treasure hunting

"Remember that wherever your heart is, there you will find your treasure. You've got to find the treasure, so that everything you have learned along the way can make sense." -- Paulo Coelho, (The Alchemist)

I came to Barcelona to find treasure, or what I thought was my treasure, but in reality it turned out to be a phantasm. A figment of my imagination. A memory that should have been left in my past, never to be dug up. Silly? Maybe, but I don't regret coming here - not for one moment. My motive for choosing Barcelona could have been different. After five months I've discovered that this path has brought me to so many good people, experiences, and to know myself better. Finally I can say that my heart is here in Barcelona. Treasure? Yes. So whenever this journey in Barcelona should end, be it in 5 more months or 5 more years, I know that everything I have learned along the way makes sense.

trial separation

Edinburgh is fantastic. I can’t articulate how nice it is to be back in an English speaking country, and to be catching up with one of my girl friends from Cadiz. Last Wednesday might have been the busiest day of my life. Being either masochistic or slightly neurotic, or a mix of both, I set my alarm two hours early in order to run through my checklist before leaving for work. The first bullet point on that checklist is my passport. Although I am quite organized, I have this habit of hiding things from myself out of fear of losing them. I write the whereabouts of these things on a note somewhere and then misplace the note, subsequently losing everything. Money, checkbooks, keys and my passport fall into this category, and I hide them in forms similar to the matryoshka doll. Envelope inside of box inside of bag inside of pocket inside of suitcase is where I found my passport. Needless to say my system sucks because my suitcase was the last place I thought to look for my passport. And believe you me, it was stressful. I even checked under my mattress, as if I were hiding a snickers at fat camp. “Nik, you weren’t robbed, you were looking for your passport,” the note I should have left myself for when I return home.

Sporting 5 different layers of clothing and feeling more like a hobo than a traveler, I made my way to work, excited for Christmas caroling with my students. The only problem was that I didn’t coordinate with the teachers ahead of time about which class I would be walking through Barbera with. Thinking it was a safe assumption to meet with ciclo medio (the middle aged students in primary school), I waited at the train station for them to arrive at their scheduled time. Seven trains and forty-five minutes later, I deemed it safe to assume their plans had changed. Unfortunately none of the other teachers gave me a heads up about this change in plan, which really disappointed me because I missed all of the Christmas fun and instead came to the school seeing everyone returning early. Following this let down, I got to help parents and teacher aides put together trays of chocolate and sweets for the students and visiting parents, which was hilarious. The Spanish are really into a drink that they call “chocolate,” which is a sludgy, thick mixture that they also dip sweet breads into. The dessert itself is overrated, but imagine putting together trays of chocolate and sweet bread for 1000 people; chaos. At one point we misplaced a large container of chocolate and thought that the sixth graders wouldn’t be getting any.

Following caroling and chocolate drinking, I went around to different classes, wishing all of the students a Merry Christmas. Everyone was so cute with their matching “Escola Elisa Badia” (“Elisa Badia Primary School”) hats and telling me how they were going to spend their holiday vacation. “I’m going to egg houses,” confided Jorge, one of my rambunctious sixth graders, who ironically spent the previous afternoon with the Director (Principal) of the school for bad behavior.

Then the teachers had their Christmas party. We all ate lunch in the theatre, celebrating the holidays with champagne/cava, beer, wine, and sweets. It was a really fantastic lunch and a lot of fun. I received a naked fireman calendar in the invisible Santa gift exchange, which is the coolest gift I’ve ever received in a gift exchange haha. Marta and I put on a small show for the teachers, “Who Wants to be a Millionaire,” but in Catalan so I could show off what I’ve learned here in Catalonia. As a prize, Marta gave me a caganer, the figure in the Catalonian nativity scene, of a shephard defecating. Best prize ever.

I left the party early, but in my defense I attended the party for four hours. I ran home to Barcelona to catch a bus to the airport so I could celebrate the holidays in Scotland and I'm not sure that I'll be ready to go back to Barcelona on Wednesday. It's really beautiful here in Edinburgh, minus the persnickety thirteen year olds toting Louis Vuitton handbags.

ITINERARY/RECEIPT - All times are local.

GOING OUT

From Barcelona (BCN) to Edinburgh (EDI)
Wed, 22Dec10 Flight FR6267 Depart BCN at 21:35 and arrive EDI at 23:10

COMING BACK

From Edinburgh (EDI) to Barcelona (BCN)
Wed, 29Dec10 Flight FR6266 Depart EDI at 17:25 and arrive BCN at 21:00

sticky situation

The tongue is the most powerful weapon we possess. Unfortunately, I said some things on this blog about a coworker of mine, Eugenio, and one of his coworkers came across this blog and distributed it throughout my school. That person should have come to me, instead she hurt Eugenio, damaging his reputation with my coworkers. But I am to blame for having written these things. These things were written long before our problems were resolved and they were written for the eyes of my friends and families, not my coworkers in Spain. These thoughts are private and I should have taken means to preserve these thoughts as so. I do not condone bullying or mean conduct and I certainly don´t wish for bad things for Eugenio. Nobody deserves to be hurt like that, and I am truly sorry that he has been put in this situation.

christmas time is here

This season marks one of the most special times of the year. It’s intimate, it’s warm, and it’s familiar. It’s also very difficult to maintain that intimacy, warmth and familiarity when I’m 5,412 miles away from home. I miss my American traditions; ice skating, listening to the Nutcracker, baking sugar cookies, volunteering, decorating the Christmas tree, trips to the mountain, fires, Christmas parties, ugly Christmas sweaters, carolers, Candy Cane Lane, Christmas lights, gingerbread houses, carousel rides, Downtown Seattle, the Christmas ship, FAMILY, etc…

I am becoming more and more sentimental with time and as I look back and reflect on the past twenty-one Christmases I have experienced, I am overfilled with joy. I may not be with my family this year for Christmas, but knowing that I have family to go back to, no matter what, gives me so much peace. Jimi Hendrix once said, “When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.” In a world where, despite our own advances we still see brokenness and experience hunger, it is my hope that you are blessed with peace; peace of mind to navigate this rough and terrifying economy, peace in your relationships, peace to overcome uncertainty, in the decisions you make, etc… For this is what I am seeking. Well, that and Sergio Ramos haha.

To my family and friends back home, I love you always, have a Merry Christmas!

Truco o Trato

Halloween this year was a bit different. Instead of going to the costume store or raiding the thrift store with friends, I went to the "chino" [store], literally a hole in the wall that is a compulsive hoarder's dream. These stores, usually owned by different families of asian descent, are all similar in that they wouldn't pass a fire inspection if you took a bulldozer and swept away half of the store's contents. You probably wouldn't believe me if I took a picture. We are talking about a 500 square foot room filled with enough things to pack an Ikea warehouse (Please, hold your comments about my closet ;) ). Anyways, at the "chino" I pieced together the missing parts of my costume, a vampire, and received some exposure and response prevention (ERP) for claustrophobia, a condition I didn't know I had until I went to the back of the store and found myself dizzy and fighting an avalanche of miscellaneous junk. It was like one of those fun houses minus the dysmorphic mirrors.

The Halloween Rundown:

Wii with the roommates. Mojitos and pumpkin couscous with the girls and Joan. Creepy drunk stalker on the metro. Party full of snotty British girls, all dressed as Madonna, how original. Me leaving because I don't have a stick implanted far enough up my ass to be pretentious and shallow. Wish I were exaggerating about the Madonnas. One of my new friends, Josephine, is an au pair in Sitges and when she told the Madonnas, "Madonna # 3" or "Contentious Madonna" replied in a very condescending tone [with her nose in the air], "Oh... I always had Au Pairs growing up... I've always wondered what it was like..." Insert mouth drop and awkward laugh. I'm just glad I left when I did, because had I stayed to bob for apples, "Madonna # 3" would have also been "Drowned Madonna."

It was a great Halloween, all sarcasm aside.

Mercedes, Me, and Michelle

what do an old lady, chestnuts, and Eminem have in common?

You wouldn’t believe the day I had yesterday. It was spectacular. I got paid to teach cute kids about Halloween and then we had a party to celebrate “La Castañada,” a tradition here in Catalonia that is coupled with All Saints Day.

“La Castañada” is a celebration inspired by “Maria, la castañera,” a mythical figure known as the chestnut lady or chestnut seller. As legend has it, when it’s time to gather the chestnuts from the ground (autumn),this old woman, who lives in the highest part of the mountains, awakes to prepare chestnuts for la castañada. She wears a small shirt, a long skirt that flows outward like a bell, a scarf covering her head, and shoes [like clogs] that make a clunk-clunk sound. Maria walks with a cane in one hand and a basket in the other, in which she puts the chestnuts. Seeing that there are more chestnuts to collect from the trees, this poor geriatrics case tries to shake the trees, but she can’t because she has arthritis and her dementia causes her to forget her meds. (Okay, so the medical situation isn’t actually part of the legend, but the woman is like 80 years old…) Anyways, she asks her friend, a giant, to help her and he shakes the trees while she collects the fallen chestnuts from the ground. When Maria is content with her chestnuts, or unable to reach for more due to her osteoporosis and arthritis, she heads to the city, but not too fast because she fractured a hip last year. She needs to sell her chestnuts so she can purchase a scooter. There in the city she has a tent, that’s set up like a kiosk, and inside she roasts her chestnuts, wraps them in newspaper and gives them to all of the boys and girls of Catalonia. (Here’s a slideshow of the story http://www.slideshare.net/ovm77/maria-la-castaera)

Here is a link to some pictures of preschoolers from my school making panellets for the Castañada in 2008. These adorable chickadees are now my 2nd graders. http://www.xtec.cat/centres/a8028229/Novetats/Castanyada.htm

November 1^st marks All Saints Day, the reason behind “La Castañada.” Traditionally, people eat sweet potatoes, small almond cookies called panellets (sort of like Bread of the Dead), and roasted chestnuts (enter Maria la castañera who totally capitalized on this holiday, with her one size fits all shirt).

At my school, each class put on a small production or dance, outside on the blacktop, while parents who volunteered to help, feverishly roasted chestnuts on a giant barbecue. Then we ate chestnuts and panellets, before playing games and dancing more. The P.E. teacher who was our D.J., played some inappropriate American rap that droppe

d the “F-bomb” like 5 times and I ran over to tell him and the director (principal) what the music was saying, suggesting that they should change it. “Oh, it’s okay, they won’t understand,” my director told me. I started to laugh because although the students may not be able to understand, the content was still inappropriate. Furthermore, it felt weird to be dancing with my students to music that I usually dance to in clubs. Anyhow, I didn’t press the subject any further, and I continued to dance with 6 year olds to Eminem. I love embracing the Dysfunctional in life.

Some pictures from Saturday night, celebrating the castañada:

My friend Marine, roasting chestnuts for l'Esplai,

a foundation in Spain that's similar to the Boy Scouts.

Marine says to me, "this is the Spanish

concept, one works while the other watches."

A small group of helpers who roasted and sold chestnuts,

sweet potatoes, and moscatel in the town center.

the purge

"When you want something, all the universe conspires

in helping you to achieve it” – Paulo Coelho (The Alchemist)

(photos taken from the Mercé celebration in Plaza España, Barcelona)

Almost a full month has passed since my arrival in Barcelona and it seems as though everything has fallen into place. There is so much to do here and so much that has transpired here that funneling all of this into a readable format is impossible, so here comes

the purge:

Apartment : Piso

Searching for a piso proved to be quite an extensive process – emailing and calling people to arrange appointments, traveling by train from Barbera del Valles to Barcelona to see apartments, and walking away disappointedly when an apartment was not at all what it seemed in it’s owner’s photos. I emailed over 50 owners and tenants and I don’t recall how many of those I actually visited, maybe 10. The last apartment I visited, I was reluctant to see, however it’s now where I live.

The apartment is situated in a neighborhood called l’Eixample; it’s a beautiful, very well communicated neighborhood with a lot of city charm. It is shared between myself and six other people, all of whom are from Peru, and they are a lot of fun. We have weekly Wii competitions, for which I, being ridiculously competitive, now hold the highest score haha. The apartment has beautiful hard-wood floors, high ceilings decorated with dated crown molding, and my room has a view of the avenida (ave) and Plaza Tetuan. (see picture)

Primary School : Colegio

I absolutely love my students and I’m still trying to memorize all 400 of their names. All of the kids are very affectionate –I get hugs and kisses and pictures and crafts from them, which is so rewarding (although hugs and kisses and pictures and crafts don’t pay the rent). The faculty of teachers and secretaries and the director has been so friendly, and I’ve created a good rapport with everybody. With that said, it is common sense that when somebody sacrifices time in their career and in their home country to travel to another part of the world to teach, that they need a little bit of help. I have been really blessed to meet great people who stepped up when my connection to the school didn’t. I am struggling at the moment to build and maintain a positive rapport with a person at the school who I think lacks essential skills such as demonstrating empathy, mindfulness, and at times, common sense. I can't help but have hard feelings about my rough arrival here and the lack of support from my tutor. At the same time I am not in their shoes and do not understand the circumstances that hindered the growth and formation of this important knowledge, so I am left with the task of evolving this chip on my shoulder into compassion and self control (with my words).

Every morning I commute to my colegio via train. It’s about 30 minutes, which is just enough time to read the newspaper and mentally prepare myself for one hundred 5 year olds who usually mistake me for a jungle gym. It never fails, I put my key in the teachers’ gate to the school, and like vulchers, they come running and yelling “Nikki!!!” It’s pretty funny.

Barcelone : Barcelona

In general, it’s awesome. The city reeks of culture, history, and traditions, and at the same time coexists with a million different emerging cultures that have migrated to this Spanish Hub. The city is reasonably large and the weather now is typical late summer/early autumn weather of Seattle, minus all of the rain.

The friends I have made here are amazing and I’m having a lot of fun. One of my good friends, Vanessa, was telling me about her experiences traveling abroad and had me crying with laughter at the image of her living in Minnesota, walking to the university every morning in below zero temperatures, bundled up like a SouthPark kid. We went out the other night and got hit on by two quillos (kee-oz) – the best interpretation for this word is “a man with all muscle fibers and no brains…” Literally, so many muscle fibers in their biceps that they have to enter a door sideways. Anyways, we left immediately, and it reminded me of Cadiz.

I am plugged in with a group of friends who live in Barbera del Valles – several of them play on the local American Football Team,, “The Rookies.” How ironic. We meet weekly after football practice at a local spot, CataBaires, a bar created by a couple, the man Catalan and his wife from Buenos Aires. These weekly meets usually end with me running to the renfe train station, in hopes that I don’t miss the last train, leaving at midnight. Barbera del Valles is nice but I don’t think I could live there. The only analogy I have for this is eating and defecating in the same room. Okay, so that’s a slight exaggeration on my part, but just know that there would be a serious inbreeding problem if this very small city were isolated from the rest of Catalonia.

Marta, a coworker of mine, has become a really good friend to me. She is also studying psychology, so needless to say we have a lot in common. This week she took me to the polydeportiva, the gym, to look into getting a membership, and there I met two guys who have some serious medical issues as a result of playing American football. Ishmael, a 23 year old student, has had 3 corrective surgeries on his right leg and now walks with crutches and has a brace running along his leg to immobilize it. His first surgery was the result of a bad tackle, in which his opponent’s helmet hit him in the knee, causing a bad break. The following two surgeries occurred because he didn’t follow through with doctor’s orders and went back to playing too soon. I think he thought that his story would impress me since I’m “American.” Instead, I called him an idiot to his face and told him that I would kick his ass so hard that he wouldn’t be able to return to the game if I ever saw him on the field wearing anything other than a coach’s jersey. He thought that was funny. These guys don’t get how dangerous this sport is – there’s no physician, physical therapist, or technicians on the sidelines of their games here. Moreover, their coach is an over weight forties something, single man with a 49ers hat, who watches an occasional game on ESPN, so I challenge his knowledge for the game. Ishmael is going to need a Hoveround power chair and disabled parking permit in a few more years.

Before I go, listen to my complaints. A couple of things I don’t like:

1. El Corte Ingles – there is a super store in Spain that is infamous for selling anything and everything, and is subsequently one of the most successful companies here. In many cities, it is a three to four story building, housing anything from groceries and clothes to atvs, sporting goods, and vacation packages. I think you can purchase caskets here too. And sometimes there is a cinema attached. From the moment you enter the building, the foul aroma of monopoly almost smothers you… and I predict that as a result of the poor economy, the good old Corte will be soon printing currency and operating as a bank.

No. In all seriousness, El Corte Ingles takes away from the many small businesses and “mom and pop” stores that are trying to survive in Barcelona… the places that actually invest in their neighborhoods and get to know their clients at an intimate level. And we all know that El Corte Ingles would receive an economic bail out years before the rest.

2. Train stalkers – I now have an alias thanks to the few creepy men that make my commutes and travels sometimes uncomfortable. My name is Nicolette and I’m from Nice, France… and I’m engaged. I no longer make eye contact and smile, because apparently this small but cordial gesture sometimes gets translated into “follow me,” or “ask for my number and call me until I answer the phone.” My last stalker, Larbe, is a Moroccan man who invited me to live with him in Terrassa. He described this proposition as the result of being a kind man who wanted to show a beautiful rubia (blonde) some place special. Hmmmm, guess what’s not going to happen?

3. Quillos

4. Air drying my clothes. I realize that not using a clothes dryer has reduced my carbon footprint significantly, but I would really like to not have to wear cardboard underwear and sandpaper leggings. I guess this means that I had better invest in some fabric softener. Besides all that, it’s inconvenient and now I actually use an iron – I’m not domestic enough for this.

5. The shower water temperature is significantly cooler, which makes showering less enjoyable. I would consider dating a quillo if he had a really hot shower. hahaha

6. MY BIGGEST AND MOST SIGNIFICANT COMPLAINT: I have an ICD (implanted cardioverter defibrillator) in my heart. With this device I have to be vigilant about my proximity to magnetic devices… for instance, I get hand searched at airports because the magnetic arches are too powerful for me to enter… and I cannot stand for prolonged periods of time in or near smaller arches that are in stores and libraries. Well, some of the grocery stores in Spain are set up so that one stands in these arches at the exact point where the cashier is. Unfortunately, I cannot do this, so I have to announce this to the cashier while standing three feet away from him/her, at the beginning of the conveyor belt / checkout stand, and ask them to pass me the groceries in the opposite direction. Then I quickly hand him/her my credit card and ask that they swipe it and sign with an ‘X’ as I cannot stand in the arches. It’s really quite silly and I always feel embarrassed, but I’m not going to compromise the safety of my ICD for my pride.