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.