Torture Spanish style

My first official Spanish class took place last week. Now, to be fair, I had a couple of more informal lessons from a lovely lady who now counts as a friend, however, now being (informally and illegally) employed as an English teacher, I get a perk of free Spanish classes.

Now, I was very clear on becoming "employed" by the School I work at, about my extremely limited Spanish ability – and that I needed beginners classes. I assumed in the all the various dialects and accents of English, that beginners mean exactly what it says, beginner. Clearly, I was wrong.

I attend a class with a French man and a Russian lady, both of whom can speak Spanish it seems, since they know all the 100000000 verb forms and the tenses, and they understand the whole masculine and feminine thing (every single noun is either male or female, and, it seems, verbs change depending which it is). So there I sit in my class, and the only feeling I can relate it to, was a couple of Law exams many moons ago, where I swore I studied a text book, but that the lecturer drew the examination paper from another text book that I never saw before. You know the feeling. Panic....and then...blank.

Then, to top it off, the teacher insists we speak only Spanish in the class. I in principle agree with this proposal, however, to speak Spanish when I have no idea what someone is saying to me, just defeats the purpose. Then to ask me a question in Spanish, and expect an answer in Spanish, is just torture. Of course I am then struck dumb and have no idea how to even say that I don’t understand. I can see why the Spaniards were such scary warriors...their teachers are pretty damn frightening.

As such, I am convinced I am the worst student in the world, that the teacher knows I have no bloody idea what she is saying (the blank look must be an indication), but if I have learnt anything in my studies and life, it is that you can prove yourself and other people wrong. So my motto for this learning Spanish thing is to give it horns and just do it. What else am I supposed to do?

Spanish mothers, and yes, I am a pushover

I explained previously that in my home country, I practised as an attorney, for a number of years.

Now, due to fact that for some unbeknownst reason the Spanish government has decided I am not allowed to work (formally), I work illegally since I have a skill that seems to be rare in my host country, namely that I can (allegedly) speak English, and as such, I am a teacher. You can spot the irony here.

In any event, I now teach children and adults alike the art of speaking and writing English.

Today I had the privilege of talking to a Spanish mother, and due to the nature of this discussion I thought it prudent to share same:

1.    Her nine year old daughter is in my class. Lovely girl, very sweet and eager, she does all her written work perfectly, but she is so shy, she refuses to talk. Fine, I was once upon a time an introvert, so I can relate. I believe positive reinforcement makes a tremendous difference and as such, I don’t demand that a shy child part take in class. Clearly I am wrong in this thought.

2.    Her daughter’s marks in English improved from the equivalent of 50% to 90% since I have been teaching her. Yes, I can boast about something.

3.    However, her daughter’s own full time teacher (who is also the child’s formal English teacher), told the mother that she must talk to me, because the little girl does not talk enough. I must “make” her speak to me in English.

Right. I stand and listen to this and would like to tell the mother the following (in English, of course):

1.       You daughter is an introvert. Deal with it.

2.       I am supposed to teach a “fun” English class. “Making” someone talk hardly falls in the category of “fun” in my view.

3.       I am not the child’s formal English teacher, she has one, and surely this teacher can also “make the child talk”.

4.       I could sit on her child and make her speak English, I think however such behaviour could have serious repercussions for me.

5.       On any given day, I have a group of approximately fifteen screaming (Spanish speaking) nine year olds for one hour in my class. This hour is normally spent as follows:

Ø  I have to ensure that I don’t kill the children;

Ø  I have to ensure that they don’t kill one another;

Ø  I have to ensure that they do not all go to the bathroom all at the same time, which they of course do want to do, ten times during one class;

Ø  I have to deal with this mob who for some reason every Monday, or in fact any day that ends with a - y -, has lost their ability to speak, read, understand, comprehend or listen to English;

Ø  I have to encourage them to take less than one hour to settle down, got to the bathroom, take out their books (which they for some reason almost always forget), look at the board and start their exercises;

Ø  I have to, during each and every class, explain that “he is for a man”, and “she a woman”. One would think this explanation would, after the one hundredth time, stick. Indeed not;

Ø  I have to translate each word and sentence;

Ø  I have to encourage, beg and threaten certain children to just complete the exercises (of which the answers are written on the black board I might add); and

Ø  I have to prevent children from climbing out of windows, kicking a soccer ball, throwing scissors, pens, pencils and the like.

As such, my time to ensure a shy little girl who out of her own does not want to speak English, or Spanish as far as I can gather, talks in class.

I am however incapable of saying any of the above to the mother, due to the fact that not only is my Spanish so limited, but, further, when her daughter then runs to me, gives me a hug and says she loves English, I think, all right, take a deep breath, and just…smile and nod.

Winter? Where?

As I write the title to this blog, I am sure that the snow gods are going to come after us with vengeance. Be that as it may, I shall continue writing my blog, one hand firmly touching wood.

I was waiting in breathless anticipation for our first white Christmas. Alas, no luck, we have only been blessed with a freezing wind. I am however extremely happy to report that the sun shines every day, which makes the cold more bearable.

As such, I am completely confused by the winter weather in Madrid. Thus far, it is very similar to winter in Johannesburg: blood curling cold at night and in the early morning (with the only difference that everything freezes outside, including our cars, and in light of our central heating, which I think is the best thing mankind ever thought of for winter in Europe, I am completely in love with our house), and chilly, but sunny afternoons. I have learnt the use of an ice scraper, and yes, I have broken one already.

I am even able to go for my daily walks with the red dogs, however, the playing field has levelled somewhat – the red dogs still launch a full scale attack to ensure that I get irritated enough to take them for a walk, however, the moment they step outside from our warm little casa, the ice bear winds whirls around them, their breath comes as white misty gasps, and they then attempt to re-enter our house. I am then off course the wicked witch of Madrid, and with an evil grin proceed to make them walk for at least an hour. I am however the creator of my own misfortune, since after this bone chilling walk, I have to sit in a scalding bath for at least half an hour in order to thaw my frozen body parts, since in order to walk around properly, I need to feel my limbs.

I have however been told that the winter in Madrid is usually very bad in January, February and March. I pray this is merely a rumour, since I can cope with this weather for a while still, however, I suspect I will not be so lucky.

As such, I am thankful for that our first winter in Madrid has been mild thus far. I pray that it will always be like this. Further, I am very happy that we are not camping during this time; I would have been one very unhappy camping buddy.

Now, how to appease the snow gods to have this sunny winter continue…of course they speak Spanish, so I may just cause a blizzard should I attempt to communicate with them….

Happy New Year (Spanish style...)

The Engelas celebrated their first New Year with friends we met here. Yes, we have friends, not all people in Spain are Spanish, thank the Lord, otherwise we would have serious trouble meeting people. And as such, we experienced our first European New Year.

Now, this was such an interesting evening, so far removed from anything we previously experienced, that I thought it prudent to share some details of our night with you:

1.    NOTHING is open in Madrid on New Year’s Eve. We live (in Spanish terms) in the sticks, so no restaurants are open. I assume that in city centre it may be different, but where we live, everything closes at 5 PM. In my home country, this is completely different, if you are lucky enough to be able to book a table somewhere, and are willing to hand over half of your life savings for a dinner which would normally cost maybe R 100.00 (10 Euros for my non South African readers), then you will be able to enjoy a very festive evening. I hope. For those going to the Spur or Wimpy, good luck with that, your kids would love it, you, I suspect, not so much.

2.    Spanish people normally spend New Year’s Eve with their families. Food for thought me thinks. 

3.    Luckily, we know people, and we able to enjoy an evening at a friend’s house, making food, having Cosmopolitans and the like. 

4.    The Spanish eat 12 grapes every second before the clock strikes 12. This apparently brings luck. Now you are able to do this in Sol, the centre of Madrid, however every other Spaniard and tourist, plus their wife / husband / child / parent / brother / sister /aunt / uncle / friend of a friend of a friend and their dog were there, so unless you have an obsession with being squashed to a pulp whilst trying to swallow grapes, our recommendation is to stay at home. We did this in the safety of a friend’s house, and still, by grape eight, I understood that to chew and swallow a single grape in one second is a physical impossibility; however, we did our best. We do not want to risk no luck for 2012, so grapes it shall be.

5.    Spanish people love fireworks, and the fireworks carry on until the wee hours of the morning. Because they live on top of one another, there is very little space for the launching of these fireworks, and as such, same is launched between buildings, on rooftops, in other words, everywhere and anywhere. For a country that loves its pets so much, this is quite odd, however it may be that the Spanish pets are used to this noise. The red dogs are not. I will not dwell on this save to state that the smallest red dog has only today started eating again.

As such, we great greeted this New Year with mouths full of grapes, champagne glasses in the hand, shouting support to the fireworks, celebrating with our foreign friends in Madrid, in what I now think as the foreigner interpretation of a Spanish New Year.

Bring it on 2012, we will give it horns....Engela style!

Yes, I am a big girl … or possibly a Gigantor …

From the outset let me state that my forefathers and foremothers were not small folk. We are tall, have shoulders, breasts, a waist, hips, thighs, long legs and big feet.

In South Africa, I was a slightly tall woman, but there were many other women my size, and bigger.

According to my host country, however, I fall in the category of gigante.

It is not so bad that people point and stare, possibly because the husband is taller and bigger and he can apparently hit quite hard, but it has happened to me a number of times when I am on the metro, or anywhere where I sit, that when I stand up, that the Spanish folk step back.  I wonder (In Afrikaans of course) what the Spaniards are thinking ... that I will step on them because they are so small? That my size is contagious?

For the reader who does not know this, the Spanish women (and men) generally are not very tall, and the women are super skinny, their thighs are the width of my hand. There are not many countries that they make skinny jeans for men. If I wanted to, I could probably snap them with my one finger.

Now, normally this would not bother me at all, but with the change of seasons I have now spotted a problem: buying shoes.

Every shop I go into I have to ask if they stock my size. I had one shop assistant laugh at me (I nearly stepped on her … the little freak). The other shop assistant gaped at me with her mouth open in horror, shaking her head. I stepped on that little freak, sorry, she was so bloody tiny what is a big girl like me to do? I have no fear facing her loved ones, they will be so small, that once I stoop down to their level they will run away screaming and go hide in the hills …that’s what they do with giants.

I have, in addition hereto, established that Madrid appears to cater for all shapes and sizes, and there are shops that cater for cross dressing men, in that they can wear woman shoes. Out of sheer desperation I visited this store with a friend, and unfortunately have to report that I was not trying to buy glitterati high heeled shoes, which come in red, yellow, pink, blue and leopard print, all in one shoe. Nor were the white thigh high patent leather boots exactly up my alley.

As such, the search continues, since all shapes and sizes clearly does not mean shoes in my size. If there are any other gigantors out there with big feet, let me know where you secretly shop in Madrid, please, otherwise the small town folk shall continue to suffer.

Feliz Navidad or is it Merry Christmas?

It appears that the Engelas have according to my host country, wrongly celebrated Christmas on 25^th December each and every year. It appears that the Spaniards or Catholics or possibly everyone from Europe, celebrates Christmas on 6^th January each year. Apparently, this is when the Three Wise Men come bearing gifts. Who knew? We of course will continue with our celebrations as per our upbringing, but we will not complain if we score some public holidays in January. If I have learnt one lesson here, it is not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

We have, admittedly, been swept up in the whole “first Christmas in Europe” fever.

It could be worse, I could be experiencing a “I am able to shop in Europe with Euros” fever, which would lead to quite a number of interesting stories, therefore, in my view, my husband should thank his lucky stars (and non-existent overdraft) that I only suffer from Christmas fever…for now.

Now, like many other folk out there, I hope, I have an unhealthy obsession with Christmas lights and Christmas tree decorations; I am literally unable to pass any shop that may stock these items. The mere flickering of a Christmas light in a shop window makes me stop dead in my tracks, gives me a warm glowing feeling around my heart and I am compelled to wander into the store.

I was therefore in absolute heaven last week when we visited a beautiful Monastery in El Escorial, and after the necessary cultural exposure to things older than by home country, my beady eye caught…the flickering of THE LIGHTS. My husband has learned to step back (probably in the “safe zone” which means “hand over the wallet, don’t ask any questions, especially not where will we put this one?”) and just let me be. I thus found the most wonderful little Christmas store, tucked to the ceiling full of wonderful Christmas things…and yes, at one point I was considering buying the train that goes through snow mountain, with the little people and the little houses, with the music … but sanity prevailed and I only bought a couple of beautiful handmade tree decorations. I normally do not do this, but by merely looking at this picture, you my dear reader will have no option but to compend me on this willpower...

It has reached a stage where I know a second Christmas tree is a necessity, and trying to figure out how many outside lights we need and when enough is enough. I am furthermore being unduly influenced by my neighbours, since every time we drive to our house, more and more Christmas lights are appearing on patios, railings, trees and whatever else cannot be carried away over your shoulder. As such, I am beginning to suffer from an inferiority complex – we therefore will have to shop some more. By “we” I of course do mean I and my husband’s wallet…

I am therefore a self-confessed anything Christmas shopaholic, I admit, but bearing in mind this crazy season only lasts a couple of months, how bad can it be? I will report back on that question once I have sneaked the second (slightly) larger Christmas tree into the lounge…of course I now need more decorations…

How to go from attorney to teacher in 0.3 seconds

As I may have stated before, I practised as an attorney for many years in my home country before we moved to Madrid.

Clearly we did not move because I am clever.

Also, I never set out to study for so many years, and practise for so many years, to be in a situation where I don’t actually work in my field of expertise. This is not due to any misconduct on my part, this is due to some Spanish red tape which is about as complicated as Russian, which in layman’s terms means “sorry, for whatever reason we deem necessary or because the mayor had back pain or was angry at his wife, you may not formally work”. This logic makes no sense to me, but be that as it may.

We moved since my husband is allegedly a rocket scientist and those are no longer needed in my home country. My host country however needs rocket scientists so here we are. Possibly my father was right and I should have studied engineering and not law but alas, here I am, two degrees and many years of experience later, and I don’t practise law anymore.

Now, before I (finally) stopped practising, I tried to think what the heck I would do in Madrid. To briefly explain the boring stuff, once I have crossed the red tape mountain, I need to do a conversion type of course, but for that, I need to speak Spanish. This may take a while.

In the meantime, after packing and moving and unpacking and the usual “let’s move country things”, I came to realise a number of important things:

1.    I cannot speak Spanish. So I have a problem, possibly law is not in my immediate future. Check.

2.    I could write a blog to vent. Check.

3.    I am not a housewife. Check.

4.    Cleaning and cooking makes my blood boil. Not in a good way. Check.

5.    I need to do something otherwise I can easily turn into the wicked witch of Casa Engela. Check.

As such, and since I am suddenly “native” English speaking, I was roped into teaching English to children.

Now, for those who know me, stop laughing.

For those that don’t know me very well, I am not familiar with children.

In addition hereto, the idea of teaching never ever in my wildest nightmares crossed my mind. However, my host country suddenly wants their children to learn English from people who actually speak English. I cannot comment on the merits of this decision, however, I can tell you, suddenly I find myself in a group of people who are not very well liked by other teachers – again, this entire argument is in Spanish, which I definitely don’t understand, so I keep quiet and go on my merry little way.

I have now been at this teaching thing for about two months, and can honestly say that I can add to my list that I am not a natural born teacher, however, I know that the idea of sitting at home and not doing anything scares me more, so I shall stick it out, until some clever other English speaking person figures out that I don’t understand what I am doing, at best the children will speak with a South African accent, and furthermore, what the hell are you thinking letting an attorney loose on your kids? Talk about a nightmare.

So, if you are bored at your job, or think you may have made the wrong career move, I have a couple of pointers:

1.    You could marry a rocket scientist and change careers.

2.    You could move countries and suddenly not be allowed to work.

3.    Your English could be very important in ways you never thought possible.

If all else fails, and you married for love and not money, or you are single, then your only solution is to rob a Bank, flee the country and buy an island somewhere. I would love to join you, since I think robbing a Bank could possibly be easier than teaching a screaming mob of little adults to speak English.