on the kitchen floor and assumed the mopping position, which thankfully Victoria acknowledged, upon entering our apartment (accompanied by a cloud of the exact perfume we have been trying to rid our apartment of), with a satisfied nod of the head. But as she then sat down at the dining room table, we became suddenly acutely aware of everything else for which she could upbraid us. The un-table-clothed dining room table (which we were in the middle of eating on), the recently broken Persian blinds (that she stood up to lower—but then stopped—when we insisted that the presence of Peeping Tom construction workers right outside our living room window did not, in fact, creep us out), etc. This anxiety lasted for 3 hours. (This was the incident of the “let’s start from zero, with the Spanish alphabet” lesson.)
Luckily, we got off the hook with that visit—a rarity indeed. If happily enduring 3-hour Spanish lessons is the price we have to pay for ensuring the return of our 1,000Euros apiece at the end of the year, I’ll happily (actually) abide. We’ve now come to expect the visits of Victoria at our apartment, and I think we have learned how to manipulate its appearance to our advantage. (Oh Victoria, having the German and Italian here was such an incredible experience of cultural exchange!) I just hope not to run into Victoria in the streets during those hours when public transportation ceases to function—don’t know what kind of motherly chastising I could handle at that point. Luckily, though, I have an acute sense of smell. If my nostrils detect a whiff of a certain old lady perfume, I will hasten (whether in high heels or flats) down the cobblestone road in the opposite direction.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Crime
I do not consider myself (knock on wood) a novice in the field of avoiding a picked pocket, a swiped iPod, or other petty street crimes, if six months of living unscathed in the hustle bustle of Buenos Aires, and five weeks in Rio de Janeiro, is any indication. As I feel I have already mastered the most necessary precautionary tactics on city street smarts, I found myself tuning out during the safety talk delivered to us by US embassy officials at the Fulbright orientation in Madrid this past week. And I don’t feel at all badly about having not paid full attention, because I now realize that not a single piece of theft-avoiding advice pertains to the small group of us who just arrived in Santander (a 4 ½ hour train ride to the north of Madrid). This is because the city is overrun with friendly 80-year-olds! Seriously, mass exodus of moneyed grandparents to the north coast. I don’t anticipate any one of them trying to swipe my cash, but should there exist a pocket picking-prone bad apple or two among the bunch, I’m pretty sure I could safely escape. Unless maybe I were to be delivered a particularly strong hit to the shins with a walking cane.
That said, I live in absolute PARADISE. Seriously, I went on a run yesterday along two beaches that were separated by a castle-containing peninsula. But before delving further into details about my majestic whereabouts, I’ll quickly fill in details of what I have been doing the past 2 weeks, and what my responsibilities and role with the Fulbright Program will entail.
After spending a week touring Madrid with the lovely Kacey Burr (shout out to the Tetuan crew for hosting me!) and getting lost in many a world famous museum, I headed to another part of the city for orientation with the rest of the Fulbright crew (60ish other English Teaching Assistants (or, ETAs, not to be confused with the terrorism-prone, Basque nationalist group) placed in various Spanish cities, and a dozen or so research students, also placed throughout Spain). Orientation entailed two jam-packed, jet-lagged days of meetings and nice-to-meet-you’s, wherein we all learned that a.) fellow Fulbrighters are incredibly awesome and interesting (one kid I met is specializing in Antarctic lichen research) and b.) we should feel very honored and special to have earned and been given the opportunity to spend a year in Spain pursuing our respective passions and furthering the mission of the Fulbright program: increasing mutual understanding between the U.S. and other nations.
I was assigned the region of Cantabria for teaching, along with 12 other recent college grads, and apparently our duties (in addition to assisting teachers I multiple subjects in the Spanish-English bilingual schools where we have been placed) will also be to help run a Model UN-type program called Global Classrooms. As our students (aged anywhere between our US equivalent of 6th to 10th grade) are already fairly proficient in English, this is an opportunity for them to expand their English language skills to areas of research, debate, etc. in regional and national (and international—there is an end-of-year conference in New York for a handful of lucky students!) conferences.
Bueno. So now I am in Cantabria, sitting on the balcony of my apartment and looking out at this view:
Santander is the actual name of said paradise where I currently live (it is the capital of the region of Cantabria). Four times a week, I will commute 46 kilometers toward France (I’ll leave the conversions to you. Also, I don’t do cardinal directions) to this town:
….to teach at this school:
Santona, I just learned, is one of the world’s largest exporters of anchovies. (Time to get adventurous!) It is apparently also located a convenient 10 km from one of the main Cantabrian fire fighting stations, to which my roommates and I have already been invited for dinner. As fire fighters here apparently only work one or two, 24-hour shifts a week, and have the rest of their week off to travel and play, perhaps this will prove the best industry in which to search for a Spanish novio ;)
In the 2 days that I have spent exploring Santander (where I live), I have come to the following conclusions:
1.Santander is roughly a combination of Disneyland (in that it is very manicured and perfect), San Francisco (it’s got a bit of a big-city vibe in some parts, and similar architecture in others, and the climate is the same), Monterey (fishing industry speaking), Vegas (clubs and bars and a casino aplenty), the Truman Show (is this place really just a big reality TV set?), and a retirement home (at least loquacious grandparents will help me improve my Spanish listening, and patience, skills).
2.It is awesome that I can sit in a beach front, glass-walled café after a run along the coast and enjoy a fresh calamari sandwich while looking out upon a sailboat-filled port and setting sun.
3.It is also awesome that I live 2 blocks from a host of different clubs, bars, restaurants, and movie theaters. Oh, and I live cattycorner to a super old and important looking church. This is the other view from my balcony:
So, life really sucks. Aside from getting hit in the shins by the occasional wayward walking stick, it seems that the only crime we will have to worry about in Cantabria may include enjoying life a little too much. We’ll send some notes to the Embassy officials and ask them to include the warning in next year’s Fulbright orientation notes.
Besos y abrazos,
Ali (mi nombre espanol)
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