My Trip to the Valladolid Foreigners Office (in reverse)

1:59 pm: An employee from the foreigners office and I are running to the closest bank so I can pay the fee for my visa extension. The bank closes at two. He thinks I'll have a better shot at getting them to do the payment if he's with me. If I don't make it in time, I will have to make the nine hour bus trip from Jaén to Valladolid again next week. My legs feel like they're on fire.

1:56 pm:  Things are wrapping up. The guy who's checking my documents and I chat informally. I learn he went to the high school I'll be teaching at next year. The man working at the desk next to us leans over and says in a sarcastic voice, "that's why he's working here." The employee I'm working with realizes I have to get to the bank before it closes. We take off.

A short time before: I arrive to the foreigners office for last time. If I don't get it right this time, I'm screwed. I sit down with a worker who seems to be a nice guy who's willing to help get this thing done no matter what. We start the document check.Things go smoothly.

20 min before: I get to the foreigners office for the second time. I've finally got all my documents in order and with time to spare. I'm thinking about how crazy this experience has been and just how glad I am to finally be done with it. I sit down with a different woman than before only to realize that I have forgotten to get a copy of my Spanish ID. I leave for the photocopy shop.

15 min before: Two hours speedwalking around the city in these jeans with a blazing sun is starting to wear on me. I finally find a place that will let me log into my email and print off my missing letter.

Nearly two hours before: "You're missing a letter," the woman behind the desk tells me. I apparently need something to prove that I completed the entirety of the the academic year before they will let me renew again. I text my director and tell him what I need.

9:30 am or so: I wake up and hit the snooze a few times thinking about how much time I have. A short time later I get up, take a shower, and get dressed. I put on a blue polo shirt and my dark, tight spanish jeans.

Highlights from England

So this week is Holy Week in Spain which allows me to do some travelling. First on my list was a mini-Painter family reunion in England with my cousin Amanda. Here are a few highlights and noteworthy observations about my weekend here in Leeds.

• Porridge is basically oatmeal, but I ate it in England, so now I can say I've eaten porridge.

• My cousin, who is from Kansas, has a little English accented 2 year old. It's cute, but quite strange.

• Southern Spain has made me into a cold weather wimp. Many English people are walking around in t-shirts or no shirts while I'm trying to find more layers to put under my jacket. Not a position I'm use to being in.

• It's a small accomplishment, but over the past few days I've noticed how much my British English vocabulary has expanded during my stay in Spain. My British English vocabulary has expanded while in Spain for two reasons. The first is that my students' textbooks use British vocabulary. The second is because I have a couple friends from the UK here in Spain. Why does it matter? You know those "who we think we are, who society thinks we are, etc.." things floating around facebook? Well, those of us young folk who travel abroad like to think of ourselves as very knowledgeable about the world and other cultures so it's a small personal victory every time we go somewhere and already know "how things work" in some form or another. Makes us feel like all globally minded and stuff.

• I've now been to York but still haven't been to New York.

• 90s shorts are "in" in England! Never again would I have thought I would have seen women walking around in shorts that nearly bordered their bellybuttons. I'm not a huge fan of the style but being hopelessly attracted to women with English accents gives them a pass. 

Who is Your Favorite Basketball Player?

The last time I had a concrete answer to that question was around 2004. When people ask me today, I literally don't know what to say. I just haven't thought about players in those terms for so long. Sure, I pick my favorites in most series. I root for certain guys to finally get that title or prove that they are dominant players. And like most fans who invest their spirits in what they're watching, I get disappointed when things don't work out the way I wanted them to. But there just hasn't been that one player I put above all the rest since that time. Maybe it's part of growing up and seeing the game and its players more analytically and critically. But maybe it's not. Favoritism (not necessarily in a negative context) surely doesn't stop at adulthood.

The last player I loved was Shaquille O'neal. I had Shaq posters, Shaq books, Shaq cards. I even had Shaq on my birthday cake. He meant the world to me as a kid. Then, in 2004, the Lakers blew it all up. Shaq and Kobe couldn't get along but made it to the '04 finals anyway. They lost to a Pistons team that had less talent but was certainly the better "team." None of it made sense. I was mad at the NBA. I was mad at pro athletes in general. But mostly, I was mad at Shaq and Kobe. I felt like I was being robbed of seeing something I loved continue only because two great players couldn't figure out how to coexist in order to keep win championships.

It was never quite the same for me after Shaq left LA. That situation made me for the first time see past the on the court love of the game most professionals have. I started seeing pro athletes more like human beings and less like superheroes. My childlike admiration for Shaq was gone, but I followed him like you can't help but follow an ex. I wanted to see the success he would have and I wanted him to have it. The magic just wasn't there anymore. He went to Miami and won another title. He remained relevant on Phoenix and Cleveland before finally landing on the Celtics. Unfortunately Boston put Shaq in a tough spot when they made him a necessity as opposed to the affordable luxury he should have been at that point in his career. He played well but got hurt as players in their upper 30s so often do. Then, Shaq retired...

Wait, Shaq retired? I'm still trying to get used to the fact that most of the college athletes I see on TV are now younger than me. But seeing my favorite childhood player retire? It was one of those small hints you first start getting even as a young adult that nothing in this world lasts forever. When you first enter the sports world as a kid (even a weird kid like me whose favorite channel was ESPN Classic) you believe that the best you see have always been the best and always will be the best. I mean, you see athletes retire, but these are only the old players that existed before you were born. Something about seeing someone you saw in their prime retire for the first time hits you a little differently, especially when it's your childhood favorite.

The reason I bring all this up now is because I saw Shaq go on on The Daily Show the other night which made me want to revisit some of the old times, the good times. So I got on the old Youtube and watched the big man go to work. I watched him tear down baskets and break backboards, the insane clips that made him seem almost physically inhuman. But that was just the appetizer. The main course consisted of a 7'l'' freak of nature leading the fast break and finishing with his head by the rim and knees chest high; a ferocious intimidator who didn't just swat opponents shots down, but swatted them up fifteen rows in the stands; a solid block of human mass that could back down any player at any time and finish right over them with a dunk that had to leave some questioning why they had even stepped on the court. For dessert, a man who was lighthearted and funloving underneath the tough guy act. A little kid in giant's body.

When I look at Shaq's career objectively, I see the success but I also see the missed opportunities. Although certainly not the final say on the matter, Bill Simmons, one of my favorite sports personalities, has Shaq fifth  behind Bill Russell (1), Kareem Abdul-Jabbar (2), Wilt Chamberlain (3), and Hakeem Olajuwon (4) for the greatest centers of all time, a list well worthy of argument but one that I mostly agree with. I think most have him at four or five. It's easy to ask what if with Shaq. What if he and Kobe had learned to coexist? What if he stayed in better shape? What if he had learned how to shoot a free throw for god sakes? How many titles could he have won? How many spots on the all time list could he have climbed? We'll never know but it can be definitely be argued that he could have had much more success.

While I'd be happy to debate the ins and outs of Shaq's career anytime, for me it's not what's most important. What's most important for me is how he made me excited to go out and shoot baskets in the driveway. Every kid needs a hero. Shaquille O'neal was mine.

Christmas Vacation Part 2 (Asturias, País Vasco)

In part one, I began my northern journey in Galicia. Now we continue, as did my journey, eastword into Asturias, and finally, País Vasco. Sorry Cantabria, I'm sure you're great, but you're getting skipped.

The whole northern coast from Galicia to País Vasco is considered "Green Spain" (not to be confused with other meanings of green in the Spanish language). It's wet, oceanic climate makes makes it look more like Ireland than what is generally considered "Spanish" from an outsider point of view. *
 

* Get out your favorite American Western Movie. There's a good chance it was filmed in the semi-arid climate in south-eastern Spain.

Asturias. See, it's green (yeah I know, worst caption ever...)

Taken on my first stop in the city of Oviedo, Asturias.

After a brief stay in Oviedo, I headed towards Llanes, a small but highly recommended coastal city in eastern Asturias. Having not pre-planned any of my acommodation before the trip it was nice to finally go somewhere quiet, stay a few days, and figure out what the rest of my trip would look like. Llanes has a beautiful walkway on the bluff above the overlooking the ocean. Apparently, quite a few movies have been filmed there as well.

And I thought Americans overlit during Christmas time.

The permanently fixated sun rays help attract the movies.

My accomodation in Llanes was within walking distance of the beach seen below called, La Playa de Poo. Yes. Literally, the Beach of Poo. While apparently the locals didn't think too highly of it, I thought it neither looked, nor smelled like shit.

Ladies and Gentlemen, La Playa de Poo.

After a few chill days in Llanes, I headed over to País Vasco, the region I was most excited about visiting. The Basque people have their own language and unique identity among Spaniards. Many Basque's want independence from the rest of Spain and a small number have resorted to terrorist attacks to try to achieve this end. But the Basque people have a long and rich history that can't and shouldn't be defined in terms of the violence. A few interesting facts about the people: Their language is the last remaining language in Europe that doesn't have Indo-European roots or classification. They have a long history of nautical exploration. Magellan's crew that was the first to circumnavigate the globe was largely of Basque origin (after Magellan died during the journey, his second in command, a Basque man, finished the journey). Due to location and an abundance of natural recources, País Vasco has been the historic center of Spain's industrialization efforts and today is the wealthiest region in Spain. 

I started in Bilbao, the largest city in the region (about 350,000 people). Here is the city from the mountains above. The dark shades of green and blue were just how I imagined it.

The person who designed this deserves a prize in my book.

I don't know what it is about watching a building being destroyed that we men find so irresistable.

Beautiful architecture in Bilbao.

On my way to my final destination, San Sebastián. I stopped over in Guernica. Yes, that Guernica. The one from Picasso's famous painting. Here was a recreation they had in the town.

Ok, on to San Sebastián which I'm fairly certain the travel channel told me at some point was the culinary capital of the world. Many also consider it to be the most beautiful city in Spain. 

 

One of the city's plazas.

Well that just about concludes my trip but I'll end on a religious note. As my coaches always put it, the eye in the sky don't lie. And although they were mostly talking about game film, this was still the first thing to pop in my head when I saw this statue. Thanks as always for reading.

Christmas blog is here!

Now that it's mid-february, I think it's about time to share what I did over Christmas break. Yeah, the blog's been on hiatus. I have no good explanation why. No worries, all blog subscribers will be reimbursed the full $0.49 for the month of January. Checks are in the mail.

On to Christmas. Christmas vacation would have been an ideal time to leave the country and travel around Europe a bit. However, none of my European friends/relatives outside of Spain were free any time during the two weeks I had for travelling. No problem. Perfect opportunity to do some sightseeing around Spain on my own.

I started off in the region of Galicia (seen above) in the city Santiago de Compostela. My Brazilian friend, Marcio, who I met my final year studying in the U.S., studies at the university there and invited me to spend christmas with his family. Santiago is most famous for being the final destination on El Camino de Santiago, a centuries old pilgramage route that runs across much of northern Spain and other countries as well. The most well know site in the city is the Cathedral, a project that began in the (don't fail me now wikipedia) 11th century with constant additions for the next 700 years or so. The cathedral supposedly houses the remains of the Apostle James (brother of John, not the other James), the apostle credited with bringing Christianity to the Celts on the Iberian Peninsula after Jesus's death.

Inside the Cathedral.

Here is Marico with his son, Marcio.

I'm pretty sure it was the first time I had eaten Paella for Christmas dinner. I'm no expert, but Marcio cooked it up right.

We opened presents later that night. Papa Noel brought Marcio Jr. Spongebog and his friends. I got a scarf which I'm finally "warming up" to.

On Christmas day Marcio and I went up to A Coruña, a famous coastal city in northwest Galicia. Here is the city's lighthouse. This rocky coastline with beaches dotted along the way is typical of Galicia and northern Spain. Darn the season. I'm told the beach below (bottom right corner) is nude in the summer.

More of A Coruña.

If there was ever a prescribed pose for a given location and shot distance, this would be it.

Later during my stay in Galicia I went to see some old Celtic ruins. Castro de Baroña as it's called now dates back more than 2,000 years. Here it is from a distance.

Lastly, a few more shots of Santiago. Such a beautiful city. Oh yeah, and one of me flying as well. Enjoy!

Part two soon.

A Break from Spain

A few weeks ago, I jumped on a plane and headed to Germany, the land of my ancestors. Wait, or was that Switzerland? Let’s go to mom’s side. Painter… sounds pretty English to me. And didn’t Grandma say her Grandmother was from Sweden who may have had a child who married an Irish man? And there were some Germans in there somewhere I think. Well this whole identity issue just got more complex.

I think we Americans with European roots are kind of funny about the whole land of our ancestors thing. We usually pick one country to identify with often leaving out another 5, 6, or even more that in reality could be given equal weight. “We’re Swiss.” “They’re Norwegian.” “She’s Italian. You know how Italian girls are right?” No, I don’t know how Italian girls are. I’ve never met one. Furthermore, the girl you’re referring to is American. And my all time favorite: The Irish. It’s always amazed at how many full blooded Irish-Americans I meet on St. Patrick’s Day.

I know some people can trace these things back better than others, especially more recent immigrants. It’s also true that some immigrant groups hold on to their group identity more than others for various reasons. I’m not trying to say it’s totally ridiculous to seek you ancestral past out. I would follow my family’s tracks from the beginning of human history if the data were readily available. It’s just the oversimplification of it all that bugs me.

Most of my life I thought about my European roots in this way. My family’s last name comes from a German speaking part of Switzerland so I have always thought about my ancestors as being Swiss-German. It doesn’t help that every time I have been abroad I have been mistaken for a German at some point. In my Afrikaans language course I took while studying abroad in South Africa my teacher mistook me for a German more than half the semester. I imagine this was one part appearance, one part cultural. When she finally realized I was American she told me I was the quietest American she had ever met. Most recently here in Spain out our introductory meeting for this program, one German girl asked me where I was from in the process of seeking out German companions amidst the mounds of English speakers. She told me I looked very German but in the end my extremely American Chiefs sweatshirt kind of gave it away.

Although I’ve grown to think more critically about ancestral roots in the past few years, I still couldn’t quite help myself from thinking I had some connection to Germany, or at least this region of Europe. And I do. But to me, it’s more about understanding the social me than the personal me. Certainly, being of Swiss-German descent has affected how I have existed socially as a white person in the United States of America with our history of racial discrimination in the paths most important for social mobility. It probably has less to do with why I like Bratwurst so much.

Ok, now to why you really clicked on this blog. The pictures.

I flew into Frankfurt friday afternoon and met my friend Elisabeth who I met while studying abroad in South Africa. We then took an hour long train ride to Marburg where she studies. My first impression was a less than steller-looking train station. Elisabeth told me it would get better. She was right. Here is historical Marburg with the castle on top of the hill.

 

We went out that night with a bunch of her friends. Fortunately there was plenty of good english among them. To get to the old part of town you actually take an elevator connected to a car garage 15 or so flights (or take the stairs). I had my first German beer. It could have been in my head, but it was probably the best beer I've ever had. Here are some of the German christmas festivities in the town.

Ah, bratwurst.

Visiting the Castle.

I once read in one of my classes about how the children and grandchildren of immigrants view their identity. The first children born in the new country (or those brought over as young children) often try to break with their ancestral identity to assert themselves as members of the new land. The next generation, however, becomes so fully assimiliated (this model was probably based on industrial immigration in the U.S., not all immigrants assimilate) that they actually seek out the customs and language of their ancestral past in order to assert their own uniqueness amidst the masses. I think many of us with European roots are stuck in the phase. Maybe we cling to these identities for the same reason third generationers do.

Jaénsgiving!

I knew this year's Thanksgiving would be a little different. It would be the first away from my family and country. Other than having my 21st birthday abroad in South Africa, this would be my first major celebration/tradition  away from the homeland. I did miss seeing my family but I was fortunate enough to have a video skype conversation with my entire immediate family and grandparents.

Despite missing my normal Thanksgiving, I couldn't have asked for a better one given the situation. I met in Baeza with what I believe are the nearest Americans (two hours away by bus) as well as a host of Spaniards, a Scot, and one from France. I first showed up to Mary Ann's (the Scot) apartment where they where cooking one of the turkeys. Mary Ann is on the left and Anna, one of two Iowans present, is on the right.

In a nearby apartment, Megan, another english teacher from North Carolina, was cooking some classic Thanksgiving dishes and desserts. Green bean casserole and pumpkin pie topped the list for me. It was great to have those tastes of home for a night. It made Jaénsgiving taste a bit more like Thanksgiving. After all the cooking was done we headed to one of the local bars where we would be eating. The end result looked something like this. There's Dave, an American from Colorado (who also become know as "Davy Gravy" at some point during the night), behind the counter pretending he was the master chef.

Here's the whole group sitting down enjoying the meal.

Of course it wasn't a completely American Thanksgiving. Mix Andalusians, food, drink, and a guitar, and you're bound to hear some flamenco at some point. The First Thanksgiving, at it's best, is a story of multicuturalism, right?

Well, that was my Jaénsgiving. Thanks to those who made it taste a bit like home.