Living "carpe diem"

How do authors wrap up the endings to their stories? Were they thinking of the end the entire time and then shaped the story around it? What made them decide their final scene? As the author of this blog, I was never truly in search of my end. I was never shaping my stories based on my final scene. I lived in the moment. I lived life. I lived carpe diem.

So how can I, the author, sum up my nine months in Spain? Can a pregnant mother sum up her nine months of pregnancy? Of course not. The mother is of course enchanted with life as a new life is being born. As was I during my nine months for a new life was being born to myself.  A life was being unraveled and unspun before me. At times I held on for dear sake just as I would when climbing the roller coaster before the great drop for the fear of the unknown. And other times I let go just to feel the wild and powerful sensation of Life guiding me through her steps. Thus, I suppose you could say that Spain taught me to grow up. It taught me to be an adult. To trust in others. To believe in myself.

With such conclusions, the days of packing up my things to return to the United States were some of the hardest moments I have ever endured. The quiet moments in my room made me realize how much I have grown and only made me want to unpack my things again. Spending my last night with friends made me realize how precious friendship is and caused me to doubt my decision making.  My bus ride to Madrid and my night in my hotel alone made me sick to my stomach knowing that it may be several years before I see the country again. My four hour delay in the airport even made me wonder if Fate was trying to hint to me that I was meant to stay and not leave.   

My doubt lasted until my final destination at the Minneapolis International Airport. How can someone doubt her decision when she sees the look on her mother’s face as she comes down the escalator? How can someone second guess when her father welcomes her home with a hug? How can someone be uncertain when her 88 year-old grandmother hugs her and thanks her for coming home? That someone cannot doubt nor second guess their decision for that someone is now home.

Home it is then and home it shall be for awhile. Like the sands of time, this story has come to an end as I will begin my first year teaching in a new city and new state for next fall. However, just like the sands of time, all I need to do is flip the glass jar over to begin the sands again for yet another story. So what sort of ending do I leave you all with? I leave you with none. From here on, I refuse to think of my ending as a part of my story. My story lives in the present. Whenever I need to, I will refer to the sands of time to begin another story. Therefore, I will live in the moment. I will live life. And whatever may come of it, I will be sure to tell the rest of the story of how I live carpe diem. Until next time,  I thank you all for your support in reading my stories from the last nine months.

Chapter Thirty: A Few Surprises Along the Way

Over the last week, I have had surprises to and to not look forward to...like always, I will begin with the good.

The good was when I finished my last week at school and at the end of the day of the last day, I had the good fortune of a teacher finding me to bring me to the second grade corridor. Coming up closer, I saw small faces peeking around the corner smiling and quickly turning back. Rounding the corner, I saw all four sections of my second graders (about a total of 100 students) standing in the hallway and cheering my name. Meanwhile, another teacher pushed through the crowd to give me cards that each of the students had made for me. And just as I grabbed the cards, it happened. I cried. Yes, I cried. Not like a baby would but I suppose as a proud mother would as she leaves her children to grow up after teaching them all that she could and to allow Life to teach them the rest of their lessons.  


Hugs and kisses galore from that week. I do not believe that I have been honored with so many in my life in such a short time frame. A perfect surprise to begin with before heading out solo on my last journey in Spain. My last adventure was to explore the region of Asturias. With its famous "Picos de Europa", lakes, beaches, and sidra, I had to take some vacation time here before leaving Spain. So on Friday afternoon, I caught a ride with a friend who drove me first to the city, Oviedo, and from there on I went to explore the region. By Monday, I knew I wanted to go to Covadonga and to the lakes in the National Park that holds breathtaking views of what are called the Peaks of Europe. In the small town where I was, I had taken into account bus times for when to leave and to come back. As it was, though, that day, I encountered yet another surprise. Bus strikes. 


Bus strikes as far as I am concerned mean drivers refusing to drive due to pay and to sit around in the station like as if it's still their business to be there. Bus strikes do still need to offer "servicios minimos" or minimal services so I found out that I could still catch the bus at 5:00 pm. What joy. I wanted to arrive early enough to see the town of Covadonga and the lakes at the peaks. That was not enough time. One conductor suggested a taxi. Another offered walking. If I could manage on my two feet, I was not going to pay to take a taxi. So I walked. Mind that I left at 9:15am. 


I left my town of Cangas de Onis to arrive at Covadonga at about 11:45 which had a beautiful church and sanctuary. The beautiful mountains that surrounded it all were too gorgeous to take in just one photograph. After walking 12 kilometers, I was blessed with a sunny day with barely even a cloud in the sky. As I saw another sign for the lakes that said another 12 kilometers, I decided that my legs were strong and that I had food and plenty of water. So I attempted it. Like smart people that you are, you have probably already done the math in your head to figure out that I would go 24 kilometers one way and end up having to do the same on the way back. Well, SURPRISE! I didn't do the math until half way up the mountain. By that time I was too stubborn and big headed to turn around. In the long run, as I look at how sore my butt was the next three days after, I would not do that again nor would I suggest it to anyone. However, the views I saw on foot far surpassed anything that I could have seen in any car or on any tourist bus. 

By the time I reached the lakes and found a small bar, I ordered a huge bocadillo sandwich and a 1 liter bottle of water. I had gone through my food and my water by the same I arrived (which was around 2:45pm) so I allowed myself the time to rest and to readjust to the altitude (I did after all climb 12 kilometers up the mountain). As I sat and ate, I stared at the lake and realized that I made it. I MADE IT! HA! At that point, I wanted to show off to all of those cars who passed me up the mountain that I did indeed arrive and that I was not crazy in the least. So what if I miscalculated the distance?  I made it. 
 

I suppose this was my last bit of energy that kept me going on the way back down to my town. I had to take several more resting stops than I did on my way up. And by the time I arrived to my hostal at 8:45pm, took a shower, ate a very large menu meal, I was in bed by 10:15pm. Ladies and gentlemen, let's just say that is the earliest I have ever gone to bed while in Spain. But I think it was worth it after 48 kilometers that day. And just so you all know, I did it. I made it. Sin problema.


The rest of the week I had the surprise of sore and stiff joints and more bus strikes but to brighten the rest of the trip, I got to enjoy company from a friend of mine who I worked with in the past at a language camp for kids. She and I went went to Aviles one day and although it rained a ton that day, we still enjoyed a fine meal with sidra, basically cider for those of you in the US of A. And by the time the week ended for me to head back to Castro Urdiales, I was picked up by a friend to swing me around for a barbecue with the rest of my fellow teachers at my school. I started the trip with a good surprise and ended it with another good surprise. Funny how Life treats you sometimes, right?

So from going from one surprise to another, I have arrived back to my town in hopes of waiting for maybe yet another surprise in these last few days. With few days remaining, I am going to make sure that each day is used to the fullest and find whatever may come along the way.

Chapter Twenty Nine: Smiles

Some things stay the same all around the world when communicating in another language. In my early years of studying Spanish, I found that adding sound effects such as imitating a race car brought about more vibrant and interesting conversations. Gestures too typically help get the point across like rubbing your stomach to emphasize hunger even though it can  sometimes be confused with the game of "pat your head and rub your tummy". My personal opinion, though, is that you can never go wrong with a pure and simple smile. 

It is clear when a smile is sincere and when it is not. And when you encounter a true sincere smile away from home and away from your known world, it is a moment to treasure for a lifetime. So this year moving away from my protected shield of Wisconsin and venturing into Spain has taught me to truly pay attention to the smiles that I have been granted with. These smiles have encouraged me and have made me hang on a little tighter for a little bit longer. 

As my time in Spain is drawing to an end and I become more and more aware of my departure, I would like to give thanks to some moments that I cherish and that I always will due to the smiles that I was given in moments that I needed them most. 

Take for example the first couple I met in Spain on the airplane and later in the Madrid bus station who offered me not only their phone number but their kindness and hospitality to meet for coffee several afternoons during my first week in the country. 


Or imagine me arriving to my town alone in the small bus station waiting to be picked up by a fellow teacher from my school. Worried and doubtful, I will never forget Silvia's voice from behind me as she asked if my name was Hannah. Her smile and confidence found a place in my dear heart as she became not just my mentor at the school but a close friend as well.


What about when I met my current roommate Guadalupe and we began our first "official" English class by sharing and practicing swearwords. It was quite the class on vocabulary and pronunciation, let me tell you. Take also for example when she invited me to her family's house and her nieces kept peeking around the corner to grin at the weird americana in the room. 


And what about my first few SKYPE chats with my family and friends back in the states? Or how about when I met up with my other American girlfriends in Europe for the first time and only realize together that we had all truly made it back to Europe for a second time? Or the man in the German airport reassuring me that I was going in the right direction on the metro and then to tell me all about German culture of Christmas? And I cannot ever forget the smile of relief as Christina saw me get off the train to spend Christmas with her. Nor can I forget the joy and determination on the girls' faces with whom I walked the Camino de Santiago with as I arrived to the city and they were sprawled on the benches with their sleeping bags after a night bus. How could I ever forget conversing first with the Austrians in English and then in Spanish with the Spaniards over good food and wine along the Camino? 

The answer is: I cannot forget. Nor will I ever forget. These moments are painted forever in my memory. The bright and cheerful smiles have brought me far and all I need to do is choose one of them to re-energize my spirit and body. And although this is my last week in my school and there will be fewer smiles and more tears as the hard truth sets in as I leave, I will never forget the times spent here in this warm and friendly country. A smile is after all a treasure. And a treasure is never to be forgotten.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Good Story

Who doesn't like a good story from time to time? As children or as adults, we all love to occasionally sit around the campfire to listen to old tales from the past. Such was so when yesterday I took a field trip with my first graders to listen to a northern Spanish legend about El hombre pez, or rather yet, The Fish Man. 

The local legend from the town of Lierganes tells of a young man from the north who had rough scaly skin similar to that of a fish and found comfort while swimming. However, he disappeared one night after swimming to later be found five years later by fishermen in the southern seas of the country. Brought back to his home town, the young man barely spoke and sometimes went days without eating. He eventually disappeared yet again but never was found after. Thus it left the town of Lierganes a legend to be continued on through the centuries over meals, campfires even perhaps, or in a small museum filled with thirty some students. 
 
The mystery of where the man went and how and why he disappeared captured the students' attention as well as mine. What could have happened? Stories that end with a cliff hanger like that always leave me hanging on the thought of what happened next. Did he really live in the sea for the rest of his life? No one, I suppose, will ever truly know. 

The fact stands still though that I am a bit bothered of not knowing for certain of the ending. But then again, when looking at my own life story, I suppose I never have a true ending either. Even with my time running up in Spain, it has been a good story so far. Like the fish man whose story appeared to end with jumping back into the sea, neither will my story end with me crossing the sea back home. Because good stories appear to end just when they are about to begin. I suppose the fish man and I have something in common. We're both in search of a new life. New adventures. New beginnings. But we are not in search of endings.

 

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Spring is Here

It seems to me that most cultures have a saying around this time of year that expresses the rain. (In Spanish, "Por abril, aguas mil.") Since April is well-know for rain, it doesn't surprise me in the least that the past couple of weeks have had nothing but "showers" and "heavy rains" and "strong winds" in the forecast. Having taken in many hits from Mother Nature over the weeks, I decided to take the opportunity to explore this past weekend what is typically southern "sunny" Spain and to also visit Madrid for a day.

I set off last weekend first for Merida to see the old roman ruins. The ruins had been weathered down by both wind and of course rain. So as an after thought, it should not have surprised me further yet that the rain would follow me to the south for that weekend as well. However, southern rains versus northern rains, I have noticed to be quite different. In the north, the rain never ceases to stop not for a second. And if it does, you still need to be on your toes and be ready to grab your umbrella when the clouds open up again. Because the clouds always do. In the south, though, I arrived to rainy weather and assumed the whole day would be ruined. But it wasn't. It would rain, stop, and the sun would come out to warm everything up. I would have a good hour and two in between rain showers in order to see the sights and stretch my legs. In those moments of sun in between showers, I had my first taste of spring. Wet grass, dripping leaves, warm earth, and my personal favorite, the fragrant flowers. Whether I was exploring the tops of the roman fortresses in Merida or strolling in the Parque del Retiro of Madrid, I never wanted to stop breathing in everything around me. Grass. Leaves. Earth. But most especially the flowers.
 
Although the season gives me allergies and although the season tempts me with the end of the school year, spring has always been and always will be my favorite season.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Right in the Middle

My two fellow Americans and I arrived ahead of time yesterday afternoon to find an actual seat at the bar. About an hour later, seats were taken, people were crammed into every corner possible, and you could barely hear the person next to you as plasma t.v.s were displayed on every wall for one of the most important games of the season.

Now I do not know much about soccer, or fútbol in this case. I do know, however, that it makes up a part of life and creates the way of people here. Those who once were friends, become enemies and those who were once enemies become friends in a split second. In that split second depending on if you are for Barcelona or Real Madrid, your entire outlook on friendship can change.

As it was then, the bar was divided. One half would cheer as "Goooooooooooool!" was yelled by the announcer as the other half would sulk. As would the opposite do when the other team would score a goal. And like I said before, I do not know much about fútbol so I figured my position in the bar was quite a diplomatic decision: right in the middle. So right in the middle of everything, I got a taste of a little bit of everything. 

From young to old. I saw young kids decked-out in their team's apparel, head to toe. I saw grown men hug each other and others who nearly came to tears when the final goal was scored.

From fashionistas to fans. I saw women more preoccupied in their looks than actually looking to see what was happening in the game. I saw others glued to t.v.s and hardly taking notice to the drink in their hands. 

From Spanish to foreign. I saw Spaniards and heard their lisp and recognized their dramatic hand gestures. I saw also the African street vendor who every-so-often comes in between crowds to sell his items. I saw and met a Portuguese and pinned him as foreign based on his accent. I also saw myself and my two fellow Americans sitting side-by-side. And I realized that right in the middle of everything, we were also a part of everything there as well, no matter what our nationality was.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Where the Walk Begins

"Lo importante no es llegar sino lo que encuentras por el camino."
~Anonymous

El Camino de Santiago. That is, The Way of St. James, in English. It is probably the third most well-known pilgrimage in the world after Jerusalem and Rome. It runs through Spain and ends in the city of Santiago de Compostela located in the northwestern regional part of Galicia. The end of the pilgrimage stays the same. The people who walk, bike, or even ride their horse along the "Camino", however, begin in different directions. I will quickly explain the textbook version of where the "Camino" begins but will give you then my own personal experience and opinion of where it actually begins.

Like any pilgrimage, "El Camino" began traditionally from one's home until the arrival to the city of Santiago. As years have gone on, routes have been established. Some which begin from southern Spain and others which begin from southern France. All of which cross northwestern Spain that connect themselves to the same destination. However, today the Way of St. James has become more personalized to the individual pilgrim and he or she can choose where to start from. Whether it is the full 800 kilometers or the last 80 kilometers of the pilgrimage, it is up to the individual.

So I suppose you could say that I started my walk in Lugo, Galicia. I started the walk with three other American girls who coincidentally found each other on Facebook weeks before looking for other people to walk with. I started the Way of St. James at this point about 100 kilometers out from the city, but I do not consider myself to "begin" my walk here. Allow me to unfold the events of my story.

On day one I arrived to Lugo tired and sore from the bus ride. I eventually found my group who had arrived earlier from Madrid. Fortunately we had decided ahead of time to spend that first day to see the city and rest the full day before starting for real the following day. While resting that first day, I got my first glimpse of what the "Camino" was going to be like. Not the walk, but the people. Which now brings me to day two.

On day two we left our "albergue" or hostel at 7:30 to get an early start. It was technically our first day walking, and neither one of us knew for certain how long 29 kilometers would take us. By the time we reached our destination, we were clearly tired and ready for either a shower or nap or as for me, both. That particular "albergue" was where I met my first companions from the Camino. Two Spanish girls about my age and an Austrian couple traveling along the same route as my group and I. I wish I could have recorded our conversation because our languages connected us so well and brought us to understand each other so much better. First between the Austrian couple, the man and woman would speak in German, then man would translate in English, then my group and I would translate into Spanish for the others. I had not thought much about the connections we made that day with the Austrians and the Spanish until day three.

On day three my group and I were the last to leave the albergue at about 8:30. We were tired. At least I was after walking up with allergies and a partial head cold swimming around in my head. The good news that got me out of bed was that my muscles were still strong and I had minimal blisters on my feet from the day before. Continuing on we walked for the good portion of the morning until we came across a cafe. In other words, it was an unspoken agreement to be a perfect spot for cafe con leche. After warming ourselves up with coffee, we headed off again but this time bumping into one of the two Spanish girls from the day before. It turned out that her friend had an injured foot so her friend left by bus while she carried on alone. That is, until she found us along the way. That is how I came to meet Laura. Later on when my group and I arrived to our destination, she was going to head out a little further. But before doing so, we sat down to eat before splitting ways. In that hour we had together we talked about everything and anything. Food, family, friends, work, education, and my personal favorite, Spanish boys. We filled our time well with laughs and chuckles over silly jokes and stories. By the end, it became hard to say goodbye to someone I had just barely gotten to meet and know. But as it was, our ways along the "Camino" were at different stages and I still had more to learn as day four came around.

As we all got up the next day, a group member found her foot and knee sore and and swollen. My allergies and head cold symptoms had considerably gone down at this point so I could easily empathize with the physical pain of forcing oneself to walk. We took several rest stops in the early morning but by late morning we decided amongst ourselves to divide ourselves into two groups. Two and two. We split up and decided to meet up at the next albergue. In between splitting up and arriving, though, my other fellow companion and I found ourselves sitting down at another cafe for yet again more coffee to warm ourselves up. The thing that made that particular cafe so special was for its character and charm. It was obviously a cafe meant for and only for pilgrims as backpacks were slung across counter tops and stored securely under tables and chairs. But the charm came into play as markers were seen placed randomly throughout the room and then noticing the writing on the walls, chairs, tables, and even ceilings. Quotes, messages, and inspiration were left by fellow pilgrims. I could not soak it all in enough. So many words in so many languages. So many emotions printed on the walls for history to come that spoke of sorrow, love, and forgiveness. It made me really wonder, how many pilgrims pass by here each day, each week, and even so, each year? It made me think, why do they pass through? Are there in search of something? Are they remembering someone? That was when I read my inspiration for the trip: "Lo importante no es llegar sino lo que encuentras por el camino." -The important thing is not arriving rather what you may find along the way.-I do not know who wrote it as there were only initials written next to it, but I took it to heart for the rest of the walk. Now I bring myself to day five.

Day five went in a blur. We kept meeting people and I kept wondering about the quote I read. We arrived at our second-to-last destination before actually coming upon Santiago. In that town, I met an older gentleman who shared several pieces of advice when arriving to the city. What to see, what to do, where to eat, etc. The most important piece of advice he gave me was to remember where the "camino" begins. Beforehand, he had asked me where I started and I told him, Lugo. He corrected me by saying, "No, no, no. No en Lugo." And so he asked me again and I told him again, "En Lugo." Again he corrected me by saying not in Lugo. He told me that the "Camino" does not start in the city but rather it is when we come upon Santiago and what we choose to do afterwards.

You can imagine then on day six when we arrived finally to Santiago that I truly came to realize that my walk in the last few days never fully started. After spending holy Thursday and Friday and Easter in Santiago, it was only just beginning. When I went to "Cabo Finisterre" or what is known as the "End of the World" to burn an item that I carried along the "Camino," it was only just beginning. It is still beginning at this very moment.

So technically, I started this walk or pilgrimage in Lugo and ended in Santiago de Compostela. But what did I find along the way? I found that it is only beginning just now.

Chapter Twenty Four: Spanish Drivers

Public transportation in Spain has carried me far and wide throughout this country. Hopping from train to train to reach the southern tip of Andalusia. Catching an overnight bus to save on cash to and from Barcelona. Jumping on a trolley to see the sights more quickly and efficiently in a city. Riding on the metro to get from point A to point B. I've even rented a bike from time to time to add to the experience of seeing a town not on four wheels but on two. Never have I ever felt scared or worried while taking public transportation here. What you should be mindful though is to never ride in the front seat. If you do, try to avoid looking out the front window.

During my time here, I have not "gotten behind the wheel" as they would say. I made it part of my bucket list to attempt at renting a car but I have changed my mind on that part seeing as I have been sat up front in a Spanish vehicle. What I have seen from the front seat does not mean to say that Spanish drivers are reckless or dangerous. Rather, I have never seen someone park a car so well in such small spaces and then actually be able to back themselves out again. So instead, they are, perhaps, just a bit more daring than I am as drivers.

Take for example this weekend when I went hiking with some other people. We took a car to get there and I was graciously given the front seat. I honestly think I would have preferred the back. While zooming around tight curves on narrow streets with cows and goats strolling along the side of the road, I unconsciously grabbed the handle on the door to steady myself.

That one quick moment did not fool anyone. The driver saw right through me. "Are you scared?" she asked.

"No. No. I'm fine, really." Okay, so I lied, big deal.

Actually it was. We continued on like normal. Or, at least, as normal as can be. We skimmed corners, avoided stop signs, sped up past yellow lights (and sometimes red), and passed cars in no-passing zones. That's when I grabbed the door handle once again. And again, the driver asked me, "Are you scared?"

"Maybe a little," I told the truth this time.

And the truth is, from then on, I avoided looking out the front window. I braced myself against the speed bumps, tight turns, and sudden stops. Despite the bumpy ride, all I can say is that the Spanish are very daring people. Daring in the sense that they will hike six hours with you in a day. Daring in the sense that they open themselves towards foreigners and other cultures. Daring in the sense that some here fear nothing while driving a car.

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Three Little Pigs

I have had several questions while I have been here about my life as an English teacher. It has been five months already and I realize that I have not fully explained on the blog my weekly routine at the school. Well, allow me to explain what I do and then I'll give you an example to go along with it.

Monday
I do not give classes at the "cole" or school as my position is only part-time, but in the evening I give two private classes to students.

Tuesday
School starts at 9:30. I arrive and teach my second graders for the day. School ends at 4:30 but then I give one extra private class in the evening.

Wednesday
I will admit that Wednesdays are my more difficult days. Difficult, meaning, mentally difficult. I begin the day with teaching sixth graders. Then I switch schools half-way through to give classes in an early childhood classroom. Going from thirteen years old to three years old is quite the change. Let me tell you. Then, I go back to my original school to work with my fourth graders in the afternoon. Whew! But not done yet. After school I give yet again another private class. If you are a teacher, you can imagine the mental stress I have that day to adapt to several age ranges. Each class is new and fun in its own way but by the end I am in need of some sort of energy release. Which is why I have picked up a spinning class at a gym on that particular evening.

Thursday
This day is the longest, in hours, meaning. I spend the majority of the day working with first graders but then in the afternoon I spend one class with fourth graders. After school, I give two extra private classes.

Friday
Since Thursday is my longest day, I am very grateful to not have classes in the morning. Only one private class in the afternoon and the rest of the day is mine. All for me.

However, I have already filled you in on what I do in my free time. What I have not told you is about the classes themselves. What do I teach? How do I teach it?

Question #1: What do I teach?
I teach English. Period. I do not teach the grammar though. I teach the culture by speaking in its language.

Question #2: How do I teach it?
Ahhh. The joys of teaching a second language. You can be as creative as you want. Plain and simple. We sing songs. We play games. We read stories. We dance. We do skits. We watch video clips. We analyze songs. In the end, we have fun while we learn.

Which is exactly how I bring myself to tell you about The Three Little Pigs. For the last few weeks, I have been working with my first and second graders on the story of The Three Little Pigs. Because last week, we took a field trip to Bilbao to see a play done in English about it. In order to prepare the students for an hour long play in English, I took time in class for the last few weeks to present key vocabulary and also songs that would be sung in the play.

This last Wednesday was the big day where over a hundred of us loaded the buses to go to Bilbao and see the play. I was so proud of my students. The play was interactive with the audience. Meaning, the actors on stage encouraged involvement from the students to sing the songs and answer questions. I am sure I am a bit biased considering that they are my students but I felt like our school knew the lyrics and vocabulary the best.

Even more proud I was after the play when we all went to the park and the children were still singing the songs. An English teacher's job like mine here in Spain is to encourage students to speak in the second language. So when students came up to me in the park to sing the songs again and to try speaking the limited English that they knew with me, I could not have had a more prouder moment as a teacher. For I came here in hopes to motivate students in a new language, and I feel like The Three Little Pigs has helped be to do just that.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Cookies and Flan

Food. I am such a fan for it. Especially when it comes to desserts. I not only enjoy eating desserts but also making them as well. So when teachers at school switch off every Thursday to make a dessert to bring for lunch, I of course had to join in. Awhile back, it was my turn to bring the postre. I thought and thought and thought what to bring. Then I realized the perfect American dessert: chocolate chip cookies.

The process of making the cookies in Spain made me a little nervous. Not because I didn't know the recipe. Not at all. I still remember when I would help my mom crack the eggs to add to the rest of the dough. The recipe is basically ingrained into me. Rather I was nervous because I was not sure if the ingredients from Spain would have an odd effect on the cookies. After all, I was not using true Wisconsin butter from back home and Spaniards are not known to make cookies like we do. Though, there is no need to worry as the cookies turned out a success. Even the Spaniards loved them and begged for the recipe. Considering I used Nestle's recipe, I had no special ties to holding the recipe as a secret. Unfortunately, I have no photograph to use as proof that the cookies actually turned out well.

I do, however, have something even better. After I made and brought the cookies to school, there were exactly four left over. Two, I gave to my roommate who had not tried them yet. And the last two I gave to a student and his mother when I went to their English class later that afternoon. And again, the Spaniards that I taught loved them as well. I shared the recipe with them and we found ourselves discussing desserts, sweets, chocolates, basically anything with sugar. That is how we decided to make flan for the next week in class.

You already know that I am trying to cook more Spanish dishes so when the family offered to meet a little earlier to teach me how to make flan, I immediately said yes. Last Tuesday, the mother and her son and I met up in their kitchen and together we made the typical Spanish postre of flan.

The texture and flavor is quite unlike most things that you will probably have tried in America. The texture is similar to jello but not exact. It's a bit firmer. The flavor is mostly caramel but there's more to it that is hard to explain. If you're interested in the ingredients, it is quite easy. Just repeat after me: 3,2,1.

This is how the mother taught me. 3,2,1. Three eggs. Two cups of milk. One can of condensed milk. Along with, you need liquid caramel. The down side is that when you make this, you need a specific container to cook the flan in that I have never seen before in America. The up side is that I will most definitely be buying one before I leave so that I can make this dessert back at home!

Chapter Twenty-One: Spanish Polar Express

You already know that I took the opportunity to meet up with a friend in France based on my last blog. What you do not know is that when going to France, I happened to catch the Spanish Polar Express. That is, what I like to think of as the Spanish version of the Polar Express. There is something that has always drawn me towards trains. Whether it is the solemn distant sound that you hear from afar or the constant forward movement, there is truly something mesmerizing about a train ride. Thus, instead of catching a flight, I took the opportunity to see the landscape via train. And lucky for me, I was granted with a little magic that day.

At the time that I went, you may realize already that Europe was experiencing winter for what it is meant to be. Snow. Snow makes up winter. In that case when I caught my train from Bilbao to head to Bordeaux, I expected the landscape to change. But as the landscape changed from coast to inland, I did not expect the climate to change. So quick was the change that I do not recall when the change occurred. But it happened. I swear to it that I magically somehow stepped onto the Spanish version of the Polar Express. All of a sudden the trees, houses, cars, and everything around me turned to white. Although it was not Christmas time, it sure felt like it.

And just like a child on Christmas morning I was giddy as ever. I had seen snowflakes in my town awhile ago but it was nothing to compare to this. There was snow everywhere. And like a true Midwesterner from the United States who has missed winter so, I of course had to pull out my camera. Unfortunately my photos did not turn out the best. The movement of the train was too fast to get a clear picture.

Instead of viewing the picture right away, try to build a mental picture of what I saw. If you can recall the illustrations from the famous book, The Polar Express, you can imagine my train ride early that morning: Snow-covered roofs; clear white roads; farm animals grazing; frosted misty mountains; in the meantime you sit inside watching the snowflakes pass you by like as if you were in a snow globe.

On my Spanish Polar Express that day, I saw through the eyes of a child. I saw magic. And I believed. So believe me when I say this: Magic is real. You just need to believe. If you don't want to believe, take a train somewhere, anywhere, and you will be drawn into its magic.

Chapter Twenty: French Cuisine

Arriving to France on Friday night, I could think of just one single thing: food. My friend who I was meeting in Bordeaux had repeatedly told me about French food and had especially laid heavy emphasis on desserts. All I have to say after this weekend is that I have no guilt about what I ate. Eating is an important part of travel. It is part of the culture. It is a part of the people. So unlike other travels that I have been on where the highlights were of places or people, France highlighted its food for me.

So allow me to begin my food frenzy from this weekend.

On Friday night when my friend and I found our hostel, we had one direction set for ourselves: to find food. We came upon a restaurant that served a menu (three-course meal). Talking over wine and telling stories of this and that, I managed to consume a salad with goat cheese, duck, potatoes, and a delicious chocolate cake. I wish I had the words in French to tell you just exactly how delicious the meal was. French, in my opinion, is after all the language of love. And that meal was exactly that, love. I was taken in on the first night and I would have two full more days after that to experience French cuisine.

Saturday morning then involved waking up early to see Bordeaux. Michelle, my friend in France, and I had already made the plan to tour the city as quickly as possible then to jump a train to see another city before arriving to her town. So needless to say, we browsed Bordeaux while skimming through the streets, wandering through and out of churches, checking out souvenir shops, and of course grabbing something quick to eat. In the morning I was introduced to two different pastries. And due to the unusual cold that has been set into Europe these past weeks, we eventually found ourselves several times throughout the weekend finding other cafes to sit down in and to try something new.

That's how it was when we arrived to La Rochelle later that day. After touring cold windy fortress towers, we needed some warming up. And what better way to warm up than to hot chocolate and crepes? I ordered a chocolate-banana crepe not realizing how big and filling it would be. My eyes were bigger than my stomach but that did not stop me in the least from finishing my entire plate full of food. Nearly every last crumb was licked off the plate. And again, there was not guilt afterwards. There was only a warm over-flowing sense of love for the food.

However, do not misread or misunderstand me. I do still love Spanish food and everything it has to offer. In fact, even the French appreciate Spanish cuisine as well. Before I had left Spain, Michelle and I talked about bringing Spanish chorizo (a type of sausage) and morcilla (another type of sausage) to make in France. Therefore, that Saturday night instead of going to another restaurant, Michelle and I cooked at her place in Niort and served other French and Americans that were living in France a traditional Spanish lentil soup with chorizo and fried morcilla with red pepper. From the French side, we put together an excellent dish. Unfortunately, I did not have another Spaniard along to testify to it as well.

Thus, Saturday came to an end and Sunday began. Sunday, I suppose, was and was not a day of rest. We slept late knowing that I would have a sleeper train and would probably not get a lot of rest. However, Sunday was a bit of a rush as Michelle and I sped through her town to see the quick sites before we hopped yet another train to reach the city of Poitiers where my train would leave later that night. And of course due to the abnormal cold and lack of precaution on our parts (mostly mine) to not dress warm enough, we were driven into churches to rest our cold feet and yet again into cafes to warm our hands with either coffee or hot wine.

Hot wine? Yes, I tried my first hot wine mixed with some spices. Yes. That's correct.

What's that you say? Did I like it? Hmm... I did not dislike it. I'm just obviously not French. Maybe with some more practice rounds it will grow on me but at this point, I think I will pass. However, do not be afraid to try it based on my first impression. Nor either don't just pass something up based on looks or appearances. There were several things I passed up on the menu based on my definition of what food should be. I stuck with the safe route.

Take for example how I chose the salad with goat cheese instead of the salad with gizzard. If you have tried gizzard salad and liked it, you are most definitely braver than I am. Nevertheless, if you are on the same side as I am about salad choices, remember this: be bold every so often. Don't hold back and stick with the same old, same old. Try something new. Attempt a Spanish dish back at home. Or find the courage to try some French cuisine.

Chapter Nineteen: Numbers

A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who does not play has lost forever the child who lived in him.
~Pablo Neruda

This week seemed like a constant question: How old are you? Followed by of course, I am twenty-four.

This week also seemed like a constant reminder. Between teachers, students, and friends I was told and told again how young I am.

True, I am young. I even surprised several students with my age. But after receiving many cards from students at school and many versions of Happy Birthday in English and Spanish, I celebrated my birthday "Spanish style". And throughout the night, I shared some advice with some Spaniards. Some have taken this up to be"wisdom" but I just consider it a way of life considering I watched and learned this from my parents. My parents have taught and shown me that your age is only a number. Nothing more. What counts more is that if you truly feel young within yourself, then you are young. It all depends on how you look at and perceive yourself in the morning of every day.

If every morning you wake up thinking, "Dear Lord, please take away these wrinkles and this gray hair," that inner spirit that makes you feel young will be drowned by darker thoughts that will do nothing but age you further yet, physically and spiritually.

So yes, I accept that physically I am still very young. Twenty-four is not a number to complain about nor would I ever try to. And yes, I may not have the right to say, "Don't worry" about a situation like this considering I am not yet placed into that dilemma.

However, I do feel like I have the right to remind people to enjoy the day. Whether it is your birthday or not, be thankful for what you have. This year I give thanks to all family and friends who have shown me love from the very beginning and have accepted me for who I am. Because deep down when you think about it, numbers do not and should not matter to anyone. What is more at stake and more important is the child within you that yearns to play more and more as an adult figure. Keep that spirit alive and you will stay a child at heart forever.

Chapter Eighteen: Small Moments

At times throughout the day, I need to disconnect myself from reality. Music tends to build the disconnection from my reality but if I truly want to transport myself to another realm, I need to do something active: running, biking, hiking. Something. Not just sit in front of the TV with the remote in one hand and a bag of potato chips in another. There is something about the way that the wind can brush through your hair or the sound that leaves make as they are blown around that can really put you in another world. It is then when those small moments occur. So small that they pass you by just as quickly as they came. So if you're not paying attention or if you are in a rush to get somewhere, you will lose a precious moment during your day.

To bring myself to my point more clearly, it was on Monday that I decided to take a hike. I have already decided to begin training for the Way of Saint James (El Camino de Santiago, in Spanish). For the last few weeks then I have been adding on an hour of hiking. Last week was four hours. Four hours. That's all it takes to build new memories in a busy week.

I had gone back that day to a place where I had been before with others. I knew the way and since it was such a beautiful day, I had to take advantage of the weather. Even a fellow mountain biker commented on the beauty to me. So take into consideration what I like to think as my first small moment during the hike.

Coming up a hill, I could see in the distance another person coming from a rougher side-trail with his mountain bike. Coming closer I saw he had short curly hair in the front and very unattractive braided-like dreads in the back. He certainly wasn't a future husband candidate on my part. And only wanting to continue on my hike I almost passed up a small moment before me. However he stopped me to ask for directions. After explaining where he was and where to go, we talked about how gorgeous the views were that day. Two minutes tops. That's probably all the conversation lasted. However, for me it was a small victory for two reasons. One, I was proud to be able to give directions to this mountain-biker dude. And two, I was proud to know how to give directions. Meaning, I didn't slip up on my grammar or pronunciation and during our other half of the conversation, he never asked where I was from. I felt for once that I had a place here in this city. If I can give directions and converse like that without any problem, then Destiny must be showing me how proud she is of how far I have come while I have been in Spain.

Moving to a new place, whether it is a new city, state, country, or even continent as for my situation, is never easy. You start over. You begin a new life. So if or when you move to a new and unknown place, remember those small moments in your day. Those moments will motivate you to go on. To go ahead. To go beyond. If need be, do what I did. Hike into the mountains and sit on a log to reflect and meanwhile be further surprised when a farmer comes up the path asking if you've seen his goats. Yes, that would be another small moment on that day of mine.

Chapter Seventeen: Paso adelante

Step forward. One. Two. Three. Four.

You can imagine my dance class as something like that. My instructor calling out the beats for the rest of us to follow along with the steps. This has now been my second class. Fun. Exciting. Memorable. However, this story looks at the "before" or the "behind scenes" of my attempt at a dance class in Spain.

Step forward.

My first class made me a nervous wreck before going. I had called ahead of time to check that the times were current and that there was room available. But after hanging up the phone, I realized my next task: presenting myself to the dance studio. What do I wear? Do I need certain shoes? Why did I not ask these questions before over the phone? Madre mia.

Step forward.

Eventually I pulled myself out the house for the class even with my doubts about it all. And the walk to the studio went a little like this in my head:
I'm going, I'm going, I'm going.
Why am I going?
Yes, yes, yes, I have to go.
But why again?
What an idiot I am.

Step forward.

These thoughts did not stop my legs from carrying me to the studio though. And upon arriving, I realized there were two entrances. One at the front. One at the back. Shoot. Which do I go into? Or do I turn back?

Step forward.

I walked around the building a few times contemplating it all. Do I go in? Do I turn around? Those who know me best know that when I am deep in thought, I tend to speak to myself. A trait that I am not real proud of. However, in the meantime of this all, I lost track of how many times I had walked around the building. And after awhile I was conscious of a man smoking a cigarette who was watching me curiously as I battled through my thoughts.

Step forward.

I knew I looked crazy. So there was only one choice to make. I walked in. But in the wrong entrance. Fortunately, the man at the counter directed me to go back to the other entrance. Unfortunately, the man smoking the cigarette was still outside. So pulling my scarf tighter around my face to cover my blushing cheeks, I suffered the humiliation of a few questioning eyes as I walked back to the other entrance.

Step forward.

So what if that man thought I was crazy. At least I came. I did not back down on my embarrassment. I know I could have. The opportunity was there to back away. To turn around. To step back.

Step forward.

I opened the door and since I arrived a few minutes late, I was greeted with several stares. However, amidst the music, I could hear the instructor's voice ringing out:
paso adelante, 1, 2, 3, 4...

That's when I knew I made the right choice. Come whatever would come after that, the salsa, the merengue, the cha-cha-cha, I stepped forward.

Chapter Sixteen: Where are you from?

Where are you from? It is an honest and yet simple question to ask someone. And since I am dark blond, pale, and have an accent, I tend to stick out sometimes in my small city. Thus, the reason why I get asked a lot where I am from.

Sometimes, though, people do not come straight out to ask me where I am from, they will merely guess at where I am from. So far I have had people ask me if I am from England. Which makes sense considering I am teaching English and England is geographically the closest country to Spain. So in a way I understand their train of thought.

However, other people have also asked me if I am from France, Norway, Germany, and even Portugal. Don't worry. I didn't understand that last one either. But I think my favorite that tops the cake was this weekend when someone thought I was from Russia.

Yes. Russia. Why? Allow me to retell the conversation from that night.

I was already out with some people that I had known before and also that I had just met. Towards the beginning of the night there was apparently a debate among the Spaniards as to where I was from. The majority knew and figured I was American. However, one person swore that I had to be Russian because of my facial characteristics.

Now, I have never considered my characteristics to be very Russian, but apparently they are for some people. And unfortunately I was not a part of the debate with the Spaniards so I have no clue how much persuasion they had to do in order to convince the last person. All I know is that towards the end of the night when I was talking about home in Wisconsin (USA not Russia), the conversation struck up again how I looked Russian.

And no, I am not Russian. The closest I get to Russian is Slovenian from my father's side. Which I did tell to that one solo believer. Which he responded with something like, "You see! At least I was right with her being part eastern European."

In a way, I am actually flattered by him thinking I were Russian. I do try hard to not appear like a tourist. I avoid the tennis shoes at all costs and have adapted into wearing boots. I also refused to bring my big heavy Columbia jacket and brought my pea coat instead and made a special purchase of a leather jacket. However, in the end, I am still me. Despite my purchases and attempts to "spanishize" myself. I am still American. Born and raised in Wisconsin. 100% There is no doubt about it. So whether or not people think I am European, I am still proud to answer the question as to where I am from.

I am from Wisconsin, USA.

Chapter Fifteen: Dear 2011

Dear 2011,
You were a full year. A good year. Student teaching, filling out job applications, working at summer camps, organizing visa requirements to Spain, finding a place to live to call home, and meeting people who now are good friends.

2011, what can I say? There were tears. There were smiles. But you taught how to take advantage of every moment; to see the good through the bad; to never doubt.

With these good lessons, we are now back to a new beginning. A new year. A year that is sure to be full of both tears and smiles. But a year to grow. A year to make choices and not second guess. And a year to not worry but to stand firm with what one wants.

And what one wants is at times hard to say. But when one isolates him or herself on a mountain top for three days, wishes are not exactly granted but create themselves into a plan of action so that they may eventually come true.

Montserrat, Spain showed this to me. Hiking along the rocky paths surrounding the Spanish monastery can be and was insightful. So early in the new year, just a week in, I know these next months will prove to be just as rewarding or maybe even more so than the months of 2011.

So 2011, it was fun and great when it was your turn. But now it is time to move aside and make room. A new year is here along with so many other new things yet to come.

Sincerely,

2012