CELTA week four, everyone looked tired, everyone felt tired, and there was a strange mood among us. We were now eager to finish the course, but at the same time sad that it was coming to an end. The final lessons began on Wednesday, running through to Friday, with two teachers from my teaching group giving an hour lesson each day. Our final assignments were handed in at the beginning of the week, with much relief.
We gave the last of our forty minute lessons on Monday and Tuesday, and our input sessions that week included a lesson on teaching business English, a lesson on teaching younger students; from a lady who seemed like she might burst out in tears from nervousness; advice on finding teaching work, how to structure your CV, how to behave in interviews, what to expect from different schools in different countries, and many other bits and pieces that I felt were very useful.
One of the students in the other teaching group, who we were close with, had not been doing well in the course, and had been told in no uncertain terms that it would pretty much be a miracle if he passed. Everyone in both groups went out of their way to try and help him out, spending time with him, going through his lesson plan and tutoring him themselves. It was wonderful to see, but I did not have too much hope from what he had said the tutor told him. Amazingly, brilliantly, he passed in the end, no doubt thanks to the caring, considerate attention given to him by the other students. It was a wonderful triumph, for him and all those who helped him, and everyone on the course, who all gave him support and encouragement and stopped him from giving up in light of the situation. I think I was more happy for him passing than I was for myself!
I gave my last forty minute lesson on the Tuesday, leaving me Wednesday and Thursday to prepare my final hour lesson. On that Tuesday, while dashing through the school preparing for my lesson, I buckled on my ankle going down a flight of stairs. My foot instantly went completely numb, the numbness subsiding after a while to leave a dull yet vibrant ache. Even now, four months later, I can still feel that injury.
On that Tuesday I gave a lesson on ‘schwa’, the phonetic letter that represents the sound, ‘uh’, as in ‘Uhmericuh’ (America), ‘Thuh’ (the), ‘Canuhduh’ (Canada), and so on. That day was also the day that we were visited by the Cambridge assessor, someone who comes in from Cambridge on one day of every single CELTA course that takes place around the world, and makes sure that the course is being conducted to standard. I was lucky enough (!) to be one of the two people chosen to have our CELTA files examined, and to have the CELTA assessor sit in on one of our lessons as a spectator. This did not really bother me; I had been teaching every other day for three weeks while under close surveillance by my tutor and my peers; but it just happened that this turned out to be one of my less successful lessons (so I thought). I decided to give them a crash course on understanding the London accent, and one of the parts to my lesson involved me reading sentences in my casual, natural speech, for them to dictate and then underline the ‘schwa’ and the stressed sounds. This turned out to be quite difficult for them, and one of the slightly older students, who was quite a funny, outspoken character, lambasted me mercilessly for my accent, saying that men from London spoke like dogs, with his tongue in his cheek of course. The main mistake I made was to apologise, which was pointed out by my peers later. I should not have apologised for the way I speak, especially considering they would certainly encounter much more difficult accents in London and elsewhere. I did eventually take this line in the class, and continued the lesson, but I felt bad about how the lesson had gone at the end. The other teachers were incredibly supportive though, telling me that I handled it brilliantly, and that it was great experience for the students to be exposed to natural speech, rather than what we refer to as ‘teacher talk’, and that they were at an appropriate stage in their studies of English to be able to deal with it. I thought I might get an ‘NS’; Not to Standard; for that lesson, but my tutor actually told me he thought it was my best so far. I didn’t agree, but you can have a very slanted view of yourself when you are teaching.
On the Wednesday the first two in my group gave their last lessons. They both did well. Derek, who had the most beautiful font-like handwriting and was very skilled in one of his many hobbies of calligraphy, wrote out beautiful lesson feedback notes for everyone and gave it to them at the end of their last lessons.
That night we went out for drinks at a lovely bar hidden away in the side-streets of Barcelona. It was my favourite place I had been to, with a lovely enclosed outdoor area hidden from the streets. I drank my favourite 'San Miguel Selecta', a slightly richer, slightly stronger version of the well-known beer. Katie, who was part of the morning CELTA course, but who we had become close friends with since meeting her at her flat where she was staying with Emily, told us about some of the guys on her course. Apparently a couple of the lads were complete assholes, being really nasty to the other students in feedback sessions, and making one young girl run out in tears after telling her that her lesson was awful. The other lads and I agreed that we were glad we weren't in that class, or we might have been thrown off the course for fighting.
One beer, two beer, three beer, four...we drank, chatted, laughed the evening away. At some point in the night one of the lads had his bag stolen from under his chair. Luckily there was not too much in it. I left as I realised I was getting a little bit drunk, said goodbye to everyone and headed into the streets towards Placa Catalunya where my Metro station was. On the way I stopped at a small 'casino', deciding to try my luck with the few Euros I had on me. I walked through, ignoring the old fruit machines that lined the entrance, and spotted a roulette wheel with electronic game seats around it. 'Yeah', I thought, 'bit of roulette!' I sat down and put three or four Euro coins in and looked at the buttons. They were all in Spanish and I couldn't understand a word. I spent a moment staring a little drunkenly at it when the manager came over and offered me a drink. I asked him how much and he said they were free, so I asked for a beer. He tried to demonstrate how to use the machine, which I didn't really understand, but I cracked on anyway. I managed to get a couple of bets down, and on the first spin one of my numbers came in! 'Yeah!' I shouted, as Euro coins started filling the coin basin. I took a couple out and put them back in, made my bets, and to my complete and utter horror my number spun in again! I had drank the can of beer pretty fast and so I asked the manager for another, which he brought to me a little begrudgingly. I must have won a couple more before I decided my luck couldn't go much further, so I took my basket of coins over to the counter to change it up. I shoved a bunch of notes into my wallet and took the last couple of Euro coins back to the roulette and put them in. And waddaya know, my number comes in. The manager does not look too happy at this point, so after another couple of wins I change up again and leave, heading towards Placa Catalunya again.
When I get to Placa Catalunya the Metro is closed. I am more than a little drunk, and insanely happy from my lucky winning streak on the roulette. I decide to sit down in the square, which is very busy, and watch the world go by. One of the street pedlars approaches and offers me 'cerveza', which I gladly take him up on, buying a couple. He also offers me something to smoke, and being a little drunk, I oblige him, or maybe I oblige myself, I'm not sure. He brings me something over and I roll one up. As I am rolling some German students sit down on the seat next to me. I say hello and we chat a while, and when I've rolled I have a smoke with them. After it is finished my head is spinning, so I say my goodbyes, leave them something to smoke and head off towards McDonalds to fill my beer filled stomach with something solid. McDonalds is very busy, a queue stretching right through the restaurant, so I am waiting a while, swaying a little, but it is worth it when I finally soak up some of the beer with a large meal, and I leave feeling a little better.
After staring at Spanish bus timetables blankly for a while, I decide to walk back home; a perfect zig-zagged journey through the criss-crossed streets of Barcelona, which had taken me about 40 minutes a week or so earlier. I should have taken a taxi, especially since I had just won a load of cash, but I was still pretty wasted, and after walking for a while I stop and look around me to realise that I have no idea where I am or where I have been going. ‘Shit’. I choose a direction and decide to stop at the first bus stop I find and jump on a bus. I find a bus stop and sit down, put my bag in front of me, and put my head back for a moment. When I raise my head again, I look down and my bag is gone, and the street around me is empty and silent. My bag is gone. Gone. The bag which had my laptop in. The bag which had my phone in. The bag which I had put my wallet in. The wallet in which I had put the last of my cash that I had withdrawn earlier, along with my winnings from the roulette. Imagine the moment.
I swear. I punch the air. 'Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck's sake! Fuck!' Then the bombshell hits: my CELTA file was in my bag. The folder they had warned us to never take out of the school, the folder that contained all of my lesson plans, coursework, tutor feedback, all the evidence of my doing the course. The folder that I had carefully left in the school every single day for the last three weeks, I had forgotten to take out that day. And it was gone. The anger gives way to despair. 'Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. I'm fucked. I can't pass the course.' I am distraught.
As I stand there, completely lost, no money, no phone, no coursework, no bank cards, a guy walks over and asks me what's up. He's a good looking guy, short, early twenties, a bit camp, with a Swedish accent. I tell him what happened and he doesn't show too much sympathy, telling me what an idiot I am for taking my eyes off my bag. I ask him which way it is to Les Corts, which is near where I am staying, and he says he is walking that way. We walk and chat on the way, but I am not really in the mood for chatting, feeling insanely depressed and coming down hard from all the beer. As we go our separate ways, he gets ten Euros out of his wallet and gives it to me. I thank him and ask for his email address so that I can pay him back. He gives it to me but says he doesn't want me to pay him back. Instead, he says I should do something decent for someone when I get the chance. I tell him that I would anyway, but that I would remember his kindness when it happened. I thank him again and say goodbye.
I get home and I feel like shit. I crawl into bed and sleep, badly, waking up with a stinking hangover, made worse as I realise the situation again. I speak to Alan and tell him what happened, and ask if he can come with me to the police station to make a police report, as he speaks Spanish fluently. He of course agrees and offers to lend me some money. We go to the police station and make the report, and then I call the school and tell them what has happened and that I will be late coming in that day. Then I call the insurance company to register a claim.
I get to school and go straight to speak to my tutors and tell them what has happened. They are very supportive, but I am very worried about my CELTA file being lost and what it might mean. My hopes are riding on the fact that the Cambridge assessor had visited on Tuesday, and that by some stroke of luck she had seen and evaluated my file before it was lost. I hesitantly told them that my CELTA file had been in my bag, and that it was all gone. Nigel's eyes widened, "the whole fucking file?!?!", more vocal than I had ever seen him. "The whole fucking file", I quietly replied. Andrea told me not to worry, and when I offered to reconstitute the file as best I could from the work that I had emailed to myself to print at the school, she told me that it was okay, that they would put a note in my file explaining what had happened.
I went upstairs to the bar terrace and sat down with the other teachers. They were all supportive and caring, asking me if I was okay and whether I needed to borrow money. I thanked them and told them I was okay, that I had registered an insurance claim and that my host Alan had lent me some money. Then we went to lessons, and I went straight home after to prepare for my final lesson the following day; the final day of the course.
And so here we are, CELTA final day, borrowed money, no notes, no laptop, no CELTA file, a little depressed, more than a little embarrassed and disappointed in myself for having been so careless, but I had a final lesson to teach. I was pretty comfortable about it considering my situation, knowing that having got this far through the course I would have to fuck up real bad in this last lesson to fail.
The last lesson was a very relaxed affair. I had fun, possibly the most fun I had had in any other. We laughed and joked, and I shrugged and smiled when I did something silly, like handing out my exercises in the wrong order and having to go round the class taking them back in again. The class got involved in the discussion at the end and I was happy with how everyone participated. At the end of the class there was a round of applause from English students and student English-teachers alike, as there had been at the end of everyone’s final lessons.
CELTA course – finished. Everyone smiles and congratulates each other. Everyone goes upstairs to the bar terrace and orders beer. There is a table of food laid out for us in an adjacent room. We ate and drank and talked and laughed, but the happiness I felt was still filled with apprehension. It was great to finish, and we were glad to have finished the intense work that had saturated the last four weeks, especially since we knew that everyone had passed, but it had been an amazing experience and we were sad that it was over. It was an emotional time.
A little later we went out to find a karaoke bar that Emily had recommended, stopping off at a lovely Spanish bar/restaurant for a couple of drinks and some food. We had a lovely time, but I was very short of money. When we got to the karaoke bar I was down to my last twenty Euros of expendable cash, and they wanted ten Euros entry. They gave us a ‘free’ drink with that entry, but we found out once we were in that each subsequent beer cost 7 Euros. Tight.
We sat and listened to locals singing their favourite Spanish songs, hearing the occasional English tune, and a couple of us managed to get up to do a number, which I remember being rather bad. I decided to put my name down, choosing ‘You Really Got Me’ by the Kinks. After waiting for more than two hours for my number to come up I found out that the bar separated the song requests into two piles, ‘Spanish’ and ‘not-Spanish’, those ‘not’ being relegated to the bottom of the pile. Eventually Derek went to the bar and spoke to the staff and I got called up shortly after, but being a bit drunk by this point I asked Derek to come up and sing with me for support. He did, and I don’t think we did too badly, although I was a bit annoyed at having waited so long, so I ‘sang’ a bit ferociously.
A little later we left and said our drunken goodbyes, and I headed through the streets with a couple of people towards home. CELTA finished.
This is ‘The Twenty Second Blog Of Trig’, signing off.
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