Tag Archives: Spain

English Camps for Kids Who Speak No English

Hey guys, how’s it going? You may be wondering if I’ve dropped off the map and the truth is, yeah, I kind of have. But no worries, I’m back from “teaching English” for a week at an English camp located in the province of León. It was my first time in León, and I loved it—apart from the bitterly cold mornings! León is a beautiful province, and its capital city is home to a strikingly beautiful cathedral.

I love Gothic cathedrals for one reason: L-I-G-H-T.

At this campamento de inglés, the children are expected to speak in English with their native camp counselors (monitores in Spanish). It sounds good, right? Send your kid to a camp, where he/she will learn English from native speakers! Awesome, yeah?

Yeah, about that. The problem starts when the children’s level of English is so low that they cannot convey basic desires in English. If a child does not know the word for milk, how can he/she be expected to speak only in English, to follow commands in English, to understand a native English speaker? You got me.

This camp wasn’t about teaching English really. There were no classrooms or lessons or exams. It was just meant to be a camp in English. That’s it. But I came away having spoken more Spanish than English.

And that’s the irony of English camps in Spain.

Have you ever taught at an English camp in Spain? What was your experience?

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Zamora, Holy Week, and the Beauty of Silence

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Only the thunder of drums and trumpets break the profound silence that invades Castilla y León every spring during Holy Week, the most sacred week in Christendom. This region, along with others, becomes a gathering place where the faithful can experience the passion and resurrection of Christ, as well as enjoy the cultural and gastronomic delights each has to offer. To succinctly describe Holy Week in Zamora is to take on an impossible task, but one could start with three words: passion, ardor, and—yes— …

Silence

Parades are not known for being silent. They are cacophonous affairs, rife with clashing cymbals, the blasts of trumpets, and the cheers of the bystanders.

Not here, not these procesiones (processions).

During the day, yes, the silence is indeed broken—by music, and choirs, Gregorian chants, even funeral marches compose an extraordinary soundtrack for the most splendid of processions—but soon night falls, and silence once again reigns. Here, silence is a symbol of religious devotion and austerity.

Photo from All Posters

La Procesión del Silencio

The Procession of Silence. Even the name inspires awe. Keeping silent is not customary; keeping silent is not easy.

Kneeling in the cathedral atrium, surrounding the image of Cristo de las Injurias, the brothers wait for their oath. The mayor says a short prayer, and the bishop goes on to take the brothers’ oaths, saying:

“Hermanos de la Cofradía del Santísimo Cristo de las Injurias, ¿juráis guardar silencio durante todo el recorrido de esta santa procesión?”

The brothers swear this oath together, vowing to keep silent for the entire route. Some walk barefoot throughout the cobblestoned city streets, but all maintain silence. They march together—slowly, solemnly, dolefully through the streets of Zamora, a town which at times seems to have been transformed into the13th-century, back to a time where Spain did not yet exist. The first documented reference to the celebration of Holy Week goes back to this century, when Zamora’s monasteries and convents organized processions around their cloisters and streets. It was meant to teach the common people, in a powerful way, about the passion, death, and eventual resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Throughout the centuries, Zamora’s Holy Week has maintained its sobriety and solemnity. (In other regions, the festival has been transformed into a rather glamorous affair.) But like Catholicism in Spain, Holy Week is full of contrasts: noise and silence, day and night, joy and sobriety … but this does not take away from the beauty and drama of Holy Week in Zamora.

Still, for many, the most moving experience of the whole week is the singing of Miserere mei Deus. After a two-hour-long procession through the streets of the casco histórico, the street lights are turned off and the only light comes from the red candles the penitents carry. And then the choir begins to sing, the words ringing out into the cold night:

Miserere mei Deus, secundum magnam, misericordiam tuam …

Miserere mei Deus

For an enchanting contrast to other Holy Week celebrations, make your way to Zamora for a singular look at the power Catholic traditions still hold in an increasingly secular country.

Third Culture

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In our guest room a flag hangs from the wall above the bed. No, not a yellow and red flag; this one is red, white, and blue. You know—the stars and stripes. My dad bought Mario this flag to remind him where he should (eventually) settle down. My dad would like it very much if we moved back to the US, preferably yesterday. It has a prominent place in our home, this flag. Why?

Vacationing in Sevilla

We live in Spain. We carry out the day-to-day of our lives, of our life, in Spain. We speak in Spanish and eat Spanish food. Yes, we do all this, all this Spanish stuff. We are Spanish.

But though we reside in Spain, we dream about living in the States too. We speak in English and watch American TV shows and movies. I make brownies and cookies and other American dishes. So we are also American.

In reality, he is Spanish. Born and raised in the heart of Castilla y León, with family roots that go back centuries, Mario is as Spanish as they come. Zamorano, really. His dark hair and eyes betray him. His telltale accent, his pronunciation of the z and c in the true castellano accent, his love for lentejas and cocido and jamón and tortilla, his concern for his parents never to worry unnecessarily … he is Spanish.

He is Spanish, and I am American. I speak English with the typical accent of many modern Americans, an accent that is almost impossible to pinpoint. I don’t worry about my parents worrying. I like basketball much more than football (soccer), and I don’t really enjoy eating a big meal at two o’clock in the afternoon. It still surprises me when children are out past 9 p.m., especially on weeknights.

Though we feel as Spanish and American as they come, we also love each other and each other’s culture too. So together we make our own culture, a third culture: a Spanish-American culture. We make stupid jokes: “Sweetie foot” (because pie means foot in Spanish) or “Estoy espalda” (literally “I am [a] back”). We eat tortilla for dinner and chocolate-chip cookies for dessert. We watch the Simpsons in Spanish.

We also compromise, just like any other couple, bicultural or not. We decide on the best way to clean the house. We let each other get away with things. We do things that don’t seem logical to us at times, but we do it because it’s important to the other person. I may or may not vacuum an insane amount of times per week.

Just call us the Spanish-American Institute of Couples.

No, Gracias—Spanish Foods I Dislike

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Guys, I’m pretty obsessed with Spanish cuisine. Nothing gets my goat more than when guiris come here and declare the food to be bland. Oh no you didn’t, I want to shout at them while doing a dramatic z with my pointer finger. Insulting Spanish food is like insulting my suegra: I’m having none of it.

There are so many delicious things here, and they are not all terrible for you (another stupid myth!):

lentejas (lentil stew, a.k.a. the bomb)

cocido (healthy if you stay away from the tocino, a.k.a. fat)

patatas a la importancia (eat this today if you know what’s good for you)

And of course my favorites: cheese, wine (remind me to tell you my favorite wines from Toro later!), chorizo, and salchichón! My in-laws make the last two, and if you haven’t had them … well, you haven’t had good chorizo or salchichón! It’s just the facts.

Buuuuut, let’s be real, there are some foods I don’t like. Yeah. It’s true. It’s true, and I said it. Not all Spanish food is to my liking. What are these foods, you ask? Why, let me tell you.

Pulpo. Nope, I don’t like octopus and don’t tell me that I should, because the chewy texture just skeeves me out.

Morro, oreja, callos. Not into organ meat, and I’m even less into eating pig’s snout. Oreja is really chewy and just thinking about it can give me the heebie jeebies. (I hope all Spaniards reading this are learning some new “words” today.)

Torreznos. What are they? They’re pieces of pig fat cut into strips and fried. Yum? Add to this varied fritanga, because it is way too fatty for my liking. Eating probably takes five days off my life.

Flan. Not into that jiggling mess of a dessert.

Aceitadas. Sadly, this is a typical dessert in Zamora, my favorite city in Spain, but I just don’t dig anise.

[Source]
Aguardiente. Not a food, but this liquor sets my insides on fire and tastes vile.

Which foods do you dislike in Spain? And if you say salchichón, I may cry. Tears of happiness. Because there’s more for me!

The Foreigner at the Table

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I’ve eaten many a meal with Mario’s family. His friends, too. But it wasn’t until recently that his cousin pointed out to me that, well, I eat funny. No, no, my chewing habits are just fine, thanks. But what’s up with your hand?

Think long and hard about what you do with your hands while you eat. Inspired by this post about Spaniards’ eating habits, I came up with my own list of the way Spaniards find us guiris weird at the dinner table:

You eat with your left hand on your lap.
You cut your meat and then switch the fork to the other hand. And then you put your left hand back on your lap. Why do we do this? I did a little research, and it seems there are two styles to eating, “American” and “Continental” style. Forbes calls our style of eating the “Switch and Switch” style. Apparently, the Continental Style came about from wanting to be unthreatening at the dinner table. You know, if you put your hand in your lap, it could be because you have some sort of weapon hidden there.
You don’t eat fruit after meals. A very common practice in Spain, this one. In some families, fruit is the dessert, although there’s no way this would fly with Mario’s family. We have a theory that the goloso gene is there, but it’s diluted for every generation. Mario’s grandmother used to put sugar on her salad. Yeah, you read that right. Mario’s dad cannot pass up dessert for anything. Mario is goloso, but not nearly as much. Maybe our kids won’t even like dessert? That’s yet to be seen. But fruit? Always. It can be as simple as apple (make sure you peel it!). It can be a fruit salad (macedonia), strawberries with milk (a lite alternative to strawberries and cream), or even compota de manzana, but fruit is essential.
You eat things really hot or really cold. This could be just a family thing, and I tend to think it is because my husband’s aunt likes her food steaming hot. But what is with these people and lukewarm soups? My father-in-law somehow even manages to enjoy room-temperature coffee, and I just can’t. Nope. However, keep in mind I grew up with a father who refused to eat things that weren’t nearly boiling hot. This same man put his chocolate candy bars and Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies into the freezer.
You don’t use bread para empujar. I do love bread. Yes, yes, I do-ooooo. But before I came to Spain I never used it to push food onto my fork. But gosh, does this make sense. Salad eating is so much easier now. Thanks, Spain!
You don’t watch TV while you eat. When I was growing up, watching TV while eating was not the thing to do. It was usually a sign that you had nothing to say and that you were bored with the company. Now, Mario’s family won’t have it on if there are guests at the house, but with just the family? You bet. It’s usually The Simpsons on Antena 3, followed by the news. Such cheerful mealtimes we have with all the doom and gloom.

You don’t drink coffee after your meal. Okay, this is not the most universal of all my rules, but it still counts. Coffee is very often drunk after the meal. My Spanish family drinks it right in the glass, which I found odd at first, but they soon adapted to bringing me a nice mug. Mario has decided to mess this rule up for me by not drinking coffee at all and preferring tea. He’s a strange one.
You don’t take a nap afterwards. There is nothing better than eating un buen cocido followed by a half-hour nap. I’m much more of a bed-napping person, but many of my in-laws do it quite well on the couch. My mother- and father-in-law have mastered the eyes-half-shut television-watching position.

So what do you think, are Spaniards weird? Or are we?

Literally—A Funny Spanish-Learning Game

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Have you ever stopped to think about strange some things in our language must sound to foreigners? Words are bad enough, but then you get to idioms and place names, and you think … “Gosh, we’re weird!” Don’t worry, though, it’s the same way in every language. The human race is just odd like that I guess!

Mario and I have a game we like to play on the metro. I’m giving it a name today: Literally. Literally is (literally) a very-overused word that drives me crazy when I hear people misusing it. The online webcomic, The Oatmeal, makes a good point:

[Source]

But translating things literally is quite fun. Next time you’re on the metro and bored (always?), give it a shot. Some of my favorites (try to guess the metro stop!):

Sticks of the Frontier
Pink Rivers
Toll
Retreat
Saint Sunday
Footbath
Quiet
Pine Forest of Chamartín
Pine Forest of the King
Clever Girl
Crystal Sea
The Craving (The Whim)
The Latin Woman
Encampment
Connection
The Angel’s Door
The Muses
Park of the Avenues
Field of the Nations
Cross of the Lightning
Peacocks
Three Olive Trees
Court
Four Winds

Go ahead, guess. Which stops are they? Do you have any favorites?

I Refuse to Say Trousers—Or Why American English Is the Best

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I sometimes feel like the creature in the old Dr. Seuss book Green Eggs and Ham. I will not say trousers, I will not say trainers. I will not say them in a house, I will not say them to a mouse. I will not say them here or there, I will not say them anywhere. I can be stubborn when I put my mind to it, which is basically all the time.

Okay, this is not true. I do try to refer to both American English and British English for a few reasons (reasons I have deemed good ones, as I like to congratulate myself on my decisions):

American English is in all the movies. There are British movies and television shows, don’t get me wrong. For example, the glorious show known as Downton Abbey. (Do not call it Downtown. It’s quite far from downtown, actually.) But the vast majority are produced by none other than Hollywood. Now, Spaniards don’t really see this as a problem in either way because almost all movies and television shows are dubbed, and people have told me on many an occasion that they don’t like “reading” while watching movies. I get it. But someday, perhaps you’ll like to watch television shows in English to improve your skills! We Americans have got ya covered. Come to the Dark Side!

American businesses are in Spain, and I do believe there are more of them than British ones. I realize that there’s the proximity issue for Spaniards. You are indeed much closer to them than to us. But there are a lot more of us, and we’re invading your schools, teaching English with our American accents, and the kids might just benefit from it. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.

The Rubber Issue. You might actually go to the US one day, and you don’t want to be caught asking for a rubber. It’s okay to learn the word rubber; I just think it’s better to realize that in the States, you’d be asking for a condom. Yeah, not exactly the word you want to bust out in the middle of ~~maths~~ math class.

There is no reason to think American English is less “pure” than British English. Okay, I hate this one. First of all, languages are in constant flux and no language or accent is better than any other. I admit to having my preferences (yes to British and Irish, no to deep-South accents), but still, it would be more than snooty to assume I speak a “purer” language than another person, based purely on snobbery. For example, Britons tend to hate the verb form “gotten,” considering it an Americanism. Oh, I beg to disagree, sir. According to multiple sources, the word is of British origin and its usage dates back to the fourth century. How’s that for ancient, British folk? Oh yeah, and it was used by none other than Mr. William Shakespeare himself, so shove it!

American English is closer to the phonetic spelling. We all know English is notoriously difficult due to its nonsensical spelling. (Thank goodness for the gloriousness of the phonetic Spanish language!) Well, the Americans at least realiZe that the word realize sounds like it has a z in it! Realise, pshhhh … no. Also, theater makes more sense than theatre. Come on. It just does.

Americans love British accents. We aren’t snooty about our language, realizing that we got it from across the pond, and we love them for it! Thank you, Britain! We also wish to give our thanks for their seriously sexy accents, which—if we didn’t speak English with an American accent—we wouldn’t be able to fully appreciate! Swoon!

So, come on, tell me: should I start referring to flashlights as torches or what?

How to Annoy and Be Annoyed on the Madrid Metro

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Check to make sure there’s a strike. Strikes cheer everyone up and accomplish so much!
Bundle up. The metro is always freezing! Even if it is hot, there’s nothing wrong sweating like you just ran on public transportation.
Arrive just as the train leaves. This is hard to do, but the best of us manage this at least 50% of the time.
Do not sit down to wait. Those benches are for weenies and idiots. Stand. Stand as close as you can to the tracks so as to be NUMBER ONE on the metro, baby.
Do not let the departing passengers off. Shove on in; you are número uno.
Lean against the middle railing. But if you can get a seat, sit with legs sprawled wide. Alternately, find any way possible to take up tons of space.
Ask for money.
1. Sing and dance, then ask for money.
2. In general, annoy your fellow passengers.
Talk about the people standing by you. In Spanish, as if they can’t understand you. This isn’t Spain, is it?
Smell bad. If at all possible. If you can’t smell bad, do try to reek of cologne/perfume/sun-ripened raspberry body spray and/or its ilk.
Get up two stops before yours. There’s just no time to get up otherwise. Tell the people in front of you who are also getting off that you are getting off. They should let you up front! Don’t they know who you are?
Do not check the signs to see which exit would be best.
1. Stop in the middle of a large group of people.
2. Turn around; you were going the wrong way.
3. Do not apologize if you swipe someone’s shoulder so that they stagger backwards. After all, don’t hate the player, hate the game.
Stand on the left side of the escalator so no one get by. Optional: stand on the center-left side so as to appear as though you’re considerate but do not actually be considerate. No, no, tsk, tsk.
Rinse, repeat

Thank goodness I don’t have to ride the metro on a daily basis! I find myself liking buses more and more!

The Rain in Sevilla

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Our trip to Sevilla got off to a rainy start. After checking into our hotel after an unsuccessful attempt to visit the dentist (another story altogether!), night had already fallen. Another thing falling? The rain, of course.

My first view of La Giralda

Luckily, Sevilla is still pretty, even amidst the drizzle. The Christmas lights were lit, and it was hard to feel discontent with the whole city wishing us Felices Fiestas (Happy Holidays).

Everything in Sevilla seemed so cozy

One of my favorite parts was seeing the juxtaposition of an orange tree with Christmas lights. Thus is Sevilla.

Luminous

Our friend from a town near Sevilla had recommended La Carbonería to us. La Carbonería, according to Tertulia Andaluza, was “the meeting point for the vanguard of Seville, a space for independent and alternative thought.” In the past, the site was a coal warehouse, thus the name, which in English would be “The Coalyard.” In 1975, Paco Lira converted it into the place it is today, a venue to hear and see flamenco, for ideas, for art of all kinds.

We saw a flamenco show and ate food off paper towels. It was an intriguing show. What’s more, it was packed. Good thing we got there early.

I found the female dancer especially intriguing. There was something there in her face, impossible to articulate but powerful nonetheless. She may not have been famous, but her whole self radiated the spirit of flamenco.

The next day we got up, and after a quick visit to the dentist who confused me with his sevillano pronunciation, we had some breakfast. Mario took his Cola Cao with extra sugar.

I had a tostada con jamón along with a café con leche.

Mario chose to go with a recommendation from our waitress, the pringá. Pringá comes from the verb pringar, meaning to dip or to dunk in this case, is made up of the ingredients from the traditional Spanish cocido, known as puchero in many places. The meat portion, which consists of things like morcilla (blood sausage), chorizo, and tocino (fat), is cooked along with the rest of the stew, and then made into a spread to eat with bread. Yum! Actually, it was quite good, we both agreed, although perhaps a bit more fuerte than the typical Spanish breakfast.

Next on the docket was a bit of sightseeing. Of course, you can’t go to Sevilla without seeing the cathedral and la Giralda.

La Giralda is a former minaret that the Christians made into a bell tower for Sevilla’s cathedral. It stands high above the Patio de los Naranjos (Orange Tree Courtyard). The area of the courtyard is supposedly the area the old mosque occupied, as two of the courtyard’s exterior walls belonged to. During the time of the Muslim occupation of Spain, the area served as the space for the Muslims’ activities, including cemetery and cultural events.

Seen from above, as we climbed the Giralda

Besides seeing the sites, we also wandered around a bit. Getting “lost” (is it possible to get lost with a smart phone nowadays?) is one of my favorite ways to see a city.

We had lunch at Bar Alfalfa, another recommendation from our Sevillana friend. A real winner! We really enjoyed the food we had, and with the prices in Sevilla, you can’t go wrong.

After a bit more wandering, we headed over to the Plaza de España, where it was already starting to get dark. Unlike most Spanish plazas, this one is not centuries old. It was built in 1928 for the Ibero-American Exposition (often referred to simply “la expo” by Spaniards), which was held in 1929. Along its walls there are tiled alcoves, each of which represents a Spanish province, from Álava to Zaragoza.

It has also been used as a film set: in Lawrence of Arabia, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace,and Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones.

Our day in Sevilla ended with—you guessed it!—more tapas at a popular local bar, Los Coloniales, located in the town center. These tapas included, of course, the typical Sevillan picos, a type of small crunchy breadsticks. They usually accompany ham/chorizo/cheese, but we found them to come with almost anything! Yum!

Have you ever been to Sevilla?

Spain Blogger Confessions

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You all already know I’m not the starry-eyed Spain enthusiast that some bloggers are. I do like Spain, of course—I just take it in moderation. Some days enough gets to be enough. So I thought I’d confess a few things that you might not have surmised from my posts. It’s okay to be honest—really, we’re better off for it!

Okay, Kaley, less “Blah, blah, blah” and more fun!

I don’t try everything. I don’t care how good you insist it is, I don’t want to try morro (snout) or criadilla (bull testicle) or oreja (ear). I’ve tried orejas already and never again!). If this makes me unadventurous, sue me.
I hate dubbing. I refuse to watch TV shows dubbed. In any language. Please, try to tell me that The Big Bang Theory is just as funny in Spanish. No. Just no. So yeah, this means I watch a lot of TV in English, which is bad for my Spanish learning. But I really don’t like Spanish TV or movies. Neither does Mario.
I’m still patriotic. No, I’m not blindly patriotic. I understand the US has its flaws and is not God’s chosen country, but I still love my country and miss so many things about it—barbecues, the openness, the informality, the ease with which I navigated any and all social situations … en fin, so much!
I don’t idealize the Spanish lifestyle. Sure, Spain is known for relaxation, sun, and siestas. But the truth is, many Spaniards work endless days and get little to no rest. Nowadays the unemployment rate is sky high. I think that Spaniards definitely get it right with regards to enjoying food/drink, eating healthily, and walking, but they’re not perfect. They’re not inherently less lazy than Americans. They’re human—just like us.

Spain + America = Success

I have a love/hate relationship with blogging. Sometimes (most of the time), I love blogging. I love the relationships it has created, the opportunities it has given me, the wonderful feedback I get from it. At others, I feel intimidated by other bloggers, worried that no one likes me, afraid that what I say will cause someone somewhere to become angry with me. I’m often envious of other bloggers’ success because I wish that I could achieve that same level of success without compromising any of my principles.

So, what about you—anything to confess? C’mon, spill it.

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