#BarcelonaBound

Barcelona is an interesting mix of a city—both ancient and ultra-cosmopolitan a city that has stood for centuries, with Roman ruins from before the time of Christ peaking out around the edges, and modern day masterpieces still being completed.  The Gothic Quarter of the city is too old to be wide enough for cars to pass through; sunlight barely filters down into the dark, narrow alleys with tall buildings rising on either side.   Yet, in many ways, Barcelona has only been on the world stage in the modern era since the 1992 Olympic Games came over the summer and thrust the city onto the world stage—and the world has found it worthy. 

Yet, I didn’t know what to expect or what I would find.  There wasn’t a specific landmark I was looking to see when I booked my ticket, though once I started looking around at things to do in Barcelona, a few rose to the very top, very quickly.  But on my first day in the city, as clouds crowded over the sky and I knew rain was coming, I wasn’t sure what to make of this place.  I was saving those high ticket items—the ones everyone will tell you to do—for Saturday, and on Friday I was simply heading in the directions of some sights—most notably Castle Montjuic—and was curious what I would find along the way. 

The Museu National d'Art de Catalunya
sort of up close. 

I found Plazas stretching around and up in an grand display of statue and beauty.  I found (what I later discovered was) the Museu National d’Art de Catalunya rising up above a series of staircases that only got grander the higher I climbed. I found the former Olympic stadium and where the flame was kept burning during the games 26 years ago.  I debated with myself about the 20 minute walk up to Castle Montjuic, but the reviews were consistent—it would give me a display of the city that could not be missed.   So despite the thickening clouds and fewer people, I climbed.  

The view looking the other way from the Museu.

The Castle Montjuic.  Before the rain.

Up, and around with occasional peaks through at the cityscape down below, and it was majestic.  I kept going though it was a little chilly outside but my body was warm beneath my sweatshirt and slightly sweaty.  I paid my 5 euro entrance fee and saw the port side of Barcelona, the area I wasn’t nearly as interested in.  How would I describe this place and the feel of it, I wondered.  How could I possibly capture it when I didn’t necessarily have a feel yet for this place and what it was like to be here? And then the city laid itself out for me as I stood overlooking this ancient, and yet entirely new, place. 

Much of what I did in Barcelona was typical and at times touristy.  Certainly as the rain finally came down at the Castle, it was one of the only times all weekend that I wasn’t surrounded by people.  So I wondered, was I missing part of the soul of the city by not trying to find the hidden corners and the things only locals would know? What was this place and how could I capture it, even if not in words, in my own heart?  

Feeling soggy and stuck, and certainly no closer to an answer to a fairly existential question, I accidentally came upon the cable cars that were more expensive than walking down, but also far quicker and dryer.  And made it much more impossible for me to get lost.  Somehow, by the time I was at the bottom, the rain had mostly stopped and I made my way to a tapas bar that Google Maps promised was close by and highly rated.  It was warm and cozy and not so crowded that I was scared away.  In about five minutes at Blai 9, I had a glass of wine, and the Spanish version of chicken nachos and my journal out in front of me.  Life was good. 

The fountain is still good.  But see all the umbrellas?

There isn't just one fountain--but many!

I was starting to consider heading back out to see the show at Font Magica de Montjuic (the Magic Fountain) that would start around 9.  It was close to 8 and I could sip on my wine for a few more minutes, have my small churro and maybe get there in time to see the lights and the fountain.  I chatted with the people near me who were also English speakers and I discovered this bar wasn’t touristy—in fact they wanted to know how I’d found out about it, since she had been living in Barcelona for three years and told me it was actually much more of a local place.

It was total dumb luck I told her.  Feeling pleased with myself and the world, I paid and headed back towards the fountain, slightly less excited that it was starting to sprinkle down rain again. 

The Barcelona Cathedral rises almost
out of nowhere in the Gothic Quarter.

By 9:00, it was rainy steadily, umbrellas lined the walkways crammed with people, and though the weather didn’t affect the fountain at all, I found myself ready to go and not be soggy and cold with sore feet, so I went back to my hostel.  I laid in bed, massaging my feet that were very cranky after a day in new shoes that weren’t broken in well but had gone over 20,000 steps, and I wondered about this place I had come to and what I might possibly learn about it over the next 24 hours.

Las Ramblas performers

Saturday was the day for all the things that everyone—even people who don’t like touristy places—agrees are necessary stops on a trip through Barcelona: Las Ramblas, complete with a stop at Mercat de la Boqueria, and La Sagrada Familia.  

I took a walking tour of the Gothic Quarter and was amazed at everything hidden in its depths, and ended up near the statue of Christopher Columbus that ends Las Ramblas.  Though I have no lost love for the man, I have to admit that the area in his honor is impressive and the lions guarding it in different positions are well done. (I love when lions guard things, especially libraries.) 

Then I strolled in the sunshine, enjoying the energy, the people, the hustle of this famous street. I ignored the restaurants selling paella and enormous fruity drinks, opting instead of an empendada at a stall inside the Mercat (it was delicious) and some ice cream back on the main street.  It wasn’t a tourist trap (though there were tourist trap stalls) and it wasn’t just a quiet pedestrian area (though it was clearly made for strolling).  There were street performers and souvenir shops and people everywhere.  

I sat on one of the few chairs, resting my feet, enjoying my ice cream and looking at how far away La Sagrada Familia was.  I knew I had to go—it was practically mandatory—and if I took the Metro it wouldn’t be that far.  It would check off the last major item on my list of this city that still needed days more of exploration before I might understand.  Before I might have an insight into what exactly the heart of Barcelona was and the rhythm it beat to.

Inside the market!

Christopher Columbus ends Las
Ramblas, looking to the sea.

The stop I needed was conveniently named for Gaudi’s unfinished masterpiece, so I knew it would be close by.  I was on the escalator coming up to street level when I saw people staring open mouthed and already raising their phones to take pictures.  And when I stepped off, I saw why.  A masterpiece in stone and marble that looks like it might also be made of drippy sand rises above you, overwhelming the senses and leaving me awed. 

I walked around, keeping one eye on the immense building until I found a place out of the flow of traffic to stop and try to take it in.  It was amazing and unique and completely indescribable.  As I walked around it, seeing the different angles and the completely different and unbelievably complex ways that it changed from one moment to the next, I was absolutely dumbfounded.  It can be seen in pictures, and I’m sure going inside it is even more incredible, but I found I couldn’t even begin to conjure what to say about it.

I found a quiet bench in a little park overlooking the chapel, a small plastic glass of wine in my hand from the street festival, a small lake in front of me before the cathedral rose immensely.  I sat, contemplating it quietly, feeling almost private.  And then a tour group of at least two dozen Asians—I couldn't catch exactly which language they were speaking—descended on me, squeezing in for selfies and chattering in disbelief about the masterpiece.  Was this part of being a modern wonder too? If I was going to see the Eiffel Tower in Paris and the Coliseum in Rome (and I am), I probably need to get used to this—the majestic being crowded by the mundane and the selfies at many turns.  And I couldn’t really blame them.  I had taken a few shots of myself in front of the building too.  

But, maybe this space—not the touristy crowded one, but what it surely must be early in the morning, before anyone is awake---this is why La Sagrada Familia is Barcelona’s most famous, most iconic site.  It is the beating heartbeat, the soul of the city because it is truly like nothing else, and still evolving into something close to a finished product.  Different at every turn, worth far more than a quick, passing glance, maybe this was the best way to capture Barcelona in my heart. That all the sides, equally different, equally lovely, were equally necessary to beginning to understand this modern wonder of the Old World.

Keep scrolling for more pictures of the Magic Fountain--I went back Saturday night to see it not in the rain and sit and give my poor tired feet a break!

Do You Speak Spanish?

“So…do you speak Spanish?”

After announcing my plan for the 2018-2019 school year was to live in and teach (sort of) in Spain, I probably heard this question dozens of times.  

In my annoyed moments, after hearing it multiple times close together, I wanted to answer with a dreamy tone reminiscent of Luna Lovegood, “No.  Not really.  You don’t think that will be a problem, do you?” Or at my worst, with a sarcastic naivety, “Oh gosh! I never even thought of that.” 

Spanish cathedrals translate well.

I know that most of the people who asked were not trying be unkind or point out a potential flaw in the plan or express doubt in my ability or degrade my choice.  I know it was my own pointed insecurity about the language that made me sometimes hear it this way. 

Which is why I usually said, ‘I understand an awful lot more than I can actually speak.  Usually, if I know the context of the conversation, I can follow what people are saying.”

Which is actually 100% true.  Having been here for about four weeks, I can say more firmly than ever that those words are true. 

But if I was being my most vulnerable self, I’d also tell you, “I think that’s going to be one of the hardest parts about Spain—the language.  I’m used to being articulate and well-spoken, and that’s not going to be my reality.  Which is uncomfortable for me.  But that discomfort is part of the point.  And it will help me grow.  And actually learn to speak Spanish.”

People tell you that immersion in a Spanish speaking country is the best way to learn. And I’ve no doubt that’s true.  But on days, or even moments, when I want to be lazy, it’s possible to get by without much language at all—beyond pointing, miming, and a questioning look.  

Which does make me feel like the trips I recently booked to France, Germany, and Italy will actually be okay. 

But in my better-self moments, I have pushed myself to learn more. 

To date I have successfully:

bought coffee, indicating if I intend it for here or to-go.  Though, no matter how confident I am, I have yet to actually convince anyone that i don’t need the sugar packets they seem determined to give me. 

bought bus tickets, both for the local trip on the bus, and for a distance single trip, and a long-term pass, in the bus station.

bought groceries, house supplies, and dinner multiple times, giving the correct amount of money. 

applied for a long-term visa.

used the computer and made copies at their version of a Staples. 

told strangers that I don’t, in fact, have a lighter. 

gotten a gym membership.

explained to students and teachers that I am from the US and, more regionally, live close to Washington D.C.

Beautiful views always translate.

I have also picked up some specifically Spain parts of Spanish.  They use the word “vale,” like it’s going out of style tomorrow if they don’t use it enough.  It sounds like “Bali” still to me, but it means “okay,” and is a general speech filler that everyone seems to use here.  To my knowledge, it’s not used in Latin American Spanish and I had never heard it before.  But here, everything is “vale.” 

I’d also heard that Andalusian Spanish is particularly difficult to understand because they have the heaviest accent on the ‘sss’ sound.  They make a ‘th’ sound instead so words like “Andalucia” are “Andaluthia,”  That has not been nearly as difficult as the claim they also make to being the most rapid speakers in Spain.  Though I cannot confirm that it is true, I can confirm their rapidity makes things difficult.

I’m trying with Spanish, but I will also admit to moments when I’ve been very glad when people have been able to speak to me in English. Here, opening a bank account is a more major procedure than in the US, and after I tried to explain in Spanish why I needed one (my program will only give me direct deposit of payment once I have an account), the man simply looked at me and asked again “porque?” Out of Spanish words to explain it, I simply sat for a moment, thinking of ways I could try again, and coming up dry, he finally smiled and kindly offered, “ingles?” 

“Thank you,” I said gratefully.  Thirty minutes later he had become one of the most helpful people I had met to date and I was incredibly grateful to him and his ability to speak more English than I could Spanish. 

The list of things I’ve done in Spanish is not long.  It’s not nearly enough.  Which means I have to be willing—in my slow, slightly broken Spanish that is sometimes looked up on Google Translate—to try.  I’ve known how language acquisition works from my ESOL friends for a long time.  But experiencing it is panful, and slow, and challenging.  And much less natural, even immersed in a country like this than people would have you believe.  But it’s a big part of why I’ve come.  

So, I’m going to try. 

Vale.  

Things I’ve Learned (mostly through trial and error) My First Week in Spain:

My body thought it was 2am.  But the sun?

The flight left out of Philadelphia only a few hours before bedtime.  After a terrible night sleep the night before, I fully expected to conk out on the plane despite not having a window seat.  But over a hour later I was still wide awake.  I’d tried listening to Two Broke Girls through my headphones with an eye mask on to turn my brain off, but no luck. I tried resting quietly. I adjusted and readjusted my neck pillow.  Still awake when the lights flicked back on and they brought out dinner. 

I wasn’t hungry, but I was curious, so I accepted the pasta.  I poked Mom to tell her it was now or never on the gluten free, but she mumbled and never woke up.  I was jealous, and still not sleepy, so I asked for the free glass of wine they were eager to dispense.  I drank some passable white wine, ate some spreadable Skinny Cow cheese on a terribly dry roll, a few bites of…interesting pasta and saved the brownie for later. 

I might’ve slept in small doses.  I remember doing the equivalent of tossing and turning in my airplane seat and going to the bathroom despite the Fasten Seatbelt Sign.  I remember seeing the sun glinting pink in the sky when my watch said it was around 2am.  Soon after that, the lights came back on and we got breakfast—a very sweet muffin top and yogurt.  

And we were landing in London.
At this time. 

Somehow I dragged myself off the plane, feeling jealous of Mom that she had slept a little—very little—and told myself for the next four hours that it wasn't a good idea to continually convert the time my watch now said to the time my body thought it was.  My body would never win. 

The flight to Spain was a little over two hours and in the first hour I think I got better sleep than I had for seven hours earlier. But still, by the time Mom and I were trying to navigate through Madrid, each with two suitcases and a shoulder bag, I was exhausted.  All I wanted was to sleep.  For a very, very long time. 

This is mostly my stuff, but
it is for a whole year...

The hotel was fancy and lovely and not in a very touristy part of town.  I probably could’ve slept in the woods in a tent and slept well that night, but even after about nine hours, I was still tired.  When I got up at 7, I opened the curtains and found darkness.  I immediately checked to make sure that it was actually morning and not the middle of the night.  Light started coming on around 8 and I wondered if I was still just confused from the time change or it actually didn’t get light here early.  (It had nothing to do with being tired.  The sun really doesn’t come up until a little after eight.) 

It was long and exhausting and confusing and scary.  But we made it to Velez-Malaga where I was going to be working and I thought I might be able to sort of settle in.  And learn.  

And oh, did I learn. 

Grocery shopping is not necessarily as easy as you imagine it to be.  Maybe because I’ve done it my whole life—gone down the aisles, had a general idea of what I wanted and then pulled it off the shelves—it seems simple.  It is not simple when none of the brands are familiar, none of the words are in English, and traveling has been the main activity for 24 hours, making your strangely exhausted and awake at the same time.  I say all that in hopes that all of my various grocery mistakes sound less lame. 

Is this what creamer and coffee is like here?

The first night, I went to the tiny grocery store—about the size of my bedroom in Virginia—and bought three 1.5 liter bottles since we needed some more cold water in the house.  Even though the Internet said the the tap was perfect fine, it seemed that everyone was buying copious amounts of water. There must be a reason for it.  We must need to do it too.  We put the three bottles in the fridge and fell asleep for about ten hours. 

The next morning when Mom opened one, she had a funny look on her face.  It was clearly carbonated and after a sip, she confirmed—not all totally clear liquid in 1.5 L bottles is water.  This was a strange, almost-Sprite, that tasted somehow more like a fresh soda.  But still very clearly soda.

When I made coffee, I got another strange look.  “I think you bought instant coffee,” Mom said as she looked at the glass container of grounds.

I nodded.  “That was all I saw.  But I think it’s supposed to be good.” I boiled the water, poured in the coffee and then stirred.  I went to get the creamer I’d gotten (which I was very proud of, since it looked nothing like the creamer from home and yet I still identified it).  I opened the top and found something that looked more like a squeeze top for ketchup or mayo.  It was not a pour top, that was for sure.  “Hmmm,” I said, studying it. I squeezed and something that looked more like sweetened, condensed milk than like creamer came out.  

To be fair, it was actually a version of coffee creamer—I hadn’t been wrong about that.  And to be fair, it did make our coffee sweeter and richer.  But it still wasn’t exactly what I had expected. (Though, neither had I expected the only two choices in the London-Heathrow Starbucks to be Skim and Part-Skimmed Milk as cream options.  And that might’ve been worse.)

Then, there were the eggs.  When Mom and I grocery shopped, we’d been pleased about how many clearly labeled Gluten Free options there were for her, and one of the things we bought was a loaf of gluten free bread. We also had eggs, our condensed milk creamer, and some cinnamon, and both of us realized what we really wanted was French Toast for breakfast.  I’m not sure I’ve ever actually craved French Toast, but both Mom and I were super excited for it when we got up.  We got out all the ingredients and as Mom went to crack the eggs, something was clearly wrong.  They didn’t really crack. 

They were already cooked. 

We had bought hard boiled eggs. 

And then we had the saddest regular toast with bananas anyone has ever had. 

Other things we learned: Siesta is a serious thing.  Stores close.  All of them.  Most of them with metal gates that make it seem questionable if they are ever open. But around 5 they come fully back to life. 

Sunday is also a day of rest.  Grocery stores are not open.  Gyms are not open.  Luckily the busses still run, albeit on a reduced schedule. 

Uber and the more European versions like MyTaxi do not exist everywhere.  Even though Velez is the capital of the region and a city of 70,000 people in its own right, the fact that Malaga city has Ubers does not mean they exist 40 minutes away.  

Crosswalks are to be respected and observed.  Cars have gone from accelerating to a dead stop if I move toward crossing the street in the crosswalk.  I’ve never seen someone ignore a pedestrian, and if I’m not certain I need to cross the street, I hesitate very far away to avoid causing delay.  It’s charming, but also nerve-wracking. I don’t completely trust it, not enough to just step out when I can tell a car is coming, but I know that by waiting to see if they slow down, I’m slowing the whole process down and being more annoying.  But it’s not easy to step out in front of a car and assume that they will see you and stop for you in plenty of time.  Yet, without fail, cars stop in crosswalks. 

But perhaps the thing I have noticed the most is the beauty of the place.  What I realized a few days ago that is so lovely about this place is that they make things beautiful even when they don’t need to.  They don’t need to have a gorgeously tiled fountain in the middle of each roundabout, but they do.  They don’t need to have beautiful flowers and trees lining every pedestrian walkway, but there they are.  And this extends to the people—they don’t need to be kind and generous and helpful, but they are.  Without fail, every time Mom and I appeared to struggle at all with our suitcases, at least one, sometimes multiple, men would hop up and come to our aid, lifting, carrying or helping us in whatever way we needed.  

It’s not as though there aren’t beautiful things and wonderful people in the US.  Maybe it’s more that when you see it in something that is strange and slightly scary, like a new country with a new language, it’s easier to realize.  Maybe it’s about being away from what you know in order to truly see.  Either way, it’s a beautiful country, and I know there will be harder things than figuring out creamer and worse mistakes than buying cooked eggs.  But I firmly believe the beauty will remain.

In case you were wondering... (logistics of this move!)

I found out about this because a friend did it.  It’s a program the Spanish Ministry of Culture and Sport does—they hire 2,500ish of us to have this position across the country because they know learning the language from a native speaker is more effective.  So, I’m going officially (which has its own hassles and rewards.)

Yes, I do get paid.  Not very much at all, but enough to live on.  Plus I get European health insurance.  Not sure what to expect there, but it will exist!

No, they don’t give me accommodations.  I have to figure that out on my own.   Everything I’ve heard and read has said to wait until I’m there to find something—don’t commit online ahead of time.  So, my mom and I are planning to go out a few weeks early so I can find something.  Although, the e-mail I just got from my school seemed to indicate they might be able to point me in the right direction.  Fingers crossed!

I’m not staying forever.  At least, I don’t think so. Certainly not doing this.  This is a one year program and I’m there on a student visa. I don’t have a continuing contract job or the right to stay and work as it currently stands. 

I didn’t give up my job to do this.  I qualified for a year leave of absence from Fairfax County Public Schools.  I’m guaranteed a job to come back to after a year  No, they don’t guarantee it will be in the same school at the same position.  I’m guaranteed an English teaching job in the county somewhere.  I’m still in the Instructional Coach pool.  I can apply for jobs and there is certainly the potential I could be back at my old school in some capacity.  But that part isn’t guaranteed.  The overall job is, and my sick leave and retirement are just put on hold, waiting for me to come to back. 

I rented my condo, mostly furnished (except the living room).  It felt good to give away some things, sad to realize how much money I had spent on stuff I didn’t need or even use, and worries me that I’ll need to condense life into a few suitcases in a few months. 

I have the most supportive parents you could possibly imagine.  Yours might tie mine, but they definitely don’t beat them.  They have been helpful, kind, selfless, and very importantly, have listened when i’ve said that certain jokes won’t play well in my current mental state.  They also drove down together, helped me load up a truck, drove back in separate cars, unloaded all of my things into their garage, returned the truck, and helped me avoid a mental breakdown by telling me it was in fact a smart idea.  And then said it was no problem when I started to express gratitude.  Like I said, they’re the best. 

I didn’t get to choose my exact placement, only my region (Andalucia.)  I asked for a secondary school and luckily got it! 

I work October 1 to May 31.  For 12 hours a week.  Yup, that’s right.  12 hours a week. 

No, I’m not fluent in Spanish.  If I have context and the speaker is not terribly emotional, I can often understand a decent amount of what’s being said in Spanish.  I’m not nearly as good at speaking it.  A good deal of what I’ve learned was from teenage boys from El Salvador and Honduras and Guatemala.  Therefore, a lot of words that are not appropriate for polite conversation.  I’m not fluent.  But that’s part of the point.  I want to be.  At the very least, I want to be easily conversational. 

This is what’s happening in my life and I welcome questions or comments or anyone who’s interested in visiting. I’m also willing to come visit anyone who will be on the continent over the next year.  I want to fill up my passport and see it all! 

My New Adventure

Tomorrow, June 29th, starts a new adventure.  At least, the part that starts tomorrow is that I’m technically moving into my parents’ house for the next few months. I’ll be back in NoVa—staying in guest rooms and maybe an Incredibles bed a time or two, but my home is not really my own starting tomorrow.  Someone else is living in my condo, my little sanctuary, my cozy, used-to-be-filled with books and mugs 700 foot castle. 

It’s not for nothing that I’ve given away furniture, packed up clothes, books, and makeup. That’s the adventure part.  Instructional coaches in Fairfax County go back to work the end of July.  I won’t be. 

Starting October 1, I’m going to be a language and cultural assistant in a high school. 

In Spain.  Malaga, Spain.  Well, Velez-Malaga if you want to get really specific.  

Empty living room...

In case you were wondering, Velez is in the Andalusia region of Spain (the southern part), is one of the traditional ‘white cities,’ and is about ten miles off the beach of the Costa del Sol, but not a super touristy area.  In pictures of the city, when you see water, it’s the Mediterranean Sea.  (Side note—if you’re curious about any of the logistics of how I’m pulling this off/how nervous you need to be about this decision, you can read the companion piece to this.)  Come visit.  For real. 

I’m planning to make this blog a travel adventure touch-base over the next year.  If I tell enough people about it, it’ll keep me accountable.  I’m going to post pictures.  And make everyone jealous about this adventure. 

It’s a big deal.  And it’s also something I’ve been considering for a year and actively working to achieve since January.  I cried when I told my principal. I thought I was going to throw up when I told my program coordinator. I worried I was letting people down or leaving people in the lurch or making people disappointed or angry or lonely. 

But I still did it.  I don’t actively choose to not do things I want in order to make other people happy.  But this is one of the first times I actively didn’t care as much about anyone else as about myself.  That sounds, and feels selfish—but this decision is also one of the healthiest decisions I could make.  If I can be incredibly vulnerable for a minute, let me say that other people around me, who I love dearly, are having traditional 30-something adventures—marriage, kids, promotions, in-laws.  And the technically lateral career move/promotion I got wasn’t enough to carry the day for me. I’m not having the traditional adventure and that’s okay (okay, it’s only sometimes okay, but that’s a totally different story), but it means I can be open to other adventures.  

And this past year, it meant I needed another adventure. 

It's strangely empty without pictures on the shelves.

I’ve never been to Europe.  I’ve only used my passport to visit various Caribbean countries.  I want to see castles. I want to eat actual Italian pasta. I want to hear everyone around me speaking in an accent that is charming and sexy.  As I lay on my living room floor—because legit, I have zero furniture in my living room—the desires, the ache, for these adventures is what’s making me feel excited rather than sad. 

I’ve been blessed by incredible people in my life.  Without fail, everyone I’ve talked to has been excited for me and unbelievably supportive.  The funny thing is that many people have also made some sort of comment about how they couldn’t do this, or wouldn’t be brave enough, or someday they would let go of the fear enough to do something like this.  It’s funny to me because that seems to imply that I’m not terrified.  

Let me be clear.  I’m terrified. 

When I talk about it—I’m totally calm and great and excited.  I’ve been giving away/selling things/packing like I’ll get a prize for efficiency.  I’ve made lists of what to do, sometimes for the pure pleasure of checking the box when I finish.  Especially when I sit down with a book and some coffee (or wine, depending on the time of day), I can convince myself I’m totally calm about this. 

But I’ve been obsessively comfort-watching DVR’d UNC games since I’ll give the DVR back to Fios tomorrow and lose the 2017 Championship run.  I’m not kidding.  The Elite 8 Kentucky game is playing in the background, one last time. 

A few nights ago, I woke up at 3 in the morning.  This is not terribly odd lately.  I also woke up with both of my middle fingers sore.  This also has not been terribly odd.  I’ve noticed this soreness almost every time I’ve woken up in the middle of the night.  They never hurt during the day, so I’ve usually forgotten about it by the time I’m not fuzzy with sleep.  But for some reason, that night, I was positive that both of my middle fingers being sore meant I was developing a terrible disease. Yup, it’s true.  At three in the morning, I was sure this could only be an early symptom of an ailment I (clearly) know little about, but could not be more terrified of.  The path to get there made sense at the time, but basically ended with debilitation for the rest of my life.  This trip to Spain would be my last hurrah.  

I fell back asleep, but was aware enough to realize this was probably only a middle of the night fear.

Untrue. I woke up at seven, just as convinced and just as preoccupied with this diagnosis.  I allowed myself a quick Google search.  Even WebMD did not list this as a potential sign of anything more serious than arthritis.  Which opened enough space in my brain to realize this was not the only time my hands had ever felt like this. 

A few months ago, an old roommate and I had done aerial yoga/circus training classes.  She was much better at it than I was, primarily because the entire first class had me too afraid to actually let go of the silks. I was gripping that fabric like my life depended on it.  It didn’t matter that I was inches above the floor.  I couldn’t let go.  And my hands were sore for days.  My middle fingers were sore for over a week.  

This is Velez-Malaga.

It was not joint stiffness I was feeling in the middle of the night.  It was muscle pain. Apparently, I’ve been clenching my fists tightly in my sleep.  Tightly enough that it causes muscle soreness at night, which dissipates by day when I realize what I’m doing. 

Is it clear—this is huge, and terrifying, and stressful, activating my anxiety in a very real way?  And it’s 100% worth it.  I would’t back out now if I could. Part of what I wanted out of this adventure was to go outside of my comfort zone.  To not be quite so close to a safety net.  Not because I’m some sort of masochist, but because I know growth happens mostly outside of our comfort zones.  Travel grows you, changes you, and it’s working on me even as I sit on my living room floor. 

I could quote a lot of cheesy things about courage and fear, the kind of thing you hear in The Princess Diaries for instance.  Instead, what’s been ringing most true for me is a set of lyrics—do you know Bethel Music? (I’m obsessed—their worship songs are unparalleled.) They have a song where the chorus says, “Take courage, my heart, stay steadfast my soul, He’s in the waiting.  He’s in the waiting.  Hold on to your hope as your triumph unfolds, He’s never failing.  He’s never failing.  And You, who hold the stars, who call them each by name, will surely keep Your promise to me, that I will rise in your victory.” 

I’m trying to take courage, loosen my hands, and live in the promise—because alone it’s just scary.  But, the scary can maybe help me grow into the woman I was intended to be. 

On Finishing that First Novel

I thought after finishing the first draft of a novel that I had been planning for more than ten years and writing for more than one year that I would feel relieved. I thought I would only feel a sense of accomplishment.  Actually, I thought I would feel a huge sense of accomplishment, as though I had just finished something I’d been working towards in some way for most of my adult life.

That first night, I did, at least a little bit.

But ever since then, all the nights and afternoons and early mornings I haven’t been working on it? I’ve felt...lonely.  

It took me a few days to figure it out. This new lonliness wasn’t about being around actual physical people or conversation or getting out of the house.

It was about the fact that for some amount of time--sometimes hours at a time--for the past 165 days, I’ve been spending part of my time in a different world entirely.  I’ve been with Rachel and John and Sarah and Brandon (and even now, just typing their names feels comforting), and I don’t talk about what happens in that world with anyone else, but I know exactly what those characters are feeling and why they’re doing what they’re doing.  When I was falling asleep at night, I would plot out what they would do next. When I was in the shower I would (very occasionally) try out the dialogue I thought they might use. In some way, I almost felt I had a duty to them, to get them out of the tangle they were in (since I had put them there after all) and get them to a better place.  (Around the holidays, I told my brother I had been promising my main character I would get her home for the past week and he dryly quipped, “Doesn’t she have a car?” I didn’t even know how to respond.)

I have absolutely no idea if this is how aspiring other authors deal with their writing or not.  I was listening to Jonathan Franzen talk about how frustrating it is when people talk about characters showing the author where they want to go.  Certainly, I knew before I started writing what was going to happen in the end, in a very broad sense, but it was only when I mentally entered the world of my characters and played around with different scenarios, different conversations, different twists that some of it felt authentic to the story, to their world.  So in a small sense, it seemed they were showing me where to go and what to do.

And then, last week, I cut myself off from all of this.  I promised myself thirty days away from it. Partly because I wanted a break, but mostly because I still have a duty to Rachel, my narrator, and all the people who orbit around her in this story.  These characters had, unintentionally, become (in a completely mentally stable way) like friends. And to be absolutely real, there huge chunks of this story that is absolute crap. That has be cut away.  As good as it was for me to discipline myself to write everyday, there are entire days that can be utterly stripped away because I wrote to get it done, not because what I typed did anything for the story.

More importantly, an entire chunk of the novel, what some might mistakenly see at first as the major driving plot line (by some, read me, when I started out), needs to be ripped to shreds and stitched back together into something far more relevant and important (luckily, I already know what that is).  And to tear it apart the way it needs to be torn, I can’t carry sentimental attachment into the revision, but only the cool-minded skill a surgeon would bring. If there’s any hope of anyone else ever reading this story, I need to make several portions far, far harder on characters I’ve lovingly crafted.

I needed to set aside so I could gain some distance and approach it, not as a Mama Bird who desperately wants her baby to fly, but as a critic, willing to slice away the fat slowing the whole lumbering dodo down.  (I have no idea if dodo lumbered. Imagine a really super fat one.)

Thirty days was what I said I’d take.  That’s May 15th if you’re keeping track.  I hope I’ve stopped missing them by then. I hope I feel annoyed that’s it’s time to go back to Rachel and her story.  I want to live up to the obligation I feel, and I hope by May 15th I feel it not to Rachel or John or even myself, but to the story that’s buried deep down in the midst of all the extra words, waiting to be told.   

So Guys...I'm Not a Teacher Anymore

Teaching days

This post is a little late.  About six months late actually.   Because that’s almost how long it’s been that I could type this and have it be truthful: I’m not a teacher.  Eeeh, that’s sort of hard to write even though it’s true.  It shouldn’t be hard because I transitioned to a different job November 28th--that date is sort of burned in my brain--and that was almost six months ago.  It shouldn’t be that hard either because I do still work at the same school I’ve been working at for the past three and a half years.  

But it is hard still.  I moved down the hall and around the corner into an office that is much larger than it needs to be considering I’m not actually responsible for directly educating specific students anymore.

When we came back from Thanksgiving break on November 28th, I became the Instructional Coach at Sandburg.  A chain of events had begun just before school started in August that led to my friend who was our Instructional Coach when the school year started to become our Assistant Principal, and left a position open.  

It wasn’t a position I had been coveting, it wasn’t something I had really ever even thought about before, but suddenly I was being asked to apply for a position that would take me out of the classroom and further away from my students.  

That was the hard part.  Being further away from my kids who were as much a part of me and my day as cooking or sleeping or reading.  

I spent a good long time considering if it was possible to leave my kiddos.  I spent a long time considering if there was anything I could possibly do to help the school that would justify leaving the kiddos.  I wondered how I would be at this job.  I wondered if I would like it.  

I could’ve stayed there wondering for a long time.  I asked friends and colleagues for advice, and the piece of advice that stuck with me was the idea that it was simply an opportunity, and not something to walk away from.  A door had opened, and I may find that on the other side was something I didn’t necessarily love, but that would still be valuable knowledge, both personally and professionally, that would help me understand my own self and my own future.

So, I walked through it.

Walked through the door that took me from teacher to coach, though I admit that when I meet someone casually, who I won’t be likely to interact with ever again--the girl doing my nails, the man giving my car an oil change--I still just tell them I’m a teacher.  

It’s not that I’m ashamed or unwilling to talk about it or regretful.  It’s that there are a decent amount of people in my building that aren’t sure what an Instructional Coach does, so I don’t expect people who aren’t in the education field to have much of an idea of what that means.

What is does mean is that I still care deeply about the students in my building and what they’re learning, but instead of just teaching a handful of them myself, I work with as many teachers as I have time for who will have me. I try to help move people forward, try to expand their capacity, and their thinking.  I try to help them see the abilities that are already within them or give them additional tools in their toolbox depending upon the person.  

It means right now that I pull the scores for our standardized test scores and pray the numbers are what they need to be.  

What it has meant for me personally is that I’ve gotten to see a ton of different teaching--I had never imagined the vast range of things people are doing within my school.

I do like it.  I actually like my job a lot.

I think I might be starting to be okay at it.  It’s been a hard journey, accepting the idea of not being great at something new right away, especially when it’s meant walking away from something I think I was pretty damn good at. I think given some time, I might be good at it.  We’ll see.

Leaving the classroom behind is tough.

I’m happy, and grateful, that there are several students who continue to be mine despite transitioning to a new role.  The boys I had last year as seventh graders, and who began the year as my eighth graders were the ones I never worried about.  As I told several people, they would find me no matter where I went in the school.  But it warms my heart to the fullest level that my assumption was correct.  They come every morning before class.  They come during lunch as often as I’ll let them.  And a few show their faces for snacks sometimes in between.  They come when they get kicked out, or when they’re bored, or when they think of an excuse their teachers will sign a pass for.  They come saying, “Ms. Short, I need to talk to you,” and every time I hope it will be something I can help them with.  My favorite is the time two needed to talk to me about one starting to date a girl their other friend also liked and not knowing how to tell him about the relationship.  Not because I enjoy adolescent drama, but because so often these boys face terrible, grown-up problems I can’t help them with.  I’m slightly addicted to seeing them act like average middle school kids.

The problem will be next year as I truly know one seventh grader and know only the names of a few others.  Will I still like this job then when I don’t have kiddos who count on me, when I’m not sure I’ve made anyone’s world directly better?  Only time will tell I suppose. I’m not sure.

No matter what, I am glad I’ve walked through this door.  I’m not positive I know what on the other side of it, not fully.  I do know, that administration is not the next step for me.  My colleague’s transition from coach to assistant principal has made many think that’s my next move as well.  Spoiler alert: it’s not. Not only do I have no desire to do it, I also don’t have the qualifications.  Maybe someday I will (I really wouldn’t hold your breath though), but not today.

Other spoiler alert--I can’t go back to California, not to teach with CTY for three weeks anymore.  My new position isn’t technically a promotion, but it is an 11 month contract.  Which doesn’t leave time for three weeks of jaunting out to the West Coast.  That’s the other part I’ll miss.

But, I see ideas for change--good, strong, positive, hard change in my school and I want to be a part of them.  And I think that my current position would let me do that. And if, after a few years, I think I don’t think does anymore, or I moved away to a place that doesn’t have a coaching program, I would be pretty content to be back in a classroom again.

But until that day comes, I’m going to soak in as many chances to hear, “Ms. Short, I need to talk to you,” where the speaker has full faith in my ability to make things even slightly better.  And hope that eventually it will not only be teenagers, but adults coming to me for help.  

And hope even more that I can deliver.