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.

finding a way

On Tuesday, September 21^st I embarked on what may be the most exciting experience of my life, living alone in Barcelona. After 23+ hours of travel, including a missed connection and a screaming baby on my red eye, I arrived in the Barcelona airport. Standing there in front of the conveyor belt, waiting for my luggage to appear, it hit me like a sack of rocks that I was very alone in a very different place. My heart began to race. Was this a mistake? Maybe I should have chosen to live in the other side of the United States instead of the other side of the world. I sat there in front of the conveyor belt until all baggage had been claimed and the belt shut off. Although I felt super disgusting and in need of a change of clothes, it was really a blessing that my two enormous, oversized suitcases didn’t arrive; there were no lockers to store them and I still had to look for a place to live, or to sleep at the very least. I called the man that’s in charge of me at the school because I received an email from him while I was waiting for my connection in Denmark, telling me that he would be meeting me at the airport. There must have been a miscommunication because he wasn’t at the airport waiting for me and he sounded surprised at my arrival, which I had informed him of 3 weeks prior. I felt disappointed and sad, but there was no time and absolutely no evolutionary significance in crying about it. After filing paperwork for my missing suitcases, I made my way to the end of the airport and boarded a train for Passeig de Gracia, the neighborhood in which I had apartments to look at. Once there I bought a cell phone and walked around, looking for the addresses I had written down. Barcelona seemed so big, not because of the large buildings and wide streets that hosted a sea of people, but because I felt so vulnerable and out of place.

The apartments that I looked at weren’t available until the end of the month, so I redirected my attention to looking for a hostel or pension for the night. I walked around the city for 3 hours and every place I came upon was full. You see, the coming weekend marked a huge annual celebration in Barcelona called La Mercé, and as a result there were visitors from everywhere. I finally gave up and got on a bus hoping that I would rest and come across a vacant hostel. Eugenio, the man from the school, called me and asked, “Are you okay?” Those three little words stirred a commotion of emotions and I started to cry. “I’ll call you a little later,” I explained before hanging up the phone; I didn’t want him to know that I was upset. Unintentionally, I fell asleep on the bus and when I awoke I was startled to find myself in a bus that was parked on top of a hill, with the engine off. The driver was sitting in a passenger seat, filling out paperwork and I couldn’t tell how long things had been this way. I’m not sure who was more scared, the driver or myself, because he practically shouted, “what are you doing here!” when I stirred. Out of embarrassment I lied and explained that I had missed my stop and was now lost and waiting for the bus to turn around. Fifteen minutes later, we were on our way back to Barcelona.

After another hour of hunting I found a hostel, showered, and slept. Four hours later I awoke and much to my chagrin it was only 10:30pm. I needed people – I needed to talk to people and laugh and experience a social interaction that had been missing from my daily routine for the past 40 hours. Seeing as I was either going to die in that small, dingy cell of a hostel room or go crazy, I called Eugenio and asked him to let me come with him to Barbera del Valles, the city in which I’m teaching. He and 2 other teachers had been in the city for a show and graciously waited for me in the metro station Sant Martí. It took me almost an hour and a half to take the metro (the subway system) a distance that I now take in no more than 15 minutes.

There in Sant Martí I met Eugenio, Montse and Manuela, all teachers at la Escola Elisa Badía, and their friend Sol. Immediately I had forgotten how rough my start in Barcelona had been and was thankful that Manuela was offering me a room to rent for the week. Like a tour guide, Manuela showed me her beautiful apartment and gave me directions for everything and offered me food. It had been probably 24 hours since I had last eaten but food was my last priority… in that moment I would have hijacked a fitness center for a shower. Fortunately I didn’t have to take such strong measures.

The next day I went to the school with Manuela and met about 350 students and an array of teachers who welcomed me so enthusiastically. One of the sixth grade classes sang to me an array of English songs, accompanied by their teacher who played the Ukulele and I went to all of Eugenio’s classes and enjoyed helping and observing the classroom. Despite the past 2 days I was really glad to be in Spain again. I love the school, the kids are amazing and all of teachers are friendly.

A week has past since my rough landing in Barcelona and to be honest, I’m really glad that it happened that way. It makes being here so much sweeter, so much more of an accomplishment – and it makes for a really good story. Jane Goodall once said, “If you really want something you will find a way.” I must really want this.

loose ends

The day after my last blog I received my visa, passport, and work documents from the Spanish Consulate in San Francisco. I am officially moving to Spain! Woohoo!

At the moment, I’m sitting here staring at two empty suitcases that I’m supposed to fill with my belongings. I would really like to light a match and burn everything so that I’m not left with this decision. Ironically, I spoke with my mom today who called me out on my commitment phobic behaviors. “How’s finding a place in Barcelona?” she asked. When I explained that I had about 6 apartments from which I will choose 1 apartment in the next week, she replied “well, you never could commit to anything… why start now?” hahahahahahaha. In my defense, looking for a place to live has proved to be very difficult and discouraging. One place is too far from the city center, another has 5 other flat mates and one bathroom, yet another is in a dangerous neighborhood, or the owner is creepy and keeps calling me “to be friends” even if I’m not his tenant… the list goes on and on. I have so many loose ends to tie up.

Back to these suitcases, I think I’ll start tomorrow.

construction paper chain links

The first thing I do when I come home from work each night is to check my tracking number on the express envelope with my visa/passport to see if it’s been submitted to the United States Postal Service. This has been my routine for the past 3 weeks and it’s surprisingly still excitement inducing. I hold my breath as I turn on my laptop, and look away as I type the last two digits to the tracking number, then press enter. Anxiously I reroute my eyes to the computer screen, in hopes that it will display my tracking number and its respective delivery status. Upon reading the words “There is no record of this item,” I collapse disappointedly into my chair. Maybe tomorrow. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I feel this childlike hope that something better is coming. The kind of hope where one makes a construction paper chain link that marks the number of days until a big holiday, taking one link off day by day. 27 more days until that plane takes off with or without me, my visa had better arrive by then.

Sick with the Travel Bug

I spent the last week with one of my best friends, helping her move to SLC, then flew home on Saturday morning. Upon arrival at baggage claim it took what seemed like an eternity for my flight's luggage to start appearing. After four bags dropped onto the carousel, the carousel stopped because a big bag got caught at the end of the conveyor belt. After 10 minutes of waiting for help to arrive I got a little crazy and jumped up and across the carousel, onto the top part where the conveyor belt / ramp are, and began freeing the bags. Like 90 people started cheering and clapping, meanwhile a security guard began to yell at me about the dangers of falling... "well somebody had to do something," the lady holding my purse retorted. It was hilarious, but a reminder that I can't being doing this stuff in foreign countries where I can actually get into trouble ;) Speaking of foreign countries, I BOUGHT MY PLANE TICKET TO BCN LAST NIGHT!!!!

That flight on Saturday gave me the travel bug, and now all I can think about is traveling. Thoughts of airplane smell, the run between gates to make a connection, and the satisfaction felt upon arrival flood my wandering mind... it's so hard to focus right now. I don't think there's a cure in my immediate future that can satiate my desire to be free, abroad, and have new eyes.

This is the itinerary:

Tue, Sep 21, 2010 Depart: 07:29 am Arrive: 03:30 pm Seattle/Tacoma, WA (SEA) Washington, DC (IAD) Travel time: 5 hrs 1 min 1 Stop - change planes in Washington, DC (IAD) Connection Time: 1 hr 45 mins

Depart: 05:15 pm Arrive: 07:15 am Washington, DC (IAD) Copenhagen, Denmark (CPH) Travel time: 8 hrs 1 Stop - change planes in Copenhagen, Denmark (CPH) Connection Time: 50 mins

Depart: 08:05 am Arrive: 11:10 am Next day Arrival Copenhagen, Denmark (CPH) Barcelona, Spain (BCN) Travel time: 3 hrs 5 mins I am feeling euphoric, but will probably be a little on edge until I receive that visa/passport in the mail. I also gave my notice at work, which went really well and I am at peace with this decision. Now I just need to secure a place to live, which will be easier to do after September 1st. I assume this will be the primary cause for anxiety during this journey as it's difficult to find a place to live from the other side of the world. I am so fortunate to have a friend from Barcelona, Javi, who has given me detailed direction about which neighborhoods are safe, which neighborhoods I would like, and which neighborhoods are convenient. This gave me so much peace of mind.

Thoughts of Goodbye

This was something written August 4th, 2010.

I wish it wasn’t so difficult to get papers to live in another country. I feel as though I’ve spent every free moment getting medical clearance, police clearance, legalized documents and apostilles of The Hague, copies of copies, and so on. Three weeks ago, I spent a whole day in middle of nowhere Olympia for a notarized letter stating one sentence, “There is no conviction criminal history record information in the Washington State Patrol Identification and Criminal History Section files on Nicole E. Veldwyk.” And thanks to rush hour traffic, I now know where the Nisqually Valley is… Thank God, because I was really starting to wonder ;)

On a more thoughtful note, I am somewhat reluctant to put in my notice at work. The kids I work with trust me and confide in me; I get to be a static entity in their lives, encouraging them as they thirst for positive attention that has been scarce for them. I am protective of these kids, proud of these kids, and unfortunately, sometimes scared of these kids. Helping them engage in healthy, prosocial behaviors is challenging, but I have been so honored and humbled by this experience. Little things that we so easily overlook, such as birthday cakes, doctors appointments, homework help, and soccer scrimmages – I get to do. I am an adult in their lives who sees their faults, their history, and shortcomings – and they are accepted by me. I have never before seen so much hurt, anger, deprivation, resentment, anxiety, depression, and pure pain as I have witnessed in my clients. Never before have I felt such pride over good grades, winning soccer goals, volunteer work, acquired independent living skills, and improvement in treatment as I do in my kids. This is an experience that I am both thrilled and heavy hearted to move on from. It’s time.