Five Years, Five Goals

September 12, 2012 by · 14 Comments

The chalk squeaked as I drew a line under the word SUCCESS. My 4 ESO students read it, es-soox-essss, a habit I hadn’t been able to break in my three years working with them. I always knew it would be an uphill battle.

I crumpled small slips of paper from atop the teacher’s desk and picked one up. “Teacher, you are beautiful.” That little paper ball went right into Franci’s face.

At the end of my three years of teaching at I.E.S. Heliche, I asked my 16-year-olds to tell me one thing that made them feel successful before turning the question, “Has your English teacher been successful?

When I graduated, I made a list of three things to accomplish in my first three years out of college. Five years later, I’m closing in on my fifth anniversary of moving to Spain on September 12th. I told myself I could consider myself successful if I accomplished three things – but that list seems to grow as my years in the land of sunshine and siestas climb.

Last year, I examined the four things I love about Spain. This year, the five most important things I’ve accomplished during my years in Spain.

Year One. Move Abroad

Once I had studied abroad, I knew that the only place for me to go after graduation was to anywhere but America. I did all of the research, using my study abroad office and contacts I’d made through the Daily Iowan. When the opportunity to participate in the North American Language Assistants program came up, I abandoned my plans to do a work holiday in Ireland and brushed up on my Spanish. Working just 12 hours a week gave me time to do an internship at a travel company, make friends and travel throughout Iberia.

My parents came to visit at Christmas this year, and I struggled at even mundane tasks, like translating menus and asking for directions. My dad joked that I’d been to busy guzzling sangria to actually learn the language, so my goal for my second year in Spain was to work on perfecting my castellano.

Year Two. Learn Spanish. Really, like actually speak it.

As anyone who has traveled to Spain can tell you, the Spanish they teach you in school no vale over here. I struggled with my accent and theirs, didn’t understand their slang. It even took the Novio and I several months speaking in English before I worked up the nerve to ask to switch to Spanish.

The majority of my life in Spain is now down in my second tongue, but it didn’t come easy. I bought several books, began watching TV in Spanish and made an effort to use it as often as possible. Become proficient in Spanish has taken me thirteen years, but I finally have the C1 Certification of Proficiency from the Instituto Cervantes. Toma. Time to focus on something more fun, like traveling.

Read about preparing for and taking the DELE. Then read about my weirdo accent.

Year Three. Travel to 25 countries before turning 25.

The time I didn’t spend learning Spanish during my first year was time I spent traveling, hitting six new countries andseveral regions in Spain. My goal to travel to 25 foreign countries looked more and more possible.

I traveled overnight from Budapest to Prague with my friend Lauren, and she snapped a 6am picture of me setting foot in the 25th. Since then, I’ve been to several more, but all the while I’ve felt fortunate to have a springboard from which to explore Europe. I’ve done some cool things, like snuck into monasteries in Romania, ridden a donkey through rural Morocco, camped under the stars on Spain’s Most Beautiful Beach.

Read my Top 25 moments (with links between all five posts) on Backpacking Matt.

Year Four. Beat the Paperwork Game.

By far one of the biggest pitfalls of being a non-European in Spain is the paperwork hassle. Any guiri can tell you that the standing in lines, running from one office to another, surrendering all of your personal info and then not hearing back for weeks is enough to make you turn around and say adiós to Spain.

Stranded with few options for renewing my student visa status after the Auxiliares program dropped me, I struggled to find a way to legally stay in Spain, even considering working illegally. I exhausted my contacts one by one until the US Consular Agent suggested something that have never occurred to me: lying.

I already had paperwork pending for a Master’s I’d decided not to do, so I hopped on the first bus to Madrid and applied. Having never filed paperwork in the capital, I wasn’t aware that the Foreigner’s Office worked on an appointment system, and that they were booked for months (which also meant I stood out in the cold for several hours alone). The guard gave me the number, and I called. Tensely. Making things up. And I got in the day before my residence card expired.

Kike and I had also done a de-facto partnership, which was passed from a simple piece of paper denoting that he was responsible for me to a piece of plastic denoting I could stay in Spain for five years without having a porque to go near the office. I fought the law, and the law handed me a loophole.

Read How to Deal with the Foreigner’s Office and how to trick funcionarios and pretend you’re smart.

Year Five. Find a Stable Group of Friends

The problem with being an expat is that many people come and go, making my cycle of friends constantly in motion. Even those I think will be long-term sometimes pack up and go. And with a partner in the military, I still find myself alone. Finding friends is easy, but keeping those who are inclined to stick around – both American and foreign – has been more difficult. Thanks to the American Women’s Club, working at a school with Spaniards and making an effort to befriend Kike’s friends, I’ve got friends all over Spain, and I sadly don’t spend much time with people I know will only be in Seville for a year.

Algo se muere en el alma, right? Have drunkenly sung that sevillana far too many times.

Year Six. Figure out how long-term this all is.

My students decided that I had, in fact, been successful in my first three years in Spain. Still, all of these years abroad has gotten me a little disconcerted. I’ve spoken with a lot of expat friends on the subject fo staying in Spain, especially admist a crippling financial crisis and little job security. Why not go to America? I ask them and myself. Who wouldn’t want a mortgage, kids and to deal with all those stupid jingles?

Haha, oh yeah. Looks like it’s time to set some new goals – what should they be?

Filed Under: andalú, Andalucia, expat, guiri atope, IES Heliche, international travel, la vida loca, languages, living abroad · Tagged: , , ,

How to Pay Taxes in Spain (aka The Day I Became an Adult)

April 15, 2012 by · 12 Comments

Today was Tax Day in America.

As I sat telling my suegra of W-10s and 29-cent hamburgers, I realized I would have to turn in my borrador de la declaración de la renta before June 30th. I cursed, having never done it before. In 20120’s fiscal year, I worked not four months, therefore disqualifying myself. 2011 was different, and my measly 2% retention rate meant I’d have to pay, I was sure.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YLmuFcd2Gn4

After a quick tutorial on how to solicit the draft, I signed in using my Número de Identificación del Extranjero (called a NIE, or foreign resident card). Almost immediately, I was identified with my name and address. My mouth dropped as Kike howled with laughter. I had to claim a bank account, and from there, all of my financial information was extracted and laid out before my very eyes. Not counting the two months’ vacation or private lessons or camp, I had made under 20.000€. Sad but true.

My phone buzzed with a new message from the Agencia Tributaria. They have my phone number, too!! There was a long code, which I was asked to introduce into a text box. Within seconds, a PDF containing all of my financial information from the 2011 fiscal year was compressed into an eight-page document full of words like retenciones, porcentajes and plenty more I didn’t understand. Kike checked for errors while I held my breath, waiting for the damage.

Um, it says here you can donate to a charity, Kike said. There were two options: the Catholic Church or “bienes sociales” which was probably for beefing up political salaries. I declined, writing off the for-once efficiency that seems to be lacking in every other bureaucratic issue I’d dealt with.

At the end of the seventh page, he announced how much I’d have to pay: a whopping 0€. I hadn’t reached the threshold and have no valuables, like a house or kid. So, I paid my taxes, the government knows a lot about me (but apparently not that I moved 22 months ago), and finally feel like a grown up in Espain.

But, for realz, why do I have to pay taxes if they won’t co-validate my degree or let me have a credit card?! Spain, you wack.

Filed Under: culture shock, expat, expat life, guiri atope, Guiri Survival Tips, living abroad, papaleo, preschool woes, Spain · Tagged: ,

Ya Huele a Primavera

March 15, 2012 by · 7 Comments

On a popular talk show on Andalucía’s Canal Sur called La Semana Más Larga, the host Manu Sánchez recently griped about the recortes going on throughout Spain.

But Rajoy just wants us to move right into Summer! he spews, citing the recent “frío esteparian” and the subsequent 70º weather. He’s got a point – springtime in Seville is sweet, filled with tipsy afternoons drinking in sunshine and Cruzcampo, fresh breezes and the intoxicating scent of azahar. But Springtime is also the most short lived season, a brief twinkle in the year, and Rajoy’s insistence in cutting the fat off of all that is good and beautiful about life in Seville is just plain loco.

Manu claims that Spring is for the sevillanos to leave “everything in condition” so that the guiris, who olny come in the summer, can have what’s left over (watch the whole show here a la carte and enjoy Manu’s INCREDIBLE andalú). For this guiri who makes like a sevillano and verenea in a different part of Spain, I enjoy the terracitas and fresh aceite like an respectable andaluz.

Apart from the towering palmeras that line boulevards, Seville is populated with orange trees. During the winter months, the naranjos bask in the sunshine, their dimply skin growing its namesake color until the days start getting longer in late February. The oranges of this sour variety are rarely, if ever, consumed in Seville, and the rumor states that only the oranges grown in the Cartuja Monastery are sweet enough to eat.

By the time March lazily rolls around, the orange trees are shaken, the fruit gathered into thigh-high burlap bags and sent off to the British Isles for bitter marmalade. According to the Novio, the city of Seville began to crate and ship them as a gift to the Queen of England. Though I cannot find evidence to support or kill this long-told legend, the people of England start their days off with the fruit spread over their toast, and I with the scent of the orange blossom flower.

The small yellow bud, called azahar, appears for just a week or ten days’s time, smelling a little bit like fresh laundry, lightly scented perfume or a sunny day after a spring shower. I can’t put my finger on it, but crane my nose in the week leading up to Saint Patrick’s Day to catch a whiff. After seeing the buds began to peek out of the branches, I finally smelt it on Avenida de la Buhaira, riding my bike on a sunny afternoon with my sleeves rolled up.

Finally Springtime, the small glimmer of sevillano time that I am so very fond of.

If Manu’s predictions were anywhere near right, we’d lose the azahar, botellines in a sun-filled plaza on a Sunday afternoon, the sand between my toes somewhere lost in the pinares of Huelva. The passionate processions of Holy Week, gone. The lively sevillanas at the Real, finito. Bullfighting’s biggest names, fuera de la cartelera. Kelly told me my first year here: “Loving Seville in the Fall and Winter is one thing, but you’ll completely swoon come primavera.”

Losing our most treasured season, the one we live for atope in the waning sunlight of twlight, the one we wait for through the nights huddled close to the space heater, would mean a little piece of livelihood taken from the penitent nazarenos, a little less arte in our steps during Feria. Spring is the season I live for more than any other.

Sevillanos: Where do you like to spend your tardecitas? What do you do with the perfect weather and sunny afternoons? Any good tips for finding sunshine and relax? Share them in the comments, por favor!

Filed Under: andalú, Andalucia, gastronomy, guiri atope, Hey Macarena!, Holy Week, love, misc, Seville · Tagged: , ,

If January Marks the Start…My 2011 Travel Round-up

January 6, 2012 by · 6 Comments

Let me tell you a little story about peer pressure.

When I was 11, my parents informed me that the dog had taken the news well. She faintly wagged her tail.

“What news?” I asked, hoping for the trampoline I’d begged my parents to buy us for ages.

Oh no, it was the M-word. We were moving. I’d have no friends. Maybe there wasn’t a Kohl’s there. Was Chicagoland > Rockford, or had my mother just confused after consumering too many kosher hot dogs growing up and was going crazy?

Well, I wanted to fit in. I did so by going to the Von Maur and using my birthday money to buy a pair of Jnco jeans because all of the popular girls had them.

I strutted into Edison middle school the next morning and was immediately dismissed as a poser.

Well, I didn’t learn my lesson. Now that I’m blogging, I give into the peer pressure of comparing stats, doing those dumb surveys and, as the new year has already crept up on us, a year in review. In 2011, I added two new countries to the list, had five visitors from the US, got my work/residence visa paperwork all together and turned 26.  I can’t say 2011 will be the greatest I’ve had (dude, 2010 was pretty, pretty good), but I managed to see some new things, meet some new people and probably consume a new pig part.

January

Amy and I rang in the New Year with oysters, an old boxing legend and a broken camera in Lausanne, Switzerland. I moped through Season Three of Sex and the City the next day while Amy was bed ridden. Colds and booze do not mix, people.

From there, I met several  friends in Berlin, Germany and got my history nerd on as I explored a concentration camp, museums and the off-beat Berlin.

February

Apart from the usual routine, I got to go to my first flamenco fashion show and a wine festival. Cheap wine, that is.

March

March came in like a león, as I spent a raucous night in Cádiz as a third-of the blind mice group at the annual Carnavales celebrations.

My first visitors of the year, Jason and Christine, spent a rainy sojourn in Sevilla,

but then Beth came during the Azahar and warm weather, and we drank in Granada, Jeréz and Cádiz (and then I got strep).

April

Ahh, a Sevillian primavera. I spent Easter Week in Romania with my camp buddies, driving a beat up Dacia from one forlorn corner of Romania to another. I loved it, and consider it a budget-lovers paradise – I spent in one week less than I did on my airfare! And ate a ton of pickles. I am like the Snooki of Spain when it comes to pickles.

May

The first week of May brought flamenco dresses, sherry and my five-year win over Spanish bureaucracy during Feria week. I spent nine days riding in horse carriages and proving I have plenty of enchufe.

A few weeks later, Jackie and her brother came to visit, and we took off to Córdoba for another fair.

Also, Luna turned one, Betis worked its way back into the premiere league, and summer was just on the horizon.

June

Switched to half days at work just as it was impossible to take the heat. Got to watch Lauren walk down the aisle and party all night (only to fly to Madrid for a conference the next morning. I made it!). And I got my first real year of teaching done, too!

I may have, at time, been a professional baby handler, but having a peek into a kid’s world is something magical. Magical if you like boogers, of course.

July

The first of the month brought a huge triumph: I was finally given my five-year resident card and had won my battle with extranjería. For the third summer in a row, I headed up north to Galicia and to summer camp. Instead of teaching, I was given the role of Director of Studies, so I got a work phone and unlimited photocopies. Perks. Teachers got crap weather, but I a not-crap team (they were awesome.)

The Novio, finally back from pirate-hunting, met me in Madrid for a few days. We got the chance to, um, do what we do in Seville (eat tapas and drink beer) before making a day-trip to the sprawling El Escorial palace.

August

A is for August and America and fAtty, as I spent 23 days eating up all of my favorite American goodies, like real salads and Cheez-its. I had help celebrating a birthday, as my dear amigas from Spain, Meag and Bri, came to Chicago for a few days. I also got to visit Margaret in her New Kentucky Home.

What I thought would be a good little sojourn was much too short, and I boarded a Dublin-bound plane and stayed overnight on the Emerald Isle.

September

School started again September first, and my change to first grade resulted in more naps, more work and more responsibility. Thankfully, I had my great kiddos back in my (own!!!) classroom. Life resumed as normal.

October

Though I vowed to make my fifth year in Spain new (and I have been doing hiking trips, seeing theatre and exhibitions, etc.), I fell in to normal school routine. In October, this was punctuated by a work trip to Madrid for a conference, studying for the DELE and endless barbeques. When in Spainlandia, I suppose.

November

The new month meant cooler air, a focus on studying and a visit from my final visitor, Lisa. I sprinted out of the DELE to catch a train, meet her and take her to Granada. We laughed at all of our college memories and she broke out of her little mundo to try new foods and explore Seville on her own.

Bri came, so we had a small Thanksgiving dinner, and I shared it with my not-so-anxious-about-pie goodness at school.

December

Amid lots of school work and the looming Christmas play, I enjoyed the Christmas season in the city. Brilliant lights, snacking on chestnuts, window-shopping. The Novio went to the States for work, and I followed him soon after to travel around the Southwest with my parents and sister. The Valley of the Sun, Vegas and the Grand Canyon were on the itinerary, but the extra $640.55 I won on a slot machine win weren’t!

Sadly, the year ended on a sour note when I got news that the child I had repped during my years in Dance Marathon passed away after a long battle with cancer. I don’t want to preach, but you can visit the website to see what the Dance Marathon at the University of Iowa does for kids and their families who are battling cancer.

Goals for the next year? Plenty, both personal and professional. Just be better, I guess. The second part of the year has been a huge slump, so it’s time to find me again. Be a better partner, teacher, friend. Fill up those last two pages of my passport. Figure out where to go next.

I want you to share your biggest accomplishment and goals for 2011-2012! I need some inspiration, readers!

Filed Under: America, culture shock, dance, ESL, expat, goodbyes, guiri atope, ham, holidays, international travel, kids, la vida loca, languages, living abroad, misc, moving abroad, OOPS, preschool woes, Romania, Seville, Spain, summer camp, Sweet Home Chicago, teach abroad, TEFL, Travel · Tagged: , , ,

Disappointment.

December 10, 2011 by · 5 Comments

One of the words in Spanish for hope is ilusión. Simply adding the prefix des-, similar to the American dis-, makes it negative. Desilusión means disappointment.

In either language, it’s a word that conveys a let-down, the crestfallen feeling one gets when something doesn’t work out in the best possible way. My wise friend LA PAINE (famosa por tó Sevilla) once said that living abroad is like being on one of two sides of the spectrum of happiness – either you’re extremely elated, or you’re devastatingly disappointed.

I’m lucky that I tend to hover on on the positive side. I have daily belly laughs (um, hello, my kids discovered the entry in the dictionary on the human body, complete with pictures the same day I had a kid ask me if my boyfriend was Justin Bieber), breathe in an incredible and vibrant city on the daily and have more contacts than my phone can hold. I’ve done what I intended to do – build a life in a different country in a different language.

Now, I’m not one to put all my eggs in the proverbial basket or count them before they’ve hatched, but for the first time in a long, long time, I was genuinely looking forward to something. To a change, to a step in the right direction. And being the cautious one who looks both ways before crossing the street and taking the plunge and even getting out of bed, I was mum about it. I only told my parents after an offer came, spoke about it to Kike’s mother as strictly business.

If luck is all about being in the right place at the right time, I try and get there a few minutes early, simply because I’m prompt. But this Spanish suerte always arrives at the wrong time – in the middle of the school year, just before a big deal falls through, just a pelín off my ticking clock. It’s like I’m constantly running after the trabajo train, resumé in hand, only to be left at the platform.

Desilusión has taken on a new meaning as I’m in the holiday slump, the clouds hanging low over La Hispalense. The clouds in my head have been raining non-stop since Monday night when those flash-flood tears didn’t want to stop. I feel like I’m trapped in a small margin of what I’m capable of – rather than publish or die, it’s CLIL or die these days.

It’s Christmas time in the city, but I’m just wanting to wake up in Arizona on the 22nd already. Seville may boast sunny days atope, but the storm clouds in my head seem to be here for a while.

Filed Under: Andalucia, coming home, ESL, expat, family, kids, la vida loca, living abroad, misc, money, moving abroad, Spain, teach abroad, TEFL · Tagged: , ,

The Charca: Coming to Grips with a Life Abroad

November 26, 2011 by · 6 Comments

Lisa is perched on the white mortar bench, manipulating her camera to get the best shot of the Alhambra. Al-i-Al-i-haaaambra, the Gaga fan sings to herself before turning the camera around to ask me to snap the cobalt blue clouds that hang low over her head and the majestic sight behind her. I smile at the friend I sometimes liken to a bobblehead – always cheery and pleasant – and shake my head in disbelief that she’s sitting two feet in front of me and across the valley from the most-visited site in Spain.

She, my dear high school friend and college drinking buddy (more times than we’d like to admit), was my fifth visitor to Seville this year. Between Beth, Jason and Christine, and Jackie, I’ve seen Cádiz, Córdoba, Jeréz, Granada and my own Sevilla through the eyes of long-time friends. There’s something odd about sharing your life in one country with someone you’ve lived the better part of your life with in another, a pressing need to cling to something familiar while demonstrate just how foreign you’ve become.

It goes back and forth with me, though.

Driving to the airport Thursday morning, Lisa recounts her busy 10 days ahead – plans for Bears games, her fiancé’s 30th birthday, family events and back-to-back Thanksgiving dinners upon landing.

“Oh, right!” I say, “Happy Día de Acción de Gracias!” and pull into the ramp marked Salidas, silently giving thanks that she could make the trip in the end, what with her eminent wedding and lack of wanderlust.

I go to work exhausted from two full weeks without so much as a respiro. Kat and I meet at the door to cart in six pies she’d ordered, two of which were pumpkin. I give the box to María, not wanting to be tempted to make off with it and call my parents from my cellphone to ask how their annual Christmas Tree shopping is going. Luckily, my picky niños saved me enough breakfast for the following day: tarta de calabaza, save a few small nibbles taking out by curious but cautious students.

More than ever, as my Spanish raíces grow firmer and deeper, it’s harder for me to completely uproot from America. I almost feel like I have a foot in each country, spanning the vast Atlantic Charca. Love my tortilla and jamón, but won’t turn down a hamburger. Can dance flamenco (lite, desde luego) and line dance. Miss my mommy, though I can’t complain at all about my suegra, either.

Last night I met Lindsay and Kelly for one last beer and nachos at Flaherty’s, a Sevilla institution I often choose not to go to for its overpriced Guinness and abundance of drunk guiris. But, come on, this place was MADE for us, and it closes its doors indefinitely today. We reflected on the times we’d drank more than la cuenta there, or watched a World Cup game, or met friends. A little piece of Angloism is dying here in Seville, I thought.

Then I hopped in a cab and directed the driver to my house. He was listening to a conservative radio program that was discussing American consumerism and Black Friday. Knowing full well I was foreign, he guffawed upon hearing that President Obama’s website had a deal on products available from the online store. Under his breath, he said, “You Americans are crazy.” I smiled to myself, happy to know we’re still as important to the rest of the world in the wake of economic crises, elections and FC Barcelona’s record.

Today we’re celebrating Thanksgiving at Jenna’s house. She promises no turkey, apart from the ones we’ll make with our hands and hang on the wall. We did this two years ago in what will go down as the greatest Thanksgiving of all time – one full of non-Americans, spilling turkey gravy on made-from-scratch apple pies and more laughs than one should handle on all of that turkey. I remember writing the names of all of the special people in my life, with more Spanish Marías and Josés (and, clearly, José María) than American names. I feel thankful for the company of all of these amazing people who make handling the holidays a bit easier and are sure to bring Cruzcampo.

I can’t say I’m anything more than 100% American, despite having lived a good part of my life away from its borders and military bases. My native tongue, blue eyes and freckles define me as the opposite of mu’daquí , yet they don’t marginalize me. I even told the tribunal and examiner at the DELE speaking exam that famous story about Chicago de la Frontera.

Sometimes Hayley and I talk about how boring our lives have gotten, now that we’ve settled into our Spanish lives with a sprinkle of American holidays and outings. Over beers in la Encarnación last week, she confessed that she no longer feels interesting.

But we’ve chosen this life, I suppose, to not be entirely in one country or another, but rather straddling two cultures. I don’t know, it could be worse. I kind of like it.

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Filed Under: America, Andalucia, coming home, culture shock, expat, family, holidays, la vida loca, living abroad, moving abroad, Spain, Sweet Home Chicago · Tagged: , , , ,
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