RETURN TO BARCELONA BABY! It's been a long time coming, but I finally made it back! As I write this I am sitting in the foyeur of 'Equity Gothic', a hostel not too far from Estacion De Franca. It is Saturday 3rd August 2013, which I think might be 2 years to the day since the end of my last visit! Not sure if that has any significance whatsoever, but it does feel like I've kind-of picked up exactly where I left off on some kind of solar/lunar cosmological basis. I have two and a half days left to play with, but I'm shattered from humping my bag round town looking for a hostel and it's always good to write about experiences while they are fresh in your mind, so I'll relax and describe the wonderful time I have already had in my short stay so far while I listen to some guy play some lovely guitar behind me.
I left London on a hot sunny Thursday afternoon, 1st August 2013. It was my brother's birthday a couple of days earlier or I would have come out sooner, but I wanted to spend the day with him so I put it off a couple of days. It was a last minute 'deal' from Easyjet, which meant I ended up paying double what I would have liked, but my heart was set on it, and my good friend Derrick from the CELTA course had told me that he was moving back to the US very soon, so I wanted to see him before he left. I had told him when I was arriving, and he had given me his number to call.
My flight left Luton at about 6pm London time and I arrived about 9pm in Barcelona. I had not booked any accommodation, intending to either chance it on finding a room in Barcelona when I arrived or hoping that Derrick or another friend could lend me a sofa for the night. If not, I considered the possibility of chilling on the beach for the evening, but that was not preferrable. The day of my departure I discovered that Derrick was the only one of my CELTA pals who was in Spain, that everyone else had left or just gone home to see family. Derrick kindly offered to put me up, but he was an hours train ride from Barcelona. He went to the trouble of checking train times and called me to let me know that there was one leaving at 10:20. Part of me wanted to just find a place in Barcelona then find my way to them Friday morning, but once I arrived I was pretty tired and had time to catch the train, so my decision came easy.
I took the bus into town and then took a short taxi ride to Sants Estacion, where I bought a ticket to Tarragona for about 15 Euros, which I have been told is expensive. There are different companies operating services on the railway and they have different prices depending on how fast the journey is. You can cut the cost in half if you are willing to add an extra 20 minutes to your journey. Sounds like a no-brainer, but when the last train of the evening is the faster, more expensive one, you take what you get.
I arrived in Tarragona just before 11pm, headed out of the station and lit up a cigarette, as usual wondering why the fuck why, and before I was half way through it, Derrick pulled up. I chain-smoked it down, again wondering why the fuck why, threw my bag in his boot and jumped in the car to give my friend a big hug, thanking him for being so kind as to pick me up, put me up, and go out of his way to help me get there. 25 minutes or so later we arrived at his home in a small town called Vallmoll.
The house was lovely, a nice family home. It sat right in front of a quiet road with a small pavement in front and fields opposite, with a backdrop of vineyards and typical Spanish countryside. There was a small front garden separated from the street by a short wall with a fence on top, and a gated driveway. The car parked in the small driveway and as I got out I was happy to see a very fruitful lemon tree above me. I thought they were limes initially as they were still green, but Derrick informed me of the former.
Derrick's wife Rosa welcomed us at the door. I immediately got a positive feeling from the warmth in her smile, and was invited into their home. Derrick showed me upstairs to the room they had set up for me. I dumped my bag and then went downstairs to meet their children, Amy, 6, and Aiden, 2. They were both gorgeous kids, and they soon treated me with the kind of affection that comes naturally to happy, innocent children. Derrick and I chatted until about 4am, remeniscing and catching up on the events in our lives, and just like when we first met, putting the world bang-to-rights. I went out for a couple of cigarettes during the evening, and was told to go out the front of the house so as to not disturb the dogs. I had an image of two loud rowdy beasts, but they turned out to be two lovely, friendly animals. Amy told me that they had rescued them from the street when they were puppies, which I thought was very sweet. Unfortunately they had to give them up before they returned to the USA, and I worried that they might struggle to find homes for two old dogs, no matter how friendly they were.
Before we went to bed Derrick and Rosa asked if I minded watching the children in the morning as they had to drop their car off at the garage and pick up Rosa's parents' car for the day. I was hesitant. I had no problem with watching a 6 year old. Watching a 2 year old who had only just met me the night before I was not too confortable with, but Rosa assured me that they would be asleep until late morning since they stayed up so late the night before. She was right.
When Derrick and Rosa returned, Derrick cooked us all a fried breakfast comprising eggs bacon and pancakes. Lovely. Rosa told me that they did not normally eat such a breakfast, so this was a treat for my benefit! They got more thanks for that. Rosa's sister popped in as we finished eating. She had numerous tattoos, and informed me that she was a tattoo artist. She stayed a short while, and after she left we all squeezed into the car and headed to Tarragona.
I was sandwiched in the back between the two kids, which with their kiddies car seats was not particularly comfortable. They both vied for my attention, Amy grabbing my left arm and hugging me affectionately and Aiden grabbing my left and taking bites out of me with a kind of childish feral excitement. Amy, only six years old, spoke to me in excellent English for her age, which surprised me as well as both her parents, as she did not normally converse in English. Rosa told me that Derrick usually spoke to her in English and she understood what he said, but that she would normally reply in Spanish/Catalan. It was quite amazing that she could speak English so well from hearing her father speak it, despite not having spoken it much herself.
We parked in Tarragona and went walking around the town. Tarragona was one of the major European cities of the Roman Empire, and this is very apparent as you walk around the town. Derrick told me how developers are afraid of starting building projects there as every time they dig down they find more ruins. Work then halts so that archaeologists can survey the area and judge what can be done to preserve the remnants of these historical landmarks. As you walk through the town you can look into many of the shops and see the original walls and sometimes the stone seats that once formed part of the enormous 14,000 seat amphitheatre. It is a beautiful town.
As we walked round the town, little Aiden rode his plastic motorbike, which he called 'Toto' (motorbike in Spanish is 'moto'), being chased by Derrick down every hill we encountered. On one of Derrick's longer downhill chases Rosa took me into the bank to change up money, as you had to have a bank account to do so. She deposited the English and then withdrew Euro, at a rate that turned out to be worse than that at the airport! MESSAGE: Don't trust banks.
As we approached lunchtime I offered to buy them all lunch to say thank-you for their lovely hospitality, but they told me we were going to the beach first since we had the late breakfast, then we would grab some sandwiches on the way to Amy's swimming lesson. I had made a mental note to make sure I did something to show my gratitude, but since they were being such gracious hosts and were politely declining my offers, I decided to make an extra effort to do so.
The beach was clean, the sand was soft, the water was clear, and the gradient in the sea was very slight so it was perfect for beach games. I had my frisbee with me (as I always do these days when the sun is shining!) so after laying my towel down I headed into the water to cool off, before grabbing my frisbee and throwing it deftly out to Derrick in the water. We must have spent at least an hour and a half throwing the frisbee across the waves, launching ourselves through the air and into the water to catch the strays. On one of these launches my sunglasses came off my head. They only cost a tenner or so, so I wasn't too bothered, but I walked a couple of sweeps along the stretch of water we had been playing in trying to find them, Derrick joining me. I had given up on them when a Spanish lad came over and asked if I had lost sunglasses, and that his friends had found some. I went over to the couple he directed me towards, said 'hi' and asked if they had found sunglasses, in the kind of pigeon English you find yourself speaking when talking to 'foreigners', making glasses over my eyes with my fingers. They shook their heads. I smiled. 'No?', turning to the lad who directed me to them and shaking my head, making a kind of 'I don't know' motion with my arms. He came over and spoke to them then told me their friend had put them on and gone up the beach to the shop. He came back shortly and returned them.
"Gracias!"
We left the beach to take Amy to her swimming lesson, stopping on the way at a lovely sandwich bar, one of a chain of restaurants that have won international awards for their food, and it was pretty damn good. I order burger with cured Iberian ham, and caramelised onions, eating it with difficulty when we were back in the car. Amy chomped through her food next to me while Aiden snored quietly on my right.
We get to an outdoor swimming pool about 50m by 30m, on a small hilltop amidst rolling green hills, very quiet and tranquil, with only a few houses nearby. Kids all swim lengths in groups of three or four as the mothers cheer them on or sit by and chat in Spanish. I relax and watch, popping out of the area for a couple of cigarettes. When the swimming is finished the kids play around and I go with Derek to pick Rosa's grandparents up, then we drive to the garage and pick up Derrick and Rosa's car. When we arrive we notice that thieves have stolen the covers from the side indicators on her grandparents car at some point during the day. The mechanic says he can easily get replacements.
We head back to their house, have showers and change. I ask if I can take them all out for dinner to thank them for their hospitality, but they are hesitant because of the kids. It seems as though they might decline for a while, but then they decide to take the kids to Rosa's parents place, which is an amazing country house converted from an old farm, down a bumpy rubbly dirt track. I meet Rosa's cousin and her boyfriend and say hello to her parents again. They have all kinds of mushrooms drying in the house, some of which Derrick tells me are very rare and sought after. I learn that the family have a passion for mushroom hunting, taking frequent trips to find them. I am told that they are frequently asked to reveal where they find some of the rarer ones, but they keep it a family secret.
We leave Rosa's parents' place and drive to the restaurant, after a short while heading down an unlit road much like the one that leads to their house. I feel like I am being let in on some local secret, as you would never find this place unless you knew exactly where you were going. We are driving for a good ten minutes down the dark track before we find the place.
Out of the darkness emerges a faint light and we turn into a rubbly car park with what I estimate to be at least 40 cars. This place is popular! We head through into the restaurant. The eating area is open to the sky and contained within walls covered with green foliage. I am happy to hear dub and reggae playing from an unseen speaker hidden in the foliage somewhere, loud enough to hear clearly but not so loud that I have to raise my voice in conversation. There is a lovely atmosphere.
As we enter, Derrick and Rosa speak in Spanish to one of the waitresses, who is surprised that they have turned up without a reservation. They know her as she is a teacher like them, but she also waitresses in the summer. We are given the choice of waiting for a table to become free or eating in the waiting area, which looked much more chilled. We sat down and it took Derrick to point out to me that the entire area was constructed of packing pallettes, even the seating, which had large cushions spread across it. I never would have noticed if he hadn't pointed it out.
We order a beer each and then look at the food menu. It all sounds very good, and we decide to all choose something and then share. I order 'coca bread pizza', which is a traditional Catalan pastry with raw pizza toppings: goats cheese, peppers, rocket and olives. Very tasty. I also order guacamole nachos for us all to share. I forget what Rosa and Derrick ordered, but I remember all the food being delicious.
When we have finished our meal I pick up the bill, which is surprisingly cheap given the quality of the food and the popularity of the venue. We only had a bottle of beer each and shared one after we finished eating, which probably explains part of that! We relax and chat about all kinds, I tell them what I have been up to in London the last couple of years and they tell me what they have been doing, and their plans for the future. It was a lovely evening and I feel happy that I have done something to thank them for their hospitality.
We leave and pick up kids, who are curled up asleep on the sofa. Rosa picks up Aiden, who is completely naked and out for the count. Amy wakes up and throws her arms up at me so I pick her up and carry her to the car. Makes me feel a strange sense of comfort, and I consider the idea of having my own kids one day. We drive home and all go straight to bed, ending a long but lovely day.
I wake up leisurely Saturday morning and start going through Derrick's large collection of E-books and copy a load of them onto my hard drive, everything from science, to languages, philosophy, cooking, gardening, and more. I spend a good hour and a half going through them, only getting about half way through before deciding I have enough for the time being.
I pack my bag up and tidy my room, then dump my bag down by the door and sit in the front garden with Aiden, who keeps picking his toys up and thrusting them towards me with a big smile, making sounds that appear to be randomly combined syllables. His happy confidence tells me that he knows exactly what he means, even if I don't!
Amy has been inside with a piece of paper and coloured pencils for some time, and she emerges with a big smile on her face, presenting me with a picture she has drawn. The page is decorated with delicate coloured swirls and red hearts, and has two people, a smiling man with a kind-of Tin-Tin haircut; me; and a girl with big black curls; her. At the top of the page is the message 'Ilofiu'. I cannot describe the feelings I felt at this sweet young girl showing me such affection. I can only say that it made me look forward to having my own children, and gave me a sense of how protective I would be of them, as I felt for Amy after less than 2 days in her company. I felt admiration and perhaps even a touch of jealousy for Derrick and Rosa having such a beautiful family. Seeing happy children really gives me hope for the future of humanity in this world.
I intended to catch the train to Barcelona at 12:40, but after a scramble to find their car keys, which Aiden had picked up and dropped behind a garden wall, I was aiming for the 13:20 instead. On the way to Tarragona we talk about the influence of the world's media upon children. We share a sense of disgust at the way children's social and emotional development is guided by television, and even if you have no television, by the other children around them, most of whom undoubtedly do. We discuss how a child can be excluded from social groups if they do not watch certain TV shows. This does not just apply to children. We discuss the influence TV has on children's perceptions of sexuality, which when you look at it, is hideous. Children grow up watching 'artists' such as Rihanna, Beyonce, Lady Gaga and others, parading their semi naked bodies in sexually provocative ways on TV throughout the day, and if you've seen the way young girls dance to western pop music, you cannot tell me it does not influence them. On the flip side, many young boys will hear some male Hip Hop stars speak of women with absolute contempt, glorifying the abuse of women as objects of sexual gratification no more important than a vibrating sex aid. People have been conditioned to accept these things as normal. If you don't believe this, consider how your parents or grandparents view such subjects, then tell me we haven't deviated from the morality they tried to instill in us. It didn't happen spontaneously. It was fed to us, and all along people involved in the decision making processes that determine what is fed to us have decided to allow all that is broadcasted. I think that is a very important thing to remember; that this is all a result of conscious decisions by people in positions of power. Follow that thought to its conclusion and you will find those conclusions quite disturbing.
We arrive at the station but are a bit early, so we continue our discussion at a park nearby while the kids climb about. We talk about how parents can guide their children and warn them about the things we have discussed without making them mistrust the world, and without breaking their innocence too soon or alienating them from you or the world. It is a difficult question. Not one that I feel I can answer, even if I was confident of one. I tell them I feel it is of paramount importance to be as honest as possible with your children. Every time they find our you have told them something that is not true, they trust you a little less, respect you a little less, and your guidance loses its influence. That is the best opinion I have to offer them.
We walk round to the station and I buy a ticket, before popping outside to smoke a cigarette quickly. Derrick joins me and I tell him again how lovely it has been to stay with him and his family, wishing them luck for the future and promising to try and get out to the US one day to visit. He tells me I will be welcome any time. I put my cigarette out, pick up my bag and head to the platform.
And so it's goodbye! I give Derrick a big hug and thank him again, telling him how lovely it has been to see him again. I kiss Rosa on both cheeks and give her a hug, thanking her for putting me up with her lovely family. I bend down to Amy's level and give her a big hug, thanking her for the lovely picture she drew, promising to come visit them in the US one day. Aiden looks like he doesn't understand what's going on. I give his hair a ruffle and say goodbye, then turn back to Derrick and Rosa and repeat.
I am leaving from the opposite platform so I head down the stairs and walk through a tunnel to the other side. The whole family waves goodbye to me from across the tracks and then walks out of the station. I feel quite emotional. The train arrives ten minutes late, and then I am on my way back to Barcelona again.
'Return to Barcelona: Part 1' - DONE!
Showing posts with label Barcelona. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Barcelona. Show all posts
2013-02-23
The Thirty Eighth Blog Of Trig - Return From Barcelona
I got home from Barcelona and immediately started sorting out the insurance claim. I lost my new laptop, my prized and battered C902 with a wealth of photos and videos, and about £100, but the excess left me short the cash.
I started looking for teaching work abroad, but found that many of my first-choice countries officially required a degree as well as the teaching qualification, so I looked for work in London and quickly found a job teaching in Edgware.
I had only three students, two Italian girls of 12 and 14, and a Greek lad of about 15. They did not know much English at all and I was given no guidance as to how to approach the three hour classes, so I observed another teacher in one lesson and then threw myself at it, but certainly didn't prepare for the lessons enough. I quickly learned that they hated writing exercises, so I tried to do more talking reading and listening, but the school did not have a great store of exercise books and no tape players. I would get to the end of my prepared lesson with half an hour to go and play word games until the end, or discuss the moon landing conspiracies, or holidays, or families, or anything else the talkative greek lad would frequently ask about. He wanted to speak English, and was not at all interested in writing or reading. His spoken English was certainly better than his written.
After a couple of lessons I developed a rapport with the students, and as we all became more comfortable the lessons became more enjoyable. However, they were only in England for a few weeks with family, and would be heading home soon, so I found myself having to look for another job to fall into.
I decided to go back into the City for a while to get some cash together so that I could go abroad and teach, so I put my CV together and posted it online. The next day I received a call from an agent and arranged to meet him at Liverpool Street Station for a coffee and an informal chat.
I met him, suited for the occasion, we grabbed a coffee and he told me about the role. It was at the London Stock Exchange, providing telephone support to users of stock pricing and order management systems. I told him that I had used the exact same pricing systems for three years at my previous role, which went down well, and he arranged me an interview the following week.
I bought a new suit and arrived early. The doors of the LSE are flanked by stocky security guards, solemn but fairly friendly, who ask you your business there if you do not produce a photo ID card. I told them that I had an interview and they directed me to the front desk.
In an indoor courtyard in front of me there was an enormous rotating digital planet Earth, and the walls had digital strips with global share prices moving round. A man with a device which I assumed was for detecting explosives asked me to take off my bag. His device 'sniffed' me, beeped its approval, and I was ushered forward to the front desk, where I was given a visitors badge and told to move through the barriers and take a seat.
G, the agent, had assured me that my interviewer D was a lovely lady. She came down after a while and introduced herself in a strong cockney accent, and took me upstairs. On the way to our interview room we passed glass cabinets with gold and silver trophy plates and other memorabilia which looked like they were worth a lot of money.
The interview was fairly standard. She asked me about my experience, and why I left my last job, which I was dangerously honest about. She then asked me what I knew about the London Stock Exchange. I told her what I knew, but stumbled when she asked me more complex questions. She was very professional, and there was not much time for small-talk. At the end of the interview I was not too confident about how well I had done, having not answered all of her questions about London Stock Exchange business as confidently as I would have liked, but the call-back for a second interview showed promise.
I met with G the agent again, as he wanted to see how the first interview went and prepare me for the second. He congratulated me on my initial success and gave me great advice for the next step, although I was already confident in my interview skills. I like to think of it as simply meeting someone for a chat. I am interviewing them as much as they are me in my eyes. That perspective puts us on even ground, and makes both interviewer and interviewee more comfortable. Never tell them that though. Some people like their feeling of superiority. Bring them down to your level by relaxing, not worrying, and being friendly and confident, but of course don't tell them about your tactics, they will bounce back to their corporate personality in a flash. Find common ground. Talk about yourself in your professional and personal capacity, your loves and dislikes, but nothing too divisive or controversial, and if they sense your honesty then you are likely to find something that they can empathise with, and you can take a break from the interview and be human beings a while. Before you know it, if you're lucky, you've made a friend! Much better than gaining a boss.
The second interview was with the head of the business area I would be working in. He was in his late forties I guess, a very friendly guy, and it felt quite informal. We sat down in the lovely cafeteria area and chatted, mostly about my interests and hobbies, lingering on a commonality of snooker briefly, before discussing more my professional experience and aspirations. I can't really remember what else we talked about, but I remember leaving feeling good about my chances, and glad that so far my potential colleagues seemed nice. The only thing I was worried about at this point was that my high-frequency posting of alternative and controversial news and views on Twitter and Facebook might come under scrutiny. It seemed unlikely that it wouldn't at such a high-profile establishment.
As I left the Exchange I got a text message from Baz asking if I wanted to meet him in Camden for a couple of drinks. I gladly obliged. I met him outside the station, me looking like a city bod and him like a First Division football manager, and we headed to a bar. The drinks came thick and fast with the odd joint of pollen or skunk thrown in here and there, and the day disappeared. Before I knew it the sun had set and we were both pretty pissed and stoned, merrily pub-crawling our way around the bars of Camden. Barry soon suggested finding some drugs. I was hesitant, but agreed with conditions.
"Okay, but no coke. Get MDMA, but only if it's crystal. I'm not paying money for a bag of talcum powder, crystal is the only thing we can be half sure of - crystal ONLY!" I really stressed this point, "I won't pay for anything else."
Sure enough, Baz headed off and picked up in a flash off some dodgy street dealer, and within 5 minutes we were in another bar, and Baz was pouring semi-precious crystals into my open palm.
"Here you go pal," he said, "get that down ya. I'll see ya on the other side of the rainbow!"
"Cheers pal."
"Cheers buddy!"
Our glasses clinked together and the slightly yellow translucent crystals were washed down with rum and coke.
More beer, more rum, and half an hour later we got impatient because we could not feel the MD, so we did the last of it between us. We waited, we waited...we probably waited only half as long as we thought because we were so pissed, and in my drunken impatience I subsequently decided prematurely that the MD was a dud.
"We got mugged off mate, this stuff is shit...Ah fuck it, let's crack on regardless!"
"Exactly bruv, we've had a great day, let's make it a great night!"
Now, here there is a bit of a gap. I think we were drinking in Wetherspoons by the canal when we came up off the MD hard. I think we headed to the Elephant after that. Barry says we were chatting with a bunch of big Russian lads, but I have no memory of it. I vaguely remember laughing with Baz about how we thought the MD was dud, but now we were off our pickles and entering a full ploughmans. It was in here that we met a girl called Sara and an Asian guy whose name I can't remember. Sara was a petite Camden lass, originally from the countryside somewhere, tattoos and leather jacket, cute and sexy, but a little rough around the edges. The Asian guy was fairly quiet, and seemed as though he had been hoping to get with Sara until she decided to tag along with us, and then he just tagged along too.
We had decided to go back to Barry's place in Edgware after the pubs shut. Here, my first clear memory for a while is of walking down Camden High Street, hallucinating severely. Each street light was showering glittery beams of radiance upon the pavement, and I had multiple vision that I could not for the life of me resolve through focus or concentration. Sara pointed out a guy across the road with a large dog, saying she always saw him about and that he seemed to be following her. I saw six identical men with six identical dogs walking down six identical streets. She asked me to put my arm around her and pretend like we were together. The memory gets hazy again here, but I remember the six dodgy guys and their dogs disappeared.
We got back to Barry's place somehow and came crashing in on his flatmate, a Somalian guy called Abdul, passed out with one of his friends. I was exhausted from all the drugs and alcohol and was unconscious pretty quickly, while the others cracked on with the beers and started chewing on some khat. I woke up a good few hours later, Tuesday morning, to a strange scene. Everyone was still up and awake, with Abdul's friend seemingly trying to convince Sara to take her clothes off. She was not interested in obliging. I sat up and said a sheepish hello to everyone. Hallucinations had ceased, but a tiredness was still lingering over me and a hangdown was lurking maliciously in the corner.
"What you guys been up to? How long have I been asleep?"
"You fell asleep as soon as we arrived! We've been chewing khat, drinking and smoking since!"
"Wow! I was pretty hammered. What's khat like?"
Abdul's friend chipped in, "it's great, have you never tried it? It's like cocaine, livens you up, but more naturally. Makes you really horny too!"
He winked at Sara as he said this, and the unamused look on her face made me wonder what I had missed while I was asleep.
"Where's Barry?"
"Gone to get more beer."
"Okay."
I looked at Sara and when everyone else's attention was elsewhere mouthed the words: "What's been going on?"
She moved over to sit next to me on the futon and spoke under her breath.
"It's been a bit weird here to be honest. I wanted to leave but didn't want to go by myself. I was hoping you'd come back with me."
"Not a problem," I said, "I need to rest a bit longer though. I'm pretty hammered still."
I lay back down and she casually snuggled up to me. It felt good, but I was a little uncomfortable about the situation. It seemed like she had been getting hassle off this lad while I had been out. He was acting like a horny schoolboy, and as soon as he saw her cuddle up to me he started winking at me and motioning for me to get her on the bed. I simply shook my head and lay back to rest, and he lost interest temporarily. From Sara's affection I had a feeling she didn't just want me to walk her home.
I was very tired, half asleep, but Sara's hand feeling between my shirt buttons distracted me from drifting off. I looked at her and she looked at me, and we kissed. She had a gorgeous body, and my hands wandered down her back and over her bum for a gentle squeeze. She took a sharp breath in and I felt my cock go semi, but I did my best to take my mind elsewhere, stopped kissing her and lay back with her head on my chest. This was not the best time or place for intimacy.
Barry and Abdul came back with more beer soon after.
"Awww, havin' a cuddle you two?"
"Sharing body heat!" Sara said with an innocent smile.
We sat up and accepted a beer, and Barry started rolling up a joint.
"I'm gonna head off in a while mate."
Barry looked up from his spliff.
"Okay pal. You alright?"
"Yeah, fine. Bit tired! I'm gonna see Sara back safe to Camden and then I need some serious rest!"
I had been out for 36 hours and I was still in my interview suit.
"Ah you're gonna see Sara back are ya?" He said, looking at Sara with a wink.
"Yeah," I said with an ironic air of chivalry, "got to make sure the lady gets home safely!"
Sara's friend; who had faithfully accompanied her on this journey across North London with two random drink and drug-induced men out of what seemed to be a genuine concern for her safety, to end up in a flat with a khat chewing Somalian and his horny friend; did not seem too pleased about this turnout. Sara showed no sign of being interested in him romantically, and had not at all that I remember, so I did not feel guilty about the situation, although I did feel a little sorry for him.
The day wore on and I asked Sara if she was ready to go, but she wasn't ready to leave yet, which I found funny as she had been bugging me to leave a bit earlier. I soon got impatient as I was very tired, and told her that I was leaving; if she wanted me to take her back to Camden we were leaving now, so we left, her friend with us. As it turned out he lived in Edgware, so wouldn't be accompanying us on the train. As we walked towards the station he hung back behind us, apparently sulking. Sara convinced me to have a quick drink in a pub we passed, and we invited him to join us but he refused, so he said goodbye, with a little animosity.
We decided to have a quick Jaegerbomb followed by a pint. The Red Bull in the Jaeger woke me up a little. We chatted and she told me that she had only tagged along with us because she liked me.
"But I was off my face on MD and pissed as a fart! I was tripping my balls off! Why would you want to chase me in that state?!"
"What can I say, I liked you. And I was pretty pissed myself." She said with a sheepish smile. I returned the smile and leaned forward to kiss her with an 'awww'.
"I'm going to be honest, I don't remember meeting you. I'd just come up off that MD and had been drinking for about 9 hours with Baz. The first I remember is walking through Camden with you and that guy with the dog following us."
"He is weird that guy. It can't be coincidence, I see him all the time, always walking the same direction as me."
"That is strange," I said, "I'd be careful. Especially with strange men you happen to meet in the pub!" We both laughed.
We left after we finished our drinks and jumped on the train. She sat on my lap and we kissed a while. When we stopped kissing I noticed a bunch of young lads checking her out.
"I think you have some fans over there." I whispered with a smile.
When we got to Camden she insisted on going for another drink. I didn't really want to drink any more; it had been a long night...well, a long day followed by a long night followed by another long day. I smiled at the realisation that 36 hours or so earlier I had been in an interview at the London Stock Exchange. We went for another drink when we got to Camden.
When we left the pub we ran through the rain with my coat as shelter until we came to her flat. She explained to me that although she wanted me to come in, I had to leave before 11, as that was when her landlord came back. He was apparently an older homosexual guy, and was funny about her having friends over in the evening as he worked long hours. So in we went.
It was a nice tidy flat, small but cosy. She took me straight into her room and said she was going for a shower, 'would I like to join her'? I said yes of course, and we both stripped naked, had a little kiss and a fondle, then headed into her shower. A bit of soapy romance ensued, and when we were both sufficiently aroused we quickly dried off and headed back into her bedroom, where we had amazing sex on her bed. When I pulled out afterwards I found that the ridiculously small condom she'd given me had broken.
"Don't worry, I'm on the pill." She said.
"Me too." I replied jokingly.
We laughed, kissed, cuddled up naked on her bed and put her TV on, but before long we were both horny again. We didn't see the point of using a condom this time, since the last one had broken, so the sex was more natural, and subsequently even better than the first session. By the time we had finished we were both exhausted, and cuddled up on the verge of sleep on her bed. I kept myself from drifting off, knowing that I had to leave shortly, and suddenly remembered that I was supposed to be teaching one of my last classes at the English school the following day!
We said goodbye with some passionate kissing and I took her number, promising to give her a call. I walked through the rain feeling pretty happy. Very tired, but happy. Unexpected sex will do that to you.
Over the next week I gave my last two lessons at the English school and said goodbye to the students. The Greek lad insisted on his mum taking a photo of us, even though I had only been teaching them a couple of weeks, which was nice.
I got a call from my agent to say that I got the job at the London Stock Exchange, starting the following week. Before I could start I had to provide evidence of everything that I had on my CV, going back to my GCSEs at secondary school. This took some chasing; a couple of calls to previous jobs and my university. I asked one previous employer for a letter confirming the dates that I was employed there, and was told that they could only provide a reference to a new employer.
"I don't want a reference, I want a letter confirming the dates I worked there."
"I'm sorry sir, it's company policy."
"So any old person can call you up, say they want my personal details for reference, and you will provide them, but I myself cannot? It's not even a reference I want, just a letter confirming employment dates. Can I speak to the head of HR please."
She put me on hold and came back a minute or so later.
"We don't normally do this, but on this occasion we are willing to send a letter confirming the dates you worked at the company."
"Thank you very much, but as that data refers to me, I am entitled under the data protection act to have access to it. Please could you email a copy of the letter as soon as possible and forward me the original. Thank you for your help."
I sent off my references and started working at the London Stock Exchange the following week.
Thirty Eighth Blog Of Trig, signing off.
2011-11-18
The Twenty Second Blog Of Trig - The Barcelona Diaries (Part 9 - CELTA Week Four)
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.
2011-11-16
The Twenty-First Blog Of Trig - The Barcelona Diaries (Part 8 - CELTA Week Three)
CELTA, week three. We had all been nervous about teaching the upper intermediate students, having heard stories from the other group about how they were difficult to manage, since as soon as you gave them a task they flew off into discussion, in English, immersing themselves in their own little world. The group was much older, with an average age probably lying in the mid-forties. I preferred this second group, as I could talk more naturally to them, although like the elementary students they had trouble understanding my London accent. In fact, both the elementary students and the upper intermediate students told me that my accent was the most difficult to understand, among a group of teachers from Wales, Ireland, Russia, Holland, America, and others. I told them all that if they had trouble with mine, they should try Scottish, or a proper London Cockney. Even I have trouble understanding some Scots.
Teaching the upper intermediate students was more difficult grammatically, as they were of course on a higher level of understanding than elementary. I got the distinct impression that some had a better grasp of many English grammatical concepts than I did, and I was asked the odd question that I could only answer with a shrug. You didn’t shrug of course, or tell the students that you didn’t know the answer. The best way to deal with grammatical questions you cannot answer is to say, “we’ll take a look at that next lesson”, and move on with the material you have prepared. You can then address the question in the next lesson if you feel inclined to, or simply hope that they forget it if you are lazy.
The lessons went well, but the atmosphere was increasingly tense among me and my peers. We were all tired from the first two weeks of studying and teaching. We were half-way through the course and we were now under our new tutor Nigel. Nigel was lovely, a quiet reserved man who chose his words carefully. We had heard that he could be a bit harsh in feedback, which I did not see at all. He was honest in his criticism, but his calm delivery made me feel at ease. His advice was always valid, and his shy, almost sheepish delivery made everyone feel comfortable.
We handed in our assignments and waited for feedback. That week I completed my first assignment without a resubmission, which I was very happy for. I helped one of the other student-teachers with her assignment briefly one evening, meeting her in the park and proof-reading it for her, but it started to get dark and I was tired, and I did not go through it properly. I could have made an awful lot of correction in all honesty, but it was due in the following morning and I did not want to cause her to stay up through the night re-writing it, by hand, on account of what I felt were trivial errors. Maybe I should have. She had to resubmit due to these grammatical errors, and was very upset. Not that it really mattered, she resubmitted and it was fine, but she was not happy with me after that, and our relationship was not the same.
We continued our lessons in the afternoons and taught in the evenings, still enjoying the course, but everyone was feeling the strain. Towards the end of the week I buckled on my ankle going down a flight of stairs in the school, while hurriedly preparing for a lesson. My foot went completely numb in an instant and I couldn’t walk on it. Four months later that ankle doesn’t feel like it will ever heal properly.
One day that week I left the school after giving a great lesson and ran into a massive procession of people protesting the ‘crisis’, the financial bail-out of the organisations who ‘lost’ all the money in the world. I marched through the city with the people, watching, writing, and smiling, taking pictures of the happy, peaceful protesters and the aggressive-looking armed riot police. I got some wonderful photographs, which I was very sad to lose when my camera was stolen in my bag the following week.
At the end of the week we began discussing our final lesson, an hour-long lesson which would take place in the final few days. Mine turned out to be the last lesson of the course, taking place 6.30-7.30 on the final Friday. I didn’t mind this, as it gave me plenty of time to prepare. My final lesson was to be based around a news article about a chimpanzee who has been taught to communicate in sign language and to use a special computer designed for her. I had picked this myself, loving chimpanzees and liking the idea of ending the lesson with a debate on the pros and cons of keeping animals in captivity. The article was very interesting as well, and I believed the students would enjoy reading and studying it.
There was a strange mix of emotions as we approached the end of that third week. We were all now eager to finish the course, drained of our energy through the intensity of the work, but we were also sad that it was coming to an end. We had formed close friendships with each other and developed what I hesitate to call a ‘group dynamic’, but that’s what it was. Working so closely together, helping each other, worrying about each other, watching everyone progress, we had become a team, and it was sad to envisage the break-up of that team when the course finished and everyone went their separate ways…CELTA – one week left.
This is ‘The Twenty Second Blog Of Trig’, signing off.
The Twentieth Blog Of Trig - The Barcelona Diaries (Part 7 - CELTA Week Two)
Week two of the CELTA course, we had our first assignment due in on the Tuesday. I thought I had done it okay, but was not too surprised when it was returned to me for a resubmission. If our assignment did not make the grade it was handed back to us and we had to resubmit it a few days later, after addressing the points our tutors had made. I was glad for this, as my knowledge of English grammar was not the best. In fact it was probably the worst among my peers, which I was not particularly proud of, especially since I was the only English lad. Of course, I KNEW English, having spoken, read and written it my entire life, and could tell you what is grammatically correct and what is not, but I did not know the grammar rules that had been constructed around it.
We were given our second assignment, which involved talking to our students and learning about their motives for learning English, the aspects of English they had difficulty with and why, their strengths, weaknesses, errors they made, and their attitude and behaviour in class. The student-teachers worked together to gather as much information as we could about our students and shared this information with each other for use in writing our assignments, which required us to analyse and assess this information in order to say how we would help students overcome the difficulties they have and eliminate the common errors.
The pressure was on that week, as we were expected to show improvement against our first week's teaching, which we all did of course. It was almost impossible not to, certainly for those of us who were teaching for the first time, which was the category I fell into. It was interesting and fulfilling to see the improvement in the students, which you could see even after one week of lessons. Some had not studied English since they were at school, so much of their improvement was probably a result of refreshed memories, but it was fulfilling nonetheless. Looking back I have never seen a person's personality revealed so cleanly as I did when I observed my students as I taught them. You have a front row seat to human psychological development. You feel their happiness as they speak their new language correctly, no matter how little they show it. You watch them slip up, correct themselves, and you feel their happiness as they improve day-by-day.
As the week drew to an end there was a little bit of apprehension, as we were unsure how much harder it would be teaching the upper intermediate students, and for the last two weeks we were to be working under a new teaching-tutor; Nigel. Nigel was a lovely guy, quite meek in his personality, but confident in his profession and a good teacher. Some of the people in the other group had told us that he was quite strict and unyielding in his tutoring and feedback, but I was not too worried. I could tell that he was a nice guy and I would have been surprised if he had been anything other than encouraging and supportive, which he was completely.
After our last lesson with the elementary students we had a bit of an emotional goodbye to them all. A few hugs were exchanged as they thanked us for teaching them and told us how well we had all done. A couple of people gave us all their contact details and promised to stay in touch. It was a wonderful experience, a strange experience, being students ourselves, being congratulated by our own students for how well we had done. It was a very unique experience, and looking back I feel a warm feeling inside as I reminisce. I made many wonderful friends that first two weeks.
This is 'The Twentieth Blog Of Trig', signing off.
We were given our second assignment, which involved talking to our students and learning about their motives for learning English, the aspects of English they had difficulty with and why, their strengths, weaknesses, errors they made, and their attitude and behaviour in class. The student-teachers worked together to gather as much information as we could about our students and shared this information with each other for use in writing our assignments, which required us to analyse and assess this information in order to say how we would help students overcome the difficulties they have and eliminate the common errors.
The pressure was on that week, as we were expected to show improvement against our first week's teaching, which we all did of course. It was almost impossible not to, certainly for those of us who were teaching for the first time, which was the category I fell into. It was interesting and fulfilling to see the improvement in the students, which you could see even after one week of lessons. Some had not studied English since they were at school, so much of their improvement was probably a result of refreshed memories, but it was fulfilling nonetheless. Looking back I have never seen a person's personality revealed so cleanly as I did when I observed my students as I taught them. You have a front row seat to human psychological development. You feel their happiness as they speak their new language correctly, no matter how little they show it. You watch them slip up, correct themselves, and you feel their happiness as they improve day-by-day.
As the week drew to an end there was a little bit of apprehension, as we were unsure how much harder it would be teaching the upper intermediate students, and for the last two weeks we were to be working under a new teaching-tutor; Nigel. Nigel was a lovely guy, quite meek in his personality, but confident in his profession and a good teacher. Some of the people in the other group had told us that he was quite strict and unyielding in his tutoring and feedback, but I was not too worried. I could tell that he was a nice guy and I would have been surprised if he had been anything other than encouraging and supportive, which he was completely.
After our last lesson with the elementary students we had a bit of an emotional goodbye to them all. A few hugs were exchanged as they thanked us for teaching them and told us how well we had all done. A couple of people gave us all their contact details and promised to stay in touch. It was a wonderful experience, a strange experience, being students ourselves, being congratulated by our own students for how well we had done. It was a very unique experience, and looking back I feel a warm feeling inside as I reminisce. I made many wonderful friends that first two weeks.
This is 'The Twentieth Blog Of Trig', signing off.
2011-11-11
The Nineteenth Blog Of Trig - The Barcelona Diaries (Part 6 - CELTA Week One)
The first two weeks of the CELTA course we were teaching elementary students. Most spoke Spanish as their first language. Some were Spanish, some proudly declared that they were not Spanish but Catalan. The others were mostly from South America; Argentina, Brazil, Ecuador; there was a French guy, and one Algerian, some looking as nervous as we were, others sitting down to the lesson and chilling like they were at home, with an air of confident nonchalance about them.
The first week went well (other than beginning my first lesson with my flies undone, brought to my attention by one of my pupils), and I taught my lessons with confidence arising partly from the initial lack of pressure. I watched my peers teach every day with fascination. Certain aspects of personality really show when teaching, such as patience (or impatience), confidence or lack of, sense of humour. Your grasp of the subject you are teaching also felt like it was under close scrutiny, that subject happening to be the language I have spoken my entire life; no pressure. Those who had taught young children were very animated in their teaching, which was brilliant for the elementary students. You have to use a lot of gestures with elementary students, and I remember our tutor Andrea conducting a few classes (with both the English students and the student English-teachers), hardly speaking at all, prompting us to verbally engage in the lesson with amazing grace. She was not jumping about playing charades either. It was the subtlety that made her such a good teacher. She would sit on a chair with us sitting in a wide semicircle around her, say half a sentence, make a slight gesture; a pinch of her ear or a point of her finger; and like some kind of Jedi mind trick we would be saying what she wanted us to say, filling in the details of a story she told without words.
'Try not to talk too much'. 'Grade your language'. 'Ask concept-checking questions'. 'Slowly and clearly'. The teaching points after lessons helped us to improve our teaching skills and identify our weak points. Our students left at around half past seven and then the student-teachers and our tutor sat and gave each other constructive criticism, which always began with a mutual congratulations on a good lesson. In turns we told the class how we thought we'd done and what we could have done better, and then the rest of the class were asked to give input. I was in a wonderful group who were not afraid to give constructive criticism, but who were wholly supportive, considerate, and not judgemental in any way.
The group of twelve was split into two teaching groups of six. We taught the elementary class for the first two weeks. The other group taught the upper intermediary. In my group of six was Garreth from Wales, Janneke from Holland, Emily from Ireland, Elmira from Russia, Derrick from the US, and of course me, from England.
Garreth, from Cardiff, looked like an English knight of old, as described in an earlier diary. When he taught, his voice took on that of a valiant knight from a fairy tale, even more so than usual. He laughed frequently, in friendly bellows like a big friendly giant, making jokes and having fun with the class, who beamed back at him with smiles that cannot be faked. We very quickly formed the kind of friendship that transcends distance and time, the kind of bond that I felt I had formed with all my fellow student-teachers by the end of the course.
Janneke was from Amsterdam, tall, blonde, with a stern but pretty face. She was a very good teacher, but she was occasionally a little bossy with the students to begin with, which we gently told her in one of the feedback sessions, and joked about later with the intermediate students. She spoke better English than I did, and embarrassed me; the only Englishman; with her amazing grasp of English grammar.
Emily was from Dublin, only 23 years old, the youngest among us, and had taught children for many years already. She was fun, very pretty, always up for a drink, and generally a laugh to be around. She had a job lined up back home as headteacher of a new school. I think she took the course just for the experience as much as anything else. She was very patient and encouraging in her teaching, her experience shining through with every lesson she taught.
Elmira was from Moscow, strikingly pretty, with dark hair and long legs. The first thing I noticed about her was her sense of empathy and compassion. When she sensed that someone was unhappy, she unwittingly took that negative emotion upon herself, turned it around, and comforted that person with the compassion of a mother with her child. When she was excited, her exuberance induced excitement in others. She worried a lot, on behalf of others at least as much as she did for herself. Like Janneke, she embarrassed me with her grasp of English grammar, and we spent some time working together, her sharing the grammar skills that she had worked hard to learn, me sharing the practical English 'skills' that come with simply 'being English'.
Derrick was from Ohio. African American, built like a gymnast, insanely talented and intelligent, with pearly white teeth that lit up his face when he spoke, and he was an absolute pleasure to be around. From our first meeting we began talking about science and mathematics, ascending into the philosophical and metaphysical, and I very quickly felt a close bond with him. He was enthusiastically encouraging to everyone in the feedback sessions, but was still possibly the most confident, perceptive peer when it came to providing constructive criticism. Everything he said was built on respect and consideration.
We began classes at 12pm each day, giving nice time for a lie-in, but we were in the school until eight, so I would often not get home until nine, have dinner, and be starting my lesson plans and assignments by ten. I was very frequently up until the early hours working, 6am was the record. Some students managed to go out drinking and partying quite a bit and still get all their work done. I don't know how they did it, and they did better than me in the end. I was working almost every waking moment and it was not easy, but I enjoyed every minute.
I had trouble with my back the first week or so, a combination of my injury in France a few weeks before and the amount of walking I did on the first couple of days in Barcelona. Every time I winced with pain in class I felt Elmira wince for me, worrying about me in her motherly way. She tried to convince me to go to the hospital and check it out once she found out that I had not been x-rayed back in England, but I knew that if I did find out that something was wrong, there was nothing that I could do about it out there and would have to wait until I got back to England anyway, so there was no point in risking a load of worry that I didn't need if it did turn out something was wrong. Every morning I got up and went to the roof terrace in the house I was staying and stretched for ten to fifteen minutes in the sunshine. This seemed to help, and was a lovely way to start the day.
From twelve until three each day we had input sessions, where the full group of twelve student-teachers would receive tutoring on teaching methods and skills. Then we would have lunch for an hour, before an hour of feedback sessions in our teaching groups of six until five o'clock. In the feedback sessions the three of us teaching would run through our lesson plans one last time with our tutor, and the other three would run through their lesson plans for the following day.
At five o'clock our students arrived for their English lesson, and three of us taught our forty minute lessons one after the other. The other three watched and made notes for feedback later. After the second forty minute block there was a break, and we all, English students and student English-teachers, went to the terrace and chatted, drank coffee and smoked before the last forty minute leg began. I quickly made friends with many of our students, and later ended up spending some time dating a lovely Ecuadorian woman I had taught for a while.
At the end of our first week we got together on the terrace for a few beers and everyone seemed happy. The pressure was not yet on and we knew next week would be different. Next week we would be expected to have taken on all of the feedback we had been given and applied it. As such we should not be making any of the mistakes we had made in the first week. Plus we had our first assignments due in...game on.
This is 'The Nineteenth Blog Of Trig', signing off.
The first week went well (other than beginning my first lesson with my flies undone, brought to my attention by one of my pupils), and I taught my lessons with confidence arising partly from the initial lack of pressure. I watched my peers teach every day with fascination. Certain aspects of personality really show when teaching, such as patience (or impatience), confidence or lack of, sense of humour. Your grasp of the subject you are teaching also felt like it was under close scrutiny, that subject happening to be the language I have spoken my entire life; no pressure. Those who had taught young children were very animated in their teaching, which was brilliant for the elementary students. You have to use a lot of gestures with elementary students, and I remember our tutor Andrea conducting a few classes (with both the English students and the student English-teachers), hardly speaking at all, prompting us to verbally engage in the lesson with amazing grace. She was not jumping about playing charades either. It was the subtlety that made her such a good teacher. She would sit on a chair with us sitting in a wide semicircle around her, say half a sentence, make a slight gesture; a pinch of her ear or a point of her finger; and like some kind of Jedi mind trick we would be saying what she wanted us to say, filling in the details of a story she told without words.
'Try not to talk too much'. 'Grade your language'. 'Ask concept-checking questions'. 'Slowly and clearly'. The teaching points after lessons helped us to improve our teaching skills and identify our weak points. Our students left at around half past seven and then the student-teachers and our tutor sat and gave each other constructive criticism, which always began with a mutual congratulations on a good lesson. In turns we told the class how we thought we'd done and what we could have done better, and then the rest of the class were asked to give input. I was in a wonderful group who were not afraid to give constructive criticism, but who were wholly supportive, considerate, and not judgemental in any way.
The group of twelve was split into two teaching groups of six. We taught the elementary class for the first two weeks. The other group taught the upper intermediary. In my group of six was Garreth from Wales, Janneke from Holland, Emily from Ireland, Elmira from Russia, Derrick from the US, and of course me, from England.
Garreth, from Cardiff, looked like an English knight of old, as described in an earlier diary. When he taught, his voice took on that of a valiant knight from a fairy tale, even more so than usual. He laughed frequently, in friendly bellows like a big friendly giant, making jokes and having fun with the class, who beamed back at him with smiles that cannot be faked. We very quickly formed the kind of friendship that transcends distance and time, the kind of bond that I felt I had formed with all my fellow student-teachers by the end of the course.
Janneke was from Amsterdam, tall, blonde, with a stern but pretty face. She was a very good teacher, but she was occasionally a little bossy with the students to begin with, which we gently told her in one of the feedback sessions, and joked about later with the intermediate students. She spoke better English than I did, and embarrassed me; the only Englishman; with her amazing grasp of English grammar.
Emily was from Dublin, only 23 years old, the youngest among us, and had taught children for many years already. She was fun, very pretty, always up for a drink, and generally a laugh to be around. She had a job lined up back home as headteacher of a new school. I think she took the course just for the experience as much as anything else. She was very patient and encouraging in her teaching, her experience shining through with every lesson she taught.
Elmira was from Moscow, strikingly pretty, with dark hair and long legs. The first thing I noticed about her was her sense of empathy and compassion. When she sensed that someone was unhappy, she unwittingly took that negative emotion upon herself, turned it around, and comforted that person with the compassion of a mother with her child. When she was excited, her exuberance induced excitement in others. She worried a lot, on behalf of others at least as much as she did for herself. Like Janneke, she embarrassed me with her grasp of English grammar, and we spent some time working together, her sharing the grammar skills that she had worked hard to learn, me sharing the practical English 'skills' that come with simply 'being English'.
Derrick was from Ohio. African American, built like a gymnast, insanely talented and intelligent, with pearly white teeth that lit up his face when he spoke, and he was an absolute pleasure to be around. From our first meeting we began talking about science and mathematics, ascending into the philosophical and metaphysical, and I very quickly felt a close bond with him. He was enthusiastically encouraging to everyone in the feedback sessions, but was still possibly the most confident, perceptive peer when it came to providing constructive criticism. Everything he said was built on respect and consideration.
We began classes at 12pm each day, giving nice time for a lie-in, but we were in the school until eight, so I would often not get home until nine, have dinner, and be starting my lesson plans and assignments by ten. I was very frequently up until the early hours working, 6am was the record. Some students managed to go out drinking and partying quite a bit and still get all their work done. I don't know how they did it, and they did better than me in the end. I was working almost every waking moment and it was not easy, but I enjoyed every minute.
I had trouble with my back the first week or so, a combination of my injury in France a few weeks before and the amount of walking I did on the first couple of days in Barcelona. Every time I winced with pain in class I felt Elmira wince for me, worrying about me in her motherly way. She tried to convince me to go to the hospital and check it out once she found out that I had not been x-rayed back in England, but I knew that if I did find out that something was wrong, there was nothing that I could do about it out there and would have to wait until I got back to England anyway, so there was no point in risking a load of worry that I didn't need if it did turn out something was wrong. Every morning I got up and went to the roof terrace in the house I was staying and stretched for ten to fifteen minutes in the sunshine. This seemed to help, and was a lovely way to start the day.
From twelve until three each day we had input sessions, where the full group of twelve student-teachers would receive tutoring on teaching methods and skills. Then we would have lunch for an hour, before an hour of feedback sessions in our teaching groups of six until five o'clock. In the feedback sessions the three of us teaching would run through our lesson plans one last time with our tutor, and the other three would run through their lesson plans for the following day.
At five o'clock our students arrived for their English lesson, and three of us taught our forty minute lessons one after the other. The other three watched and made notes for feedback later. After the second forty minute block there was a break, and we all, English students and student English-teachers, went to the terrace and chatted, drank coffee and smoked before the last forty minute leg began. I quickly made friends with many of our students, and later ended up spending some time dating a lovely Ecuadorian woman I had taught for a while.
At the end of our first week we got together on the terrace for a few beers and everyone seemed happy. The pressure was not yet on and we knew next week would be different. Next week we would be expected to have taken on all of the feedback we had been given and applied it. As such we should not be making any of the mistakes we had made in the first week. Plus we had our first assignments due in...game on.
This is 'The Nineteenth Blog Of Trig', signing off.
The Seventeenth Blog Of Trig - The Barcelona Diaries (Part 5 - 04/07/2011)
I started writing this on 2nd August, wrote some more on 8th August, and the date now is 11th of the 11th 2011...I really should get this finished. In the previous 'Barcelona diary' I covered Sunday 3rd July. I guess that puts me at Monday 4th July, my first day on the CELTA course.
I left myself plenty of time to get to the school, but after losing myself in what I expected to be a shortcut, I arrived just on time, hot and sweaty and a little annoyed with myself. In the reception I was greeted by Gloria, the lady in charge of administration. She had a lovely smile which even the most sombre of people could not help but reciprocate. She was warm and welcoming, and gave me a sticker to write my name on and put on my chest. She then advised me to go upstairs to the terrace bar where I would meet the other trainee teachers.
I arrived upstairs to find the bar very busy and the terrace even busier. I looked around and saw a few tables of students with similar stickers to mine, and picked one at random. There sat a pretty blonde girl and a guy with a heroic knight's face and suitably long blonde hair parted at the middle. They both greeted me, the guy introducing himself as Garreth. His voice was that of a valiant knight of old, adding to the image of bloody battles in my mind, built like a rugby player, and turned out to be, in fact, a rugby player. The girl introduced herself as Janneke (with the 'j' pronounced as a 'y'), and immediately asked me if I too had a Catalan girlfriend. I told her that I didn't, but that I assumed Garreth did. I was right.
We made small talk for a short while, during which I learnt that neither of them had done all of the recommended reading or finished the pre-course task, which I had also not managed to finish. I was relieved that we were all floating in the same life-boat. Then we were called to our classroom for our first input session.
The classroom was fairly small for the twelve students that had to squeeze in, with chairs spread out in a semi-circle around the whiteboard. We had two course tutors, the first being a lovely lady called Andrea. She looked about mid-to-late thirties, with pretty Mediterranean looks which I assumed to be of Greek origin. I was thrown off by her slight Irish accent, and it turned out she was brought up in Ireland, but was in fact born to Greek parents. She was warm and encouraging to us all, and first had us all play various 'get-to-know-you' games. I got to know my fellow students briefly in the first class, but I knew the real 'getting-to-know-you' would take place in a bar somewhere, which made me slightly uncomfortable since money was very tight for me.
In our first lesson Andrea stressed to us that we had to help each other out through the course, that is was going to be a lot of hard work and that our peers would be our best friends by the end. She was right, but I wasn't too sure about one or two people to start with. Those I was unsure of changed immeasurably through the course, and I count them all as good friends. First impressions can always be misleading.
As well as the games we played, we were taken through the structure of the course, told about our assignments, teaching schedules, and were hit with the bombshell that we would all teach a 20 minute lesson on our first day! We were to give a lesson incorporating the games we ourselves had played that day. I felt a little nervous, but afterwards my peers told me that I seemed very confident when my turn came. I think we all did, successfully concealing our nerves on that first day. Of course nothing extraordinary was expected of us, it being our first day and all.
The structure of the course over the next four weeks included teaching a lesson every other day. Three teachers would teach forty minutes one day, giving the English students a total two-hour lesson a day. Our last lesson on the course would be one hour. We received all kinds of handouts, a CELTA folder to keep our course material in, and also, the most important file for our CELTA course, the CELTA course file. This was to hold all of our lesson plans (submitted the morning before every lesson for assessment), assignments, tutor feedback, records of our attendance, every piece of evidence to show that we have taken the course. They emphasised to us that we should never, under any circumstances take the file home with us. If it were to be lost we might have to do the course over again. If you know me you will know the special relevance this applies to me, being the absolute calamity that I am. As they say, 'there's always one', and it's always me.
My 20 minute lesson incorporated a game where everyone wrote two things about themselves on two strips of paper (in English), put them in a pile and then picked two out at random. They then had to find the person who it belonged to. I remember the students standing around me in a semi-circle as I gave them instructions, feeling my heart beating in my chest, and cool bead-lets of sweat penetrating through my forehead. I stayed very calm, reminded myself that nothing could really go wrong, explained in the most basic of English what they had to do, and told them to 'mingle'. Of course, none of them knew what the hell the word 'mingle' meant, and there was a moment of nerves as they all stared silently around the room. Then one asked the room in broken English, "who has a sister called 'Maria'?" Someone claimed it. One down. Then silence. I broke the silence and said two words; 'walk', 'talk'; and after a moment of hesitation they broke their circle and began 'mingling'. I looked up and caught the eyes of my fellow student-teachers at the back of the room, who smiled and winked at me. Relief. I smiled.
I connected with a couple of people the first day, getting on particularly well with Garreth the Welsh rugby player. He was a very friendly, laid back and funny guy. It's always hard though, feeling nervous and with so many names to remember, but it was a good day. I was pretty tired and I went back home soon after my lessons finished, chatted to my host Alan briefly, waffled online a bit and then hit the sack, sleeping a little badly due to the heat.
CELTA day one, done.
This is 'The Seventeenth Blog Of Trig', signing off.
I left myself plenty of time to get to the school, but after losing myself in what I expected to be a shortcut, I arrived just on time, hot and sweaty and a little annoyed with myself. In the reception I was greeted by Gloria, the lady in charge of administration. She had a lovely smile which even the most sombre of people could not help but reciprocate. She was warm and welcoming, and gave me a sticker to write my name on and put on my chest. She then advised me to go upstairs to the terrace bar where I would meet the other trainee teachers.
I arrived upstairs to find the bar very busy and the terrace even busier. I looked around and saw a few tables of students with similar stickers to mine, and picked one at random. There sat a pretty blonde girl and a guy with a heroic knight's face and suitably long blonde hair parted at the middle. They both greeted me, the guy introducing himself as Garreth. His voice was that of a valiant knight of old, adding to the image of bloody battles in my mind, built like a rugby player, and turned out to be, in fact, a rugby player. The girl introduced herself as Janneke (with the 'j' pronounced as a 'y'), and immediately asked me if I too had a Catalan girlfriend. I told her that I didn't, but that I assumed Garreth did. I was right.
We made small talk for a short while, during which I learnt that neither of them had done all of the recommended reading or finished the pre-course task, which I had also not managed to finish. I was relieved that we were all floating in the same life-boat. Then we were called to our classroom for our first input session.
The classroom was fairly small for the twelve students that had to squeeze in, with chairs spread out in a semi-circle around the whiteboard. We had two course tutors, the first being a lovely lady called Andrea. She looked about mid-to-late thirties, with pretty Mediterranean looks which I assumed to be of Greek origin. I was thrown off by her slight Irish accent, and it turned out she was brought up in Ireland, but was in fact born to Greek parents. She was warm and encouraging to us all, and first had us all play various 'get-to-know-you' games. I got to know my fellow students briefly in the first class, but I knew the real 'getting-to-know-you' would take place in a bar somewhere, which made me slightly uncomfortable since money was very tight for me.
In our first lesson Andrea stressed to us that we had to help each other out through the course, that is was going to be a lot of hard work and that our peers would be our best friends by the end. She was right, but I wasn't too sure about one or two people to start with. Those I was unsure of changed immeasurably through the course, and I count them all as good friends. First impressions can always be misleading.
As well as the games we played, we were taken through the structure of the course, told about our assignments, teaching schedules, and were hit with the bombshell that we would all teach a 20 minute lesson on our first day! We were to give a lesson incorporating the games we ourselves had played that day. I felt a little nervous, but afterwards my peers told me that I seemed very confident when my turn came. I think we all did, successfully concealing our nerves on that first day. Of course nothing extraordinary was expected of us, it being our first day and all.
The structure of the course over the next four weeks included teaching a lesson every other day. Three teachers would teach forty minutes one day, giving the English students a total two-hour lesson a day. Our last lesson on the course would be one hour. We received all kinds of handouts, a CELTA folder to keep our course material in, and also, the most important file for our CELTA course, the CELTA course file. This was to hold all of our lesson plans (submitted the morning before every lesson for assessment), assignments, tutor feedback, records of our attendance, every piece of evidence to show that we have taken the course. They emphasised to us that we should never, under any circumstances take the file home with us. If it were to be lost we might have to do the course over again. If you know me you will know the special relevance this applies to me, being the absolute calamity that I am. As they say, 'there's always one', and it's always me.
My 20 minute lesson incorporated a game where everyone wrote two things about themselves on two strips of paper (in English), put them in a pile and then picked two out at random. They then had to find the person who it belonged to. I remember the students standing around me in a semi-circle as I gave them instructions, feeling my heart beating in my chest, and cool bead-lets of sweat penetrating through my forehead. I stayed very calm, reminded myself that nothing could really go wrong, explained in the most basic of English what they had to do, and told them to 'mingle'. Of course, none of them knew what the hell the word 'mingle' meant, and there was a moment of nerves as they all stared silently around the room. Then one asked the room in broken English, "who has a sister called 'Maria'?" Someone claimed it. One down. Then silence. I broke the silence and said two words; 'walk', 'talk'; and after a moment of hesitation they broke their circle and began 'mingling'. I looked up and caught the eyes of my fellow student-teachers at the back of the room, who smiled and winked at me. Relief. I smiled.
I connected with a couple of people the first day, getting on particularly well with Garreth the Welsh rugby player. He was a very friendly, laid back and funny guy. It's always hard though, feeling nervous and with so many names to remember, but it was a good day. I was pretty tired and I went back home soon after my lessons finished, chatted to my host Alan briefly, waffled online a bit and then hit the sack, sleeping a little badly due to the heat.
CELTA day one, done.
This is 'The Seventeenth Blog Of Trig', signing off.
2011-08-27
The Thirteenth Blog Of Trig - The Barcelona Diaries (Part 4 - 03/07/2011)
Finally, my first Barcelona beach day! Sunday the third of July, CELTA-1.
I woke up leisurely after my long walk and party-watching day Saturday, and went out early to go shopping. I had not had the opportunity to buy any groceries yet. I kept it simple; cereal, yoghurts, bread, cheese, ham, pasta, and of course a couple of large bottles of water. When I got home I made myself two large sandwiches with ham, lettuce, tomato, and avocado, and packed them into my bag with some English teaching books and my notes, before saying goodbye to Alan and setting off to the beach.
It must have been lunchtime by the time I got off the Metro at the bottom of La Ramblas, and I was feeling quite hungry. The sandwiches in my bag were calling me, but I decided to wait until I made it to the beach before I tucked in. I headed past Columbus' Column by the port and walked down towards Barcelonetta, occasionally looking up to smile happily at the sun above me. This was partly to distract me from the multitude of lovely bronzed legs that surrounded me on the route to the beach, not one fake-tan in sight. Gotta love summertime.
I arrived at Barcelonetta Beach and sat on a bench facing the shore. Barcelonetta is a long stretch of beach with bars dotted along the back, each with a public shower/changing area for beach-goers. Volleyball nets are all taken by lovely bikini-clad ladies and lads straight out of the gym. Behind the beach there is a foot-and-cycle path that covers the entire length. Here, as with most of Barcelona, rollerskaters pass constantly like a Malibu cliche. The female skaters catch my attention; wonderful thighs. I eat my sandwiches and watch the world go by before moving onto the beach to enjoy my last day before the course starts.
I chose a spot near the back of the beach and before I've sat down an oriental lady approaches, calling "Massaja? Massa-he?". I say no initially, but she is persistent and it's only 5 Euros, plus I have a bad back, so I accept. I try to tell her to be gentle with my back but she doesn't understand. It takes a minute or so of acting to explain that I am injured, and that she must be careful around my spine. I wrap my arm around my bag and lie on my front and she begins.
The massage is good. She works my back, bum, arms, neck and head for a good ten-to-fifteen minutes before asking if I want my legs and feet done for another 5. I accept. When she is done I am very relaxed. She tries to get more out of me but I am happy. I give her ten and another Euro tip and she says goodbye. I lay back and enjoy the sun on my body.
It is very warm. I consider going in the sea, but I hadn't brought any swimming shorts with me, hoping to buy some here. In any case I couldn't leave my bag here what with all the thief stories I'd heard, so I made myself a sand-pillow, got out an English teaching book and did a little last-minute revision, while enjoying the view of theose ladies who were confident enough to go topless, and the others too. It's hard to concentrate under these circumstances, but I somehow managed it in between cheeky peeks.
While on the beach I listen to the voices around me. I hear lots of Australian girls, a few loud American guys, a few Brits, and a few Spanish. I start getting pain in my back from the way I am sitting, so I remake my sand-pillow a few times to keep my posture straight. I've not written about this yet, but a few weeks previously I fell something like 15 foot off a ledge in a forest in France and landed on my back, breaking a log that I fell on. I was very lucky to walk away, or hobble as the case was. My back has not been the same since, and might not ever be. I'll have to write about that trip sometime.
As the sun moved slowly behind the city I got my stuff together and moved off. On the way back past the port I encountered a salsa-style band playing well-known songs in their own style. I sat down amongst a sizeable crowd of people to listen a while. They danced as they played, jumping around each other with so much energy I wanted to get up and join in, but I didn't. I filmed them a while, enjoyed their music a little longer and then headed off, dropping my change into their hat at the front.
When I arrived back at the house Alan offered to take me out for dinner again since it was my last evening of freedom before the course started. We went out for pizza. As we eat and drink a couple of beers we discuss 'demons', those insecurities which can whisper in our minds and drain our confidence with their patronising self-criticism. We discuss ways of defeating these demons, and whether they actually need to be defeated, or just understood and satisfied. Alan says that he tries to imagine them as having some positive purpose hidden in our subconscious, and through discovering this purpose and giving attention to these subconscious monsters we can satisfy them. Of course, any subconscious demon is simply an aspect of its' host's personality, and for a person to be whole and complete they must acknowledge their own subconscious and not do battle with it.
We discuss the demons of worry. When I have things to do and I put them off, I worry about them. Subconscious demons whisper words of discontent to me, making me uncomfortable and causing me stress. This is remedied simply by acknowledging the demon, by either doing the task I am putting off or making solid plans to complete it. The 'demons' are a call for unity from my subconscious. A part of me separates from the 'active me' and attempts to influence the active me. It should be my aim to eliminate the distinction between these parts and myself. These nagging thoughts I am referring to are just like any other thought; an integrated part of myself. To allow for internal conflict creates them. When I eliminate my internal conflicts my subconscious will have nothing to say. Rather than my intentions materialising as thoughts trying to initiate actions, they will manifest as actions first time around, removing the need for internal nagging.
Anyway, got a bit lost there. I talked to Alan about Krishnamurti and his views on the thoughts of man, how thoughts are time, and time is an illusion that can be escaped by the cessation of thought. How we try to observe ourselves in our lives, but in doing so split ourselves into an observer and an observed, where we are only one person who should embrace our unity within infinity. I could go on and on about that but I won't. It's quarter to four in the morning and I need to get some sleep.
Alan and I finished our food and went home. I got to bed straight away to get up early for the beginning of my CELTA course in the morning. I was a little sad that my free time in Barcelona had ended, but excited to be starting the course. It was going to be one hell of a ride.
This is 'The Thirteenth Blog Of Trig', signing off.
I woke up leisurely after my long walk and party-watching day Saturday, and went out early to go shopping. I had not had the opportunity to buy any groceries yet. I kept it simple; cereal, yoghurts, bread, cheese, ham, pasta, and of course a couple of large bottles of water. When I got home I made myself two large sandwiches with ham, lettuce, tomato, and avocado, and packed them into my bag with some English teaching books and my notes, before saying goodbye to Alan and setting off to the beach.
It must have been lunchtime by the time I got off the Metro at the bottom of La Ramblas, and I was feeling quite hungry. The sandwiches in my bag were calling me, but I decided to wait until I made it to the beach before I tucked in. I headed past Columbus' Column by the port and walked down towards Barcelonetta, occasionally looking up to smile happily at the sun above me. This was partly to distract me from the multitude of lovely bronzed legs that surrounded me on the route to the beach, not one fake-tan in sight. Gotta love summertime.
I arrived at Barcelonetta Beach and sat on a bench facing the shore. Barcelonetta is a long stretch of beach with bars dotted along the back, each with a public shower/changing area for beach-goers. Volleyball nets are all taken by lovely bikini-clad ladies and lads straight out of the gym. Behind the beach there is a foot-and-cycle path that covers the entire length. Here, as with most of Barcelona, rollerskaters pass constantly like a Malibu cliche. The female skaters catch my attention; wonderful thighs. I eat my sandwiches and watch the world go by before moving onto the beach to enjoy my last day before the course starts.
I chose a spot near the back of the beach and before I've sat down an oriental lady approaches, calling "Massaja? Massa-he?". I say no initially, but she is persistent and it's only 5 Euros, plus I have a bad back, so I accept. I try to tell her to be gentle with my back but she doesn't understand. It takes a minute or so of acting to explain that I am injured, and that she must be careful around my spine. I wrap my arm around my bag and lie on my front and she begins.
The massage is good. She works my back, bum, arms, neck and head for a good ten-to-fifteen minutes before asking if I want my legs and feet done for another 5. I accept. When she is done I am very relaxed. She tries to get more out of me but I am happy. I give her ten and another Euro tip and she says goodbye. I lay back and enjoy the sun on my body.
It is very warm. I consider going in the sea, but I hadn't brought any swimming shorts with me, hoping to buy some here. In any case I couldn't leave my bag here what with all the thief stories I'd heard, so I made myself a sand-pillow, got out an English teaching book and did a little last-minute revision, while enjoying the view of theose ladies who were confident enough to go topless, and the others too. It's hard to concentrate under these circumstances, but I somehow managed it in between cheeky peeks.
While on the beach I listen to the voices around me. I hear lots of Australian girls, a few loud American guys, a few Brits, and a few Spanish. I start getting pain in my back from the way I am sitting, so I remake my sand-pillow a few times to keep my posture straight. I've not written about this yet, but a few weeks previously I fell something like 15 foot off a ledge in a forest in France and landed on my back, breaking a log that I fell on. I was very lucky to walk away, or hobble as the case was. My back has not been the same since, and might not ever be. I'll have to write about that trip sometime.
As the sun moved slowly behind the city I got my stuff together and moved off. On the way back past the port I encountered a salsa-style band playing well-known songs in their own style. I sat down amongst a sizeable crowd of people to listen a while. They danced as they played, jumping around each other with so much energy I wanted to get up and join in, but I didn't. I filmed them a while, enjoyed their music a little longer and then headed off, dropping my change into their hat at the front.
When I arrived back at the house Alan offered to take me out for dinner again since it was my last evening of freedom before the course started. We went out for pizza. As we eat and drink a couple of beers we discuss 'demons', those insecurities which can whisper in our minds and drain our confidence with their patronising self-criticism. We discuss ways of defeating these demons, and whether they actually need to be defeated, or just understood and satisfied. Alan says that he tries to imagine them as having some positive purpose hidden in our subconscious, and through discovering this purpose and giving attention to these subconscious monsters we can satisfy them. Of course, any subconscious demon is simply an aspect of its' host's personality, and for a person to be whole and complete they must acknowledge their own subconscious and not do battle with it.
We discuss the demons of worry. When I have things to do and I put them off, I worry about them. Subconscious demons whisper words of discontent to me, making me uncomfortable and causing me stress. This is remedied simply by acknowledging the demon, by either doing the task I am putting off or making solid plans to complete it. The 'demons' are a call for unity from my subconscious. A part of me separates from the 'active me' and attempts to influence the active me. It should be my aim to eliminate the distinction between these parts and myself. These nagging thoughts I am referring to are just like any other thought; an integrated part of myself. To allow for internal conflict creates them. When I eliminate my internal conflicts my subconscious will have nothing to say. Rather than my intentions materialising as thoughts trying to initiate actions, they will manifest as actions first time around, removing the need for internal nagging.
Anyway, got a bit lost there. I talked to Alan about Krishnamurti and his views on the thoughts of man, how thoughts are time, and time is an illusion that can be escaped by the cessation of thought. How we try to observe ourselves in our lives, but in doing so split ourselves into an observer and an observed, where we are only one person who should embrace our unity within infinity. I could go on and on about that but I won't. It's quarter to four in the morning and I need to get some sleep.
Alan and I finished our food and went home. I got to bed straight away to get up early for the beginning of my CELTA course in the morning. I was a little sad that my free time in Barcelona had ended, but excited to be starting the course. It was going to be one hell of a ride.
This is 'The Thirteenth Blog Of Trig', signing off.
2011-08-05
The Twelfth Blog Of Trig - The Barcelona Diaries (Part 3 - 02/07/2011)
Okay, I'm catching slowly up with the present, day by day. It's the fourth of August now, and I am about to write up my notes from my third day in Barcelona, 32 days ago. I might have to do a brief summary of the course itself when I finally get around to it, otherwise I worry that my backlog will get worse and I'll spend the rest of my life writing about the past, which is just a horrible idea. So anyway, Saturday it is...
I woke up fairly early as always, a bit of the 'morning glory' keeping me face down and smiling for a while before I noticed the light in the room, and my mind ascended into reality. I opened my eyes slightly and then quickly shut them tight, pulled a sheet over my head, put my arm over the sheet blocking my eyes and went back to sleep. Very soon the sound of the birds outside had gotten the better of me and I was up.
I went downstairs and had some cereal and then a cup of tea, which I took up to the roof terrace with me to smoke a cigarette. Once I smoked I did a couple of exercises, couple of press-ups, then went downstairs to my room and surfed the net a while.
I heard Alan call my name and I answered. He asked if I fancied going out to grab some food and get a little orientation round the area. I gladly accepted and we left soon after, heading up to the local food market, then on to the local shopping centre. Now, I hate shopping centres. I walk into Brent Cross and a migraine appears and I want to break shop windows, but this was a nice place. Expensive, but nice.
We sat down at a sushi counter and Alan ordered two glasses of Cava. Very nice. We sat there and chatted, and, almost inevitably when you are talking to me, we got onto discussing the banking system and how corrupt and detrimental to society it is. I somehow got onto conspiracies of all kinds such as 9-11 and 7-7, telling him about all the evidence that points to conspiracy and my theories on it all. We talked of various issues in the world for some time, before we finished our glasses and left to get some food. We wandered the Barcelona streets for a while before stopping at a cafe. I had a very mediocre chicken and chips and then paid for lunch since Alan had bought me dinner the first night. Then we headed back to the house.
After we got back I decided I was going to go and see the 'Neucamp' Stadium a couple of miles away, and I set off with my map and not much else. I bought some beer on my way, thinking it would be nice to have a couple somewhere. It took me a while to get there, but it was one road all the way so no risk of getting lost...and I actually didn't.
I arrived at the Neucamp stadium and was a little disappointed. It is a hideous building of grey stone from the outside. Still, took a couple of pictures and carried on round to the far side of the stadium where I found some cool graffiti. I took a few pictures and then walked on to find a large concrete playing ground the size of a medium sized football field, with a number of Asian guys playing cricket and sitting around. A high wall went around the perimeter of the playing ground, saturated with what from a distance seemed to be very nice graffiti. I wandered in as a group of them were leaving, saying 'ola' to one who seemed to want a stare battle with me, took a couple of photos, and left straight after, feeling slightly out of place.
Looking at my map I saw that I could walk down one main road and be a couple of blocks from where I was staying, and there was also a park on the way that I could check out, and maybe stop for a beer.
I set off, eyes all around me soaking up the noises of the city. As I approached the park I noticed a couple in wedding dress outside the park, looking like they had just been married. I knew I had seen something appropriate in my little Spanish book so I pulled it out and flicked through until I found the right page. "Felicitaciones!" I said with a smile as I passed them. "Gracias senor."
I set off, eyes all around me soaking up the noises of the city. As I approached the park I noticed a couple in wedding dress outside the park, looking like they had just been married. I knew I had seen something appropriate in my little Spanish book so I pulled it out and flicked through until I found the right page. "Felicitaciones!" I said with a smile as I passed them. "Gracias senor."
I walked into the park and wasn't too impressed. There was some nice fountains but the water in the pools was very dirty and the park looked un-maintained in general. It was nice, but could have been much nicer with a little work. I did not spend long in there.
As I approached Les Corts a little further down the road I recognised the shopping centre I had visited earlier with Alan. I knew my way home! I was deciding to go and have a beer or two on the balcony back home when I suddenly heard drums coming from the side roads. I had to stop and investigate and was fascinated to find children running down the road in fireproof demon costumes, with catherine wheels on sticks, stopping running when the wheels stopped spinning as they exploded above their heads. I later learned this is called 'Corre Foc' by the Catalan people, or 'fire running'. They were being led through the side-streets slowly by the drummers, cycling back to their group leader to have new fireworks attached to their sticks. I got my camera out and started filming. I had to avoid the white-hot sparks as they ran past, and as I was crouching filming one runner, his firework flew off, and without me noticing, landed next to me. It then exploded a couple of feet from my head, sending my head spinning and my ears ringing (see video at the top).
After an hour or more watching the show it finished, and everyone watching cheered and clapped. I did likewise and then left to make my way home. As I passed another road I heard more drumming, this time more accurate and professional sounding, so once again I followed my ears to the source and found another two groups of older, more experienced drummers hammering out great rhythms. There was a crowd surrounding them as they marched through the streets to their beats, with older, more adventurous fire-runners ahead of them. These guys did not shy away from the sparks and the fire, they attacked each other with it. They ran at each other with lances like 'Roman Candles', covering each other in sparks. After following them for twenty minutes or so we came to a busy square full of many more drummers, locals, a stage and a bar. I sat down to watch the party.
The drummers and fire-runners performed for a long while on-and-off, stopping at around 11pm (a guess), when a band started playing on the stage. I had already had a couple of my beers at this point, and I cracked open a few more and just sat on a bench watching the festivities around me.
A photographer documenting the party sat down next to me and spoke in Spanish. He looked about 55 at a guess. "Ingles", I said, pointing to myself. He acknowledged me but his silence told me that he did not speak any English. We both sat there checking out the scene in front of us silently, when I caught a whiff of rotten eggs. He tapped me on the shoulder and made a smoking motion while saying something I did not understand, pointing at the group of people sitting on the floor near us. I did not understand him, and motioned this to him. He made like he was injecting something into his arm and then the smoking motion again. I understood. He was telling me that the egg smell was heroin and that they were smoking it.
The party went on as I finished my beers, soaking up the atmosphere happily, smoking far too many cigarettes. I looked up at the clock tower above me and it was midnight! I had been following the fire-runners, drummers, and sitting watching the party for almost five hours! I was a little tired and decided it was time to leave. The photographer had left a while back so I left the party without a goodbye and vanished into the side streets. Within ten minutes I was in bed.
Saturday over. One more day until I start my CELTA course, and really, it would have been stupid not to make it a beach day.
This is "The Twelfth Blog Of Trig", signing off.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)