How about a nice cold one?

I have decided that I'm just not cut out for the service industry. Unfortunately, I am beginning to discover that EDUCATION is also included in this blanket category. Here I thought that my heaven-sent cushy summer job had something to do with "education" and "some of the brightest students," instead of those kids that couldn't get into an academic summer program and needed their parents to start signing checks before they could attach "college credit" to their college apps. This is highly specious college credit, if you didn't figure that out on the first try.

Let my preface my tirade by expressing my gratitude for being able to "live" in Spain for a month with relatively little cost. By "live" I of course mean spend a month in a semi-shady hotel room with the worst food on the Iberian Penninsula, and by relatively little cost, I would of course downplay my addiction to Spanish fashion in the form of Zara and locally made shoes.

My Spanish got a much-needed tune-up, and after nearly two years of disuse, that felt good. I also got to meet some pretty amazing Sevillanos, whom I know I will stay in touch with.

Let's recap: shoes, a few dresses, pleasant interactions with approximately 8 people, that's what I got out of my last visit to Spain.

The rest of my time was divided between being shot down by my boss after an attempt at "order" "discipline" or "planning," sitting in Starbucks to ensure that the chavales didn't drink/have sex/get lost in the 15 cubic meter commercial space, guiding groups of whiny children in 100+ degree heat, finding tiritas to cover the inevitable bloodied heel from four-inch stilettos, and/or searching for that place deep down within my soul from which I could drag up a plastered on "happy face" which would signal to both my employer and clients that I wished nothing more than to be at their beck and call for a mere pittance of a salary. Oh, and did I mention that I lost my cameras (yes, that's cameraS with a plural) in the JFK airport? There's something about Spain that sucks Nikon N80's into oblivion.

At typical evening waiting outside the illustrious Hotel Don Paco for the little angels.

Scheduled departure time: 7:45. At this time two children are outside the hotel ready to go: the alterna-chick from Manhattan, silent brooding boy, and the One-In-A-Million considerate JAP.

7:55- Andy, Brandi, Bobbi, Joey, Amy, and Sam (all girls) stumble downstairs in their too-short skirts, too-small shirts, and too-tall shoes. I mumble my daily futile plea, which as usual falls on deaf ears: "If you can't walk in your shoes, please don't wear them."


8:00- Said androgynously named bunch collectively ignore my well intentioned warning and proceed to take upwards of 30 pictures of themselves, in various groups and from various angles.

8:15- Myself, or one of the other illustrious leaders verbalizes the need to depart for restaurant.

8:16- Someone starts crying re: hair that has not been properly straightened; shoes not appropriate for venue (go figure!); Andy, Randi, Bobbi, Joey, Amy, or Sam is wearing part or all of my outfit and we cannot be seen together; Sandy (boy) is not here, and I can't eat without my boyfriend.

8:20- Crying person is appeased, per request of Program Director, by any means necessary.

8:30- Group departs on foot for dinner.

8:45- Group arrives at restaurant (normally a 5 minute walk, elongated beyond recognition due to stilettos) to greet angry restaurateur who has been ready for an hour. Staff member apologizes, then proceeds to apologize for rude behavior of students yelling at each other, scrambling for seats, and rearranging entire restaurant seating area to prohibit other customers from eating.

9:25- 8 bulimic girls visit bathroom one at a time (or all at once) to vomit up pre-paid dinner.

9:30- Staff member again apologizes to owner, waitstaff, and manager for group behavior and rudeness, then leaves with students.

9:50- Return to hotel so that children could dig up the sequestered alcohol from myriad corners of room and proceed to get drunk, while staff members patrol hallways and monitor activities.

To be fair, I could interact with most of the children (note caveat of *most*) on an individual basis; some of them were even smart/interesting, like the kid who worked three jobs to pay for his own trip, and was genuinely interesteed in Spanish history and culture. But there is still something so foul, so unbearable about the behavior of teens in large, uncontrolled masses that leaves a slime of filth on my psyche. It's not indelible, but neither is it removed with great facility.

The easiest way, and most pleasurable as I learned from one of my first teaching mentors, is to wash it down with a nice cold one. Unfortunately, this was contractually prohibited by my employer while I was within EU territory. Very quickly, however, we learned to adapt as the children did, sneaking a manzanilla, a cerveza, or a cubata from the bar when the little ones were at play. Ironically, I never snuck around to drink in high school, so this couldn't hearken back to old times of illicit drinking and partying, but even without that sort of nostalgia I felt immersed in that same awful, vindictive, manipulative, petty, stupid culture.

Ick.

I'm glad it's all over. Now, I think I'll walk downstairs to my own refrigerator, in the privacy of my adult living space and grab one (not five, not three, not ten, but ONE) cold beer to savor on a hot summer evening. That's what life should be like.

Meteorological and Metaphorical Strangeness

I saw my first Mr. Robin Redbreast yesterday, just when I'd resigned myself to the fact that snow and ice really are pretty, even if they mess with my conceptions of the 'proper' seasons. As my ornithological parents have taught me, the appearance of my small fat feathered friend means that spring is on its way. I can't take all these mixed signals.

Speaking of mixed signals...no, not really; I don't know where I was going with that.

The winter weather continues, and I was informed that we're to expect 3-6 more inches tonight, in full violation of the first day of spring. Oh well. Maybe I'll actually get my ass out and play in the snow this time, and forget about my burgeoning writing assignments.

We're also starting 'La Casa de Bernarda Alba' in tutorials, and I'm afraid that the kids won't like it. I mean, it's funny and insulting, and absolutely riddled with excessive metaphors, but trying to get that across might be beyond my powers of teaching. We'll see how things go.

Speaking of teaching...just over 3 weeks till the TFA letters are mailed. Shit, that's soon. That also means that my thesis (one of them) is due the next week. Scary. Rachael finished hers today, and I felt a little spark of sympathetic release for her, but still am quite aware of the work that I've still got left.

I've also been listening to a lot of music lately that pleases me immensely with simple lyrics. I [heart] songs that speak to 'thea.' Try this one on for size, c/o the iTunes network in the apartments. Frigteningly enough, it just dawned on me that "Anna's Music" might belong to Ms. Karni, my (and sort of Klu's, and others') unspoken arch nemesis since Intro CompLit sophomore year. Crap. How can you hate someone who has such *hip* taste in music? The trendiness disgusts me, and yet somehow I cannot pull away. In any case, here goes:

Lemon Meringue Pie
Pulled into town about a quarter to three
Singin' songs from Spain at the top of my lungs.
She said "hey babe" when she saw me,
I went lookin' for her, and she went lookin' for fun.
Dancin' in the kitchen with a wooden spoon,
I couldn't see what she was makin' from the other side of the room
I took a step inside and made myself a part of that night.

...She said "you've always got to read the box,
But you gotta read me right."
We made some lemon meringue pie,
And it sucked, but anyway I would make it again with you any time.
We ate your lemon meringue pie,
I supppose I shouldn't lie, it's the only reason that I came by
Tonight.

I have been thinking a lot about Spain lately, chatting with Mark about Madrid, all the hullabaloo on the Go Boards about the terrorist attacks, and how much fun I had over there last year. This evening, however, whilst licking a wooden spoon in my kitchen I thought about springtime in Spain, and I couldn't remember any robins. Orange blossom trees, the azahar, dusty feria grounds, and tons of rain, but no robins. I guess there are some things that I missed around here in the spring, and some new things that I like even better than Spanish pop.