Keep on' truckin'

So I've had my fair share of convivencia troubles, including getting ripped off on gastos, a windowless room, and having to withhold certain bodily fluids as my roommate got it on in her room. You see, I must traverse it in order to reach the facilities.

I think of these things as a series of life lessons I just have to get over, deal with, and hopefully, never again encounter in the future. Unlike many of the auxiliares I've met, I came to Spain not because I've been in love with it. I came because I had no idea what I was doing with myself, besides "tolerating" two semi-tolerable, part-time customer service jobs that were admittedly not "stimulating" enough More importantly, I wasn't able to make ends meet.

Without going into specific details, it's safe to say that auxiliar wages alone wouldn't be able to sustain a family. I'm privileged in this sense. There are no dependents to take care of. Financially speaking, I'm the only one I have to worry about.

This is a big reason why I'm not renewing my contract. Granted, it's nowhere near a pauper's life, especially since I "treat" myself quite often. However, it's THE future gnawing at me, that other world where there are people whose needs must be considered--nay, met--before my own, and although I have "years ahead of me," I feel like time is ticking and I must get cracking.

Besides (I'm repeating myself, of course), I'm just not in love with Spain. I don't even love it, really. Like might even be a tad too strong. When the future plays out, I don't imagine it here. I tried to explain this sentiment to a friend, but I just ended up shuddering.

My opinion has obviously been colored by sour experiences. They're the ones that we long to forget but always remember. Had I taken up the assistantship in Paris or were thre one in Berlin, I would've probably felt much the same after a few misunderstandings/misgivings, and this is why those lieblingsstaedte will always be imagined. I "know" them insofar as I've kept memories of them. This is how San Sebastian, for example, appears to me, too.

The bubble soon burts, is there anything positive I can say about my stint? Of course, and the obvious would include the assistantship (I've been quite fortunate with the teacher and the children), the people I've met, the food that I've eaten, the amelioration of my Spanish, extensive public transport, etc. On a (somewhat? purely?) superficial level, though, I mean to present a not-so-random list of things I've enjoyed thus far (or lately). So, without further ado, they are>

1. Pasajes International Bookstore (C/Genova, M: Alonso Martinez)
Every time I consider NOT doing languages as a career, a quick browse changes my mind, and I race back home (or to the nearest locutorio and, say, find the difference between an umlaut and a diaeresis.

2. Beautiful plazas on beautiful sunny days.
Olavide is a general favorite, and I also like the nearby Plaza de Chamberi. You don't even have to get drinks. Just park yourself on a bench with a book.

3. Speaking of public places, I really like the Parque de Berlin in Chamartin, especially towards the eastern end. You try to figure out why.

4. Living in the city exposes you to a really vibrant cultural scene. I suppose New Yorkers and folks from other metropolises already knew this. I'm not just talking about the Big Three (Prado, Reina Sofia, Thyssen-Bornemisza), either. Mad is Mad (C/Pelayo, M: Chueca) is a funny little gallery, and of course, when it comes to exhibits, CaixaForum might give La Casa Encendida and Fundacion Caja Madrid a run for their money. Coming up: Noche de la Fotografia, next Friday.

5. Two really wonderful vegetarian-friendly (not too sure about vegans) eateries are Zoe (C/Santa Maria) and Viva La Vida (C/Huertas), both at M: Anton Martin. The first is, again, a Berlin-inspired cafe/gallery, which sounds intimidating to a neurotic like me, but the food is so good (with ingredients from the nearby market) that I've been my fair share of times. The desserts are always especially interesting, with tangerine sorbet or a really tasty strudel. Viva la Vida is a veggie buffet/shop that charges you by the gram. It's quite small, but the lady is always super friendly and for 7,-EUR you can easily fill up.

Those are only some of the things I can think of off the top of my head, as I'm sure I have more to share. As I'm leaving in two weeks, I wanted at least one of my last posts to be lighter and dhowcase what I've come to like in/about Madrid, instead of my usual "quarter-life crisis" musings. I'm well aware that I haven't spent "enough" time in Madrid to get to know it like the palm of my hand, nor have I really exerced the effort to befriend any locals. That I'm not much of a social butterfly isn't the issue nor was my goal to be integrated into the Spanish social fabric. Instead, I'd been looking for some answers, only to meet with more questions.

Although I still have a month left in the program, I've been preparing for my impending departure. I neatly folded the winter clothes I'm planning to put in the Caja Verde box I got from the post office, the very same one I'll get around to mailing once I figure out where to get packing tape. Of course, this should be a painless, stress-free errand but if like me you were unsure of the correct term (Word Reference gives me both cinta and sello) and your confidence in your Spanish-speaking skills are virtually nil (even after years of study), then you can appreciate why this turns out to be quite the herculean task.

This afternoon I went into an organizing frenzy, in an attempt to sort out all of the things I've collected in the past eight months. Hmm, do I really need the card for this restaurant/bookshop/etc that I'll probably never visit again?, I asked myself. Do I need the brochure for an exhibit that was over in NOVEMBER? Un/fortunately, I'm the type that keeps such trinkets, only to discard them during the next move.

However, that won't happen for at least another few years. I'm going back to school in the fall, to join a two-year MA program in linguistics. This was one of the primary reasons why I "escaped" to Spain in the first place. After having applied to grad school a few times, I wasn't quite sure whether or not if the program--or even more academia--was right for me. I obviously love learning languages, but I could relate a linguistics degree solely to teaching.

Ironic, isn't it, that I went abroad to work in a school setting? There have been many days where I think that I could go ahead and get my licensure in elementary school teaching. Indeed, many of the best experiences I've had during this stint involve the two groups of second-years with whom I work. The children never fail to elicit a smile from me even when I'm feeling down, grumpy, or homesick. When I look back on Spain when I step off the airplane or a few years down the line, the kids are who I'll remember the most.

Now, does this mean I would make a "good" teacher? Not necessarily. Of course, I'd also have to want to be teacher, and at this point, my heart's still not in it. Apparently, I belong to the generation that's been taught to follow our dreams (or so says the NY Times) rather than have practical pursuits. It's true to some extent. My parents never push me to do anything (nor am I an exceptionally driven person). They accept me for who I am, and for the most part, support my projects. I'm very fortunate in that I'm also able to coynsult them, eslpecially at a stage where I'm beginning to make "crucial life choices."

This brings me back to teaching: sure, it's not my dream (I'm romantic), but it will put food on the table (so to speak). I've been literally losing sleep over this dilemma because I want to have my cake and it eat it, too. I want to live off of an artistic craft. However slowly it may seem though, I'm facing the facts. I need a job. That will allow me to be ially self-sufficient. The thing is that I'm just don't have artistic gifts, at least, not enough talent from which to eke out a life. My cohorts from my punk rock days (haha! you'd think I was born with a mohawk and leather jacket!) would think this sentiment bourgeois, but all I ask for is a position that would allow me to continue enjoying my hobbies and, someday, buy a house.

(Among others, the song "Handshakes" by Metric addresses this cycle of drudgery: Buy this car to drive to work, drive to work to pay for this car...)

In other words, I spent time abroad...just to figure this out? It's a shame that my head's more muddled now than when I left last September. In a land of endless lo haré mañanas, I still haven't learned to relax.

A broad abroad

If I'm running out of a select item--something easily portable--I usually stop by the Mercadona on my walk home from the metro station. Today was a slight change, as I didn't limit myself to just the necessities. After months of eyeing them in stores, I finally caved and bought my first package of Filipinos, mainly due to curiosity, but also, um, because of that publicidad featuring Mom and Dinosaur Jr. (not the band).

My thinking went along the lines of, Heeyyyy, I'm Filipino(a), and even though this is (more than) kind of odd, I'm willing to try this novelty snack item that's (again, kind of) weird (backhand) evidence of the long relationship between my temporary adopted country and the one of birth.

I was also won over by the fact that the Filipinos were significantly cheaper than the Oreos on the next shelf.

When I got home, it occurred to me why the Filipinos were more affordable: I had inadvertently picked up the pack of minis! I felt stupid. How was I supposed to gallivant dinosaur-style, as it were, from the kitchen to the living room, without the regular, donut-shaped goods in my hands?

I had duped myself. More importantly, I proved to be the perfect consumer. While I'm not quite the cookie fanatic, I still went ahead and made the purchase because the brand spoke to me. A Filipino eating a Filipino. A chocolate-covered white biscuit. A variation on the past: a banana, a Twinkie. Coincidence and irony.

According to this Wikipedia article, the current Filipino cookies were inspired by rosquillos from the Visayas, hence the props. Rosquillo itself comes from the Spanish rosca, i.e. ring, as does the chocolate coating.

Homage or not, however, Filipino cookies still rub me the wrong way, so that was my first and last package. I know, it's just food! I'm nevertheless not the only one who had issues with it. A decade ago The Philippine government was wondering more or less the same. Obviously, nothing ever came of it, which makes me wonder about the popularity of the cookies.

On the other hand, I don't doubt the extensive Filipino presence here. As in, the people. It's not exactly as cohesive--ok, well-known--as the Chinese community, but I've definitely identified more Filipinos out and about than my home state (obviously neither California nor New York). Clearly, MetroMadrid a) agrees that there is a significant Filipino community here, b) suggest that Madrileños (of Filipino descent or not) are conscious of it, too. In recent months, they've circulated (a much shorter version of) the following commercial:



As with the cookies, I was mostly surprised when I first saw this ad, waiting for the movies at one of the Cines Renoir. For once, I didn't have to read the subtitles. I even giggled; nos ha queda'o igualito. In a few months, I will also be that balikbayan (twice removed) recounting my adventures in Spain. You can bet that one of the things I'll be championing will be the subway.

Upon further chance viewings, my frowns grew wider. Yes, the Philippines is a country in development. Yes, many Filipinos continue to lead the agrarian live. Yes, many Filipinos have the tendency to imitate, emulate "Western" ways.

And yes, I understand that overall, it is just a publicity campaign for MetroMadrid, like the Filipino cookies are just...cookies. MetroMadrid's commercial is a witty, even charming statement on the cleanliness and efficiency of Western Europe's third-largest system. What pueblo--Spanish, Filipino, or otherwise--wouldn't want one of their own? Maybe I am reading too much into things (thank you, cultural studies). I just hope that folks don't take it too much at face value because whether we like it or not, some of us still retain fragments of that colonial mentality.



(Image: Wikipedia)

Thank you, global warming!

Spring seems to have sprung prematurely, and as foul a mood as I have been in lately, it hasn't take long to desist. Indeed, I often feel guilty if I dare to do nothing, overcome with the concept of "wasting time." Why have I not yet been to Sevilla? Gijón? Cuenca? Or El Escorial, for that matter?! It seems as though half my decisions are predicated on the fact that my time here is limited, but let's face it: I'm a homebody, wherever I am. Especially now that I've found more habitable digs, I prefer to stay in within the confines of my temporary home.

On the other hand, I do believe that I've opened myself to a lot more in my short time here than I have stateside. For instance, I walk a lot, and often. This may not be much of a big deal, but after years of living in a car culture, walking a little under two miles "just" to get bagels is actually a welcome respite. Sometimes I'll check out exhibits or live shows or simply sit in a favorite coffeeshop and read. Such trivialities, perhaps, though for me requires a lot of effort.

As far as making friends goes, I admit that I'm still quite cautious, and don't like to "bond by default," due to shared nationality or cultural interests, for example. On most days, I would prefer to hang out with dogs. Folks here may say that no se relaciona bien con gente but I've definitely tried my hand at being more sociable, precisely because I don't have the "support network" that is my family and friends. In steps, of course.

Don't worry; I'm not so insular as to think that loneliness is a condition unique to me. I'm also aware that complaints are null if I don't try to reach out to others.

So, what solution(s) would I propose, then?

I'll take it in strides, I guess. I'll continue to do as I do, and if someone wants to join me for a shake at Los Alpes, all the better.

Demise of the polyglot

Whenever someone asks which languages I speak fluently, I hesitate to respond. What is meant by fluency? What kind of communication(s) does it involve? Solely oral communication or literacy as well?

From the looks of me (or my surname), many people assume I speak Mandarin Chinese; this is my physical linguistic mark, as it were. Filipino (Tagalog), however, is my native tongue, and although I'm lacking vocabulary here and there, I'm still able to speak it flawlessly, sans accent. Indeed, when I see other Filipinos, especially here in Spain, I'm almost eager to show how I've retained the language after "all this time" in the U.S., and not having grown up within "the community." I'm eager precisely because of this lack, because language is the only thing that has bound/is binding me me to a country I can hardly remember, I'm almost imagining.

I'm even more eager to show how deftly I switch between Filipino and English, my other tongue, the other tongue, the language in which I've lived most of my life.

So, I explain this (in a nutshell) to the mother of a potential student. A colleague forwarded her my contact information and within a day or so, she'd emailed me, asking me about by educational and linguistic background. Yes, I explain that Filipino is my mother tongue but that I grew up in the U.S., insinuating that I speak English as though it is the only language I have ever known. I know it like the palm of my hand. As an aside, I also shared that I spoke French and Spanish.

The mother sends an apology. Because Tagalog--and not English--is my first mother tongue, she isn't be able to hire me.*

Pero, ¡¿qué dices?!

I was incredulous. Too much information, I guess.

In a somewhat calm reply to her rejection, I suggested that perhaps the experience of learning and juggling multiple languages might help her child, too.

No response yet.




*I've also heard tell of preference of British--instead of American--tutors.

Problèmes de bourgeois?*

A university asks applicants to write a supplementary essay addressing how they might be eligible for "diversity scholarships." Unfortunately, I got tangential and did nothing of the sort, so I figured this might be a more appropriate space for these words. Although I'm not the most eloquent person, I do think about such "issues," and lately, in light of all the weird tags and political posters I've been seeing in my neighborhood (umm, "anti-Spanish racism?"), conversations with co-workers, an event that happened at school, conversations with A, and thinking about the concept of the EU, of the new Spaniard.

The laptop on which I’m drafting essays—because hardly anyone in my generation really writes by hand anymore—is light. A graduation gift, the machine is a portable 12.1” that can sandwiched in my right hand, just like a pocket book. Most every (non-Mac) aficionado I encounter is pleased with it. They comment on the design, the weight, the relative cleanliness. After nearly two years’ worth of use. It might already be out of date, but no matter. I beam like a proud parent.

This is an anecdote to mark my privilege, presumed to be the land of white-collar workers, or perhaps, more appropriately, the non-workers. This is an anecdote to state that privilege comes in all forms—and that I’m conscious of mine.

Highly conscious of having a computer, of being computer literate, of being literate. My mom beams. A proud parent.

She didn’t grow up with computers. I have vague notions of her past. She describes it as filled with lack—an oxymoron, if I ever heard one. There are no photographs from her childhood or her adolescence, only something from the 1970s. She was taking my three cousins on some sort of outing. I can hardly imagine the Philippines then, even now. I have vague memories of my last trip: smoke, dust, noise, like any contemporary metropolis.

I use my laptop to search for images. I recognize and don’t at the same time. “Otherness” and “hybridity” are terms I’ve learned through schooling in the U.S., but are concepts I’ve been negotiating. Often I ask myself whether or not my mom and I share similar spaces, and most of the time, I think the answer is a resounding no. I’m self-absorbed in a very “American” fashion, although it’s through her travails that I’m able to assume a slightly more elevated socioeconomic status, to sometimes pass. Proof: speech, dress, property—the accoutrements of privilege. Yet, like my mom, I’m still visibly tagged.

It’s for easier reference.

She says not to worry. She reminds me that many opportunities lie ahead. Education is the key.

Now we’ll see what door(s) will open.



*so titled after a scene in Julie Delpy's 2 Days in Paris, in which she and her sister (in the movie) laugh about the superficial quality of their complaints



(Photo: Jeff Vergara)