No es adios...

Es "hasta luego", my boss said, right before I walked out of the office. Goodbye ministry. But also goodbye Madrid, and goodbye Spain. The last post, because on Sunday morning, I flew back to Belgium, just when I was getting used to the Spanish way of living (and with that I mean having lunch at 4 in the afternoon, and dinner around 11). And even though all I could do was curse in my previous post, I decided to finish this blog with some nice words. 

A bit more than a month ago, I fled this country because I was absolutely fed up with it, and yet here I am, writing this 'last post' with a bittersweet feeling. But hey, no melodrama here, I knew this moment was going to come and I signed up for this. And as my boss said, it's not a farewell... I mean, I know of this secret aeroplane company called Ryanair that could get me to Madrid for less money than the Belgian public transport gets me to Brussels. 

To explain to you why only weeks ago, I thought Spain was m*rda and all of a sudden today, I feel only big amor, I have to take you back to the end of my teaching internship, when about one month ago, I said goodbye to my internship school in the wonderful historic villlage of Alcalá de Henares. Although I was more than relieved to finally have a social life again, saying goodbye to my alumnos, mentors and colleagues was a little emotional. After all, I had passed about three months with them and together we had overcome the dreadful rainy inferno that plagued these lands.

But great prospects lay ahead: being a person of extremes, I swapped my calm university residence for an apartment in the heart of the city, Sol. My little 10m² studio became a 20m² bedroom in a big apartment, where I would have to share my fridge with another 5 people. And even though I was scared to do flatsharing, I honestly never had any difficulties with my flatmates (maybe also because I never actually used that fridge). Because during this past month, I cooked a total of... two times. I don't know if I should be ashamed or proud of that? 

Now, before you start thinking that I am the epitome of decadence, let me inform you that you can have a menu del día for about 9 euros, and in the Museo del Jamón, right in front of my apartment, a sandwich with jamón Iberico for 1,5 euros. So, well, I guess the prediction I made in my first post will unfortunately have come true... Because remember that I feared that I was going to roll back into Belgium? I was lucky Ryanair didn't charge me for excess passenger weight, because man, o, man, how many wonderful things I've eaten during my stay in Madrid! 

And even though "food" would have been a good summary for my stay in Madrid, let's not forget the main reason I went there in the first place: work. After Alcala, I made another drastic change and went from being a teacher-trainee to serving "my" country as a full-time civil servant at the ministry's Madrid Education Council.

It all sounds very fancy, because it actually was. I was working in a New York-style building in Gran Vía, Madrid's most important and metropolitan street. In the daytime, it would transform into a stretched out Time Square, and you would almost be carried away with the crowds and be pickpocketed at least 10 times if you didn't watch out. But given that I started working at 7.30 every morning, I had the Gran Vía all to myself (except for some drunkards who were still up from the previous night).

In my fancy ministry clothes, I would walk past the Puerta del Sol where my apartment was, catch a glimpse of the first sunrays shining through Madrid's eblematic bear statue, pick up a coffee and happily walk into the Consejería, first passing the security guards, then the metal detector, to finally arrive to the second floor where I'd greet my boss and coworkers.

Puerta Del Sol at 7 am... 

I quickly came to understand that, even though I would be working for Eramsus+, I would need much more Spanish skills than "Vale, todo bien, no pasa nada". After all, except for my boss, all my coworkers spoke Spanish and Spanish only. Such patriots, the Spanish. I mean, who needs English these days, right? But in the end, I was happy that I was forced to practise a bit, because during my internship at Antonio Machado, all I ever spoke was English and French.

My internship at the Consejería consisted mainly of administrative tasks and translations, but it was very interesting nonetheless. I got to get an insight in how Erasmus+ works on an organisational level, and also got to join a project where I got in touch with pupils and teachers from different nationalities. But regardless of whether I was at the office or somewhere out in Madrid for the project, things somehow always came down to ... food.

At the Consejería, nearly every day, someone came by with home-made pastries, or proposed a toast to his or her newborn granddaughter, so I thought it was only fair for me to follow that trend. I surprised my coworkers with Belgian chocolates and in return, my coworkers surprised me with a farewell drink on my last day, Friday, including empanadas, tortilla, wine, an awkward speech, a lot of besos and encantada conocerte's.

Another day at the office... 

After saying goodbye to my coworkers and boss, it was time for the most difficult part: saying goodbye to Madrid and my friends. Being a true romantic, I already felt nostalgic one week before leaving Madrid and tried to make the most of it together with the lovely people I've met. I met up with friend 1 for breakfast, friend 2 for brunch, friend 3 got to see me at lunch and finally, I had dinner with another bunch. And in between those dates, I still found the time to get lost in the Madrid streets one last time.

The last eve, Saturday, as tradition demanded it, we went watching the sunset over the Casa de Campo, and then walked through the Malasaña streets one last time, hopping in an out of bars, doing shots and having glasses of cava. PS. This really isn't the best idea if you have to catch your plane only 3 hours later...

Watching the sunset on the last day...

With slight nausea, I waited at gate C36 for my final journey back home. 3 hours later, I landed back on Belgian soil and as I got off the plane, I felt my thoughts becoming thin. My 4 month life-changing experience already felt like a faint memory. I realised that I must have lived in a parallel world where time moves differently. It felt like my world had been turning so fast, whereas in Belgium, time had stood still. But I knew I wasn't crazy and I shouldn't panic because after all, this was just another Erasmus side-effect, and next up would be my philosophical phase, which would soon turn into a PED (Post Erasmus Depression),

***spoiler, here comes my philosophical phase***.

So here I am, writing this last post in my same old room that once more seems to have shrunk a bit... Or maybe, it's just me who got bigger? And this time I mean, figuratively 😉

On these warm spring evenings, I walk through my hometown and wonder how on earth I managed to be happy here for 18 years. Then I realise, I never really was happy and that the travel bug has now successfully infected my entire body and all my vital functions: another international experience later, my heart is scattered over the continent, my lungs breathe air coming from the four cardinal directions, my tongue speaks different languages, my eyes distinguish a hundred more shades of light, my feet are restless and my stomach is craving more of these experiences.

So now I observe the old lady that, every day, feeds the sheep down the street, and I wonder: is she happy? I look at her and I wonder if she ever got out of this place, or if she'd been feeding 10 generations of those same old sheep ?  Then, I see the young, busy on their phones, smoking their cigarettes down by the bus station. But I don't roll my eyes. Instead, I make a wish for them. I wish for a little magic to happen in their heads.

I wish to plant a seed, a seed of curiosity in their minds. I wish to give them a desire, a need for exploring this vast, wide world. I wish to give them an eagerness to learn, not only about this world, its people, its diversity and its cultures, but most of all, about themselves.

And hopefully, after having read this blog, I will have planted that same seed in your heads. Don't worry, because if you allow the seed to grow, I promise you will harvest the most precious fruits.

OK, now that this philosophical phase is over, let's face this PED!

See you on my next adventure!


PEACE OUT


xoxo

Elise

The M-word

M**rda! I think I have never said it so many times in my life, because when you have to teach in front of 32 teenagers in a soaked jeans and with smudged mascara, this Spanish curse word might escape one's lips a time or two. Or twenty-two... 

It's been quite some time since I posted something because of the simple reason that I haven't had much to say. Although the first weeks of my internship were very tense and somehow exciting, after some weeks, I finally found a routine of eat-sleep-teach-repeat and I thought that was not the most interesting thing to share.

I sincerely wish that  I could delight you with exciting stories about trips in the region, or share sunny photos of  visits to Madrid, Toledo or Salamanca. But except for tapas bars and hipster cafés, I haven't seen much of the Spanish cultural life because... Belgium happened.

Yes, I call it Belgium: the dreadful weather that has been torturing me for the past three months. Now, I am not paranoid, but I am not excluding conspiracy theories because - clearly - someone holds a grudge against me, having placed this raincloud right over the centre of the Spanish peninsula. Is it you, Frank?

Some weekends, I considered taking a train to one of the Costas, but the weather wasn't splendid either. So I stayed at home and tried to see the positive side of my situation: I would have plenty of time to prepare my lessons.

Unfortunatly, dark skies are not very motivating. So instead, I wrapped myself up in my cocoon, went into hibernation mode and waited for this inferno to pass. I felt much like Rapunzel, trapped in a 12m² "tower", overlooking the red, dry hills that little by little were turning green. But however beautiful they seemed, the pouring rain was my guard, preventing me from fleeing my tower and exploring this beautiful land.

But at some point I had to get out, because obviously I didn't live at my internship school. So every morning, I sipped at my coffee and looked at the palmtree catching wind. I cursed the land, the skies, everything, and after this desperate, poetic moment, I pulled myself together and dragged myself to school. Aye, dragged. Not because I hated the job, but because it implied risking my life on the dangerous, wet roads and arriving absolutely soaked at my internship school. 

Even though my colleagues and friends kept telling me that "it was going to change" and that "I was going to beg for rain in a few weeks", I grew more depressed by the day, because nothing ever changed. And when even the Spanish people started worrying about some approaching apocalypse (because they had never had this kind of weather before), I decided that enough was enough. I had to get out of this bloody country.

In an impulsive moment, I booked a ticket to the sunniest place I could think of. I thought of my happy place, a place that had helped me once before. So I booked a plane and off I went. And even though, in hindsight, it was ridiculous, stupid, way overpriced and too far for the one-week holiday I was granted at my internship school, I don't regret my decision. 

Pura Vida

Costa Rica, the reason I became the international geek I am today. Costa Rica infected me with the nastiest of travel bugs. This travel bug being the reason I left for Nice, the reason I wanted to leave for Australia (and somehow ended up in Spain) and the reason that I made the decision to move abroad for an indefinite period after I graduate in Belgium. 

Costa Rica was my refuge when, many years ago, I had lost my way. And since I felt that I was losing it again, I was hoping that this one-week holiday might provide me with enough strength to survive the next episode of my personal bad-weather-inferno back in Spain.

So I soaked up every ray of sunshine, smelled every molecule of non-polluted air and felt every increasing degree of Celcius. I enjoyed every minute of this nostalgic rollercoaster. I met my long-distance friends again, had some Imperials with my host family and travelled the country on the tunes of U2. 

I smiled all the time. I must have looked like a retarded idiot, being overamazed by the silliest things such as American trucks, public buses covered with a smiling Jesus-figure or the little fruit stands down the roads selling exotic fruit. I ran around like a headless chicken crying for coconut water and jumped over the thought of finally having some fresh guanabana again. Also, I may have overindulged in gallo pinto and frescas - again. 

But all nice things must come to an end. I travelled back into the future and arrived in Spain, hoping that the Costa Rican weather would have somehow stuck to me. But I lost it somewhere over the Atlantic, shaken off by turbulence. Because when I arrived back in Madrid, the weather was exactly the same, not to say worse than before. I walked home from a 12-hour flight in the rain, wearing nothing but my sunny Costa Rican outfit. An instant reminder of the weeks to come... 

Luckily, I have my Belgian friends reminding me what good weather feels like, as they are posting their sunny BBQ-pics in their bikinis while I am freezing in 7°C. And I wonder if this is all one big set-up, and if I was secretely transferred to the English Lake District by aliens while I was asleep, because, well, these streets start looking like lakes over here. But I guess I'm still in Spain, otherwise my pupils would have had a way better English accent... 

But to end on a positive note, today my mentor said that they have a famous saying, stating that in Madrid, they have 8 months of winter, and 4 months of hell. 

I realise that's not even a positive note. But anyway - let all hell break loose. I'm ready. 

Ceci n'est pas un volcan

Spain rhymes with...

Rain! I arrived here almost 6 weeks ago and sun may have shone for a total of maybe one week. And I was fleeing Belgium because of the weather...  

Sun would be fun...

I knew Madrid was not Malaga. And I never failed geography so I knew that it was not at the Costa del Sol. But I was expecting some sol. And maybe a river. But alas, Madrid is a metropole planted in the dry Spanish desert, a massive concrete jungle surrounded by dead hills that glow red when the sun sets. If the sun sets at all...

Unfortunately, sunsets are rare here, because the clouds always sit in the front row. Those selfish bastards, they must know someone up there because they always get the best seats! And when the show is over, they share their excitement by pissing on us. A regular day in Madrid...

I guess the only advantage this rain might bring, is that maybe, just maybe, something will grow on this dreary land. Because Lord, how the Spanish soil could use some colour.

Being here, I have come to realise that my favourite colour is not black, but green. These days, I've been craving green. And some blue skies too. So please, Frank Deboosere, use your magic and send some Mediterranean weather my way!

Because after having lived in the South of France at walking distance from the Mediterranean Sea, I must admit that I am having a hard time to adjust to living in this outback. (Although, well, in a few months, I'm going to the real Outback). 

So these days, besides working hard for school, I spend my time watching netflix whilst placing my bets on whether the palmtree in front of my window will finally topple or not. 

Short of sport!

Now that I spit out my frustration about the lovely weather here, let's talk about something positive: staying true to my New Year's resolution: doing more sports! Since it's always raining here, I decided to subscribe to a fitness centre in town.

The first week was great. I went swimming, cycling and spent time in the spa-centre in the Turkish bath. All was fine, until I received an e-mail from the office. They were going to annul my subscription because my back account number was invalid.

So I went to the office to check the number. It was correct. But it didn't work because, well, they said, it was not a Spanish account. And yet the flag hanging down the Madrid city hall says "REFUGEES WELCOME". Sure, unless you want to do sports, apparently. 

So basically, I needed to open a Spanish bank account in order to keep my subscription. I tried to reason with them, proposed to pay everything cash, I even proposed to pay it all at once for the months to come, to pay by bank transfer, ... But nothing was good enough. Not even Visa! 

Come on!? Visa a-l-w-a-y-s works! But not in Spain apparently - because here you absolutely need a Spanish bank account in order not to get fat. And so, my New Year's resolution stood for a record number of two weeks. Goodbye gym. 

Disappointed, I walked home in the rainy Alcalá streets, looking for another gym that might be foreign-proof. I came across one, but well, I have my doubts about the location... See for yourself:

Since when does McDonalds have their own gym? This country gets more weird by the day...

Biking or hiking? 

Fate decided that going to the gym was out of the question. But I still wanted to do sports... So I decided to take up some good old cycling.

In Belgium, you rent a bike, you check if the brakes work and you start cycling. In Spain, you rent a bike, you check the brakes - they break -, so you have to risk your life picking them up in the middle of the crossroads to bring them back and have your bike repaired.

It would seem that cycling in Spain is not meant for the ordinary citizen. Not only does one require mechanic skills for every time your brakes break, a cyclist in Spain has to be English.  Because in Spain, unlike the cars, cyclist ride on the left. I'm lucky I'm an English teacher or I would have never been able to do this.

But that's not all. Cycle lanes in Spain are like real-life Mario obstacle courses. Apart form the confusion of riding on your left, sometimes cars just park on the cycle lanes, or even better: the lane just stops. Then you have to pull your brakes, (make sure they don't break), get off you bike, walk on the pavement, press the pedestrian crossing-button, wait, cross the pedestrian crossing, walk on on the pavement until you reach a new cycle lane and finally, take off where you left off. Distance of gap between the two cycle lanes: 5 metres. Time it takes for you to cross it: 5 minutes.

Now I finally understand why at my internship school, there are a total of 20 bicycle stands for its 3000 pupils, and why every morning there is always just one bicycle: mine.

To be continued!


xoxo


Elise

D-day

From the first day I arrived in Spain, I understood that I was going to  need more vocabulary than "2 cervezas por favor". So during week two, I took some Spanish classes in the heart of the city. And then came D-day... 

Monday morning, half past six. I'm lying in my bed when all of a sudden Dave Dee, Dozy, Beacky, Mick and Tich start singing "Bend it, bend it, just a little bit and take it easy...". I know I should take it easy. After all, classes only start at 10. But then again, when you have to commute for about one hour and a half, you can't take things easy. 

Did you know that Madrid is the third largest city of Europe, after London and Berlin? Yeah. Neither did I. I mean, if you look it up on Google Maps, I only live a 30 minute drive away from the city centre. But somehow, from 12 till 16 February, I spent half of my day in the smelly, crowded Cercanías-trains from Alcalá de Henares to Madrid, stopping by each and every town and suburb. What's the point in calling the commuter rail "cercanías" if they take you so far away? I'm calling a vote for a new name!

Enough of the small talk and whining about public transport issues. I decided I will save you the story where I waited for over an hour to obtain my public transport card only to learn that I needed to make an appointment and wait a few days more. And the worst part : the woman at the office did not have anything else to do! And I thought the Belgian bureaucracy was bad... There, I whined about it after all!

So let's spread some positive vibes instead. After three days, I finally obtained my card and I was as free as a bird to explore the city. After classes, which already finished at 13h00, I went for tapas with my friends from the language academy or did some hipster food-tasting with the French assistant-teachers who showed me around in 'their' massive city. I even was invited to a fancy dinner at a truly delicious Japanese restaurant by some friends-from-friends who, just as all other Spanish people I met so far, turned out to be very warm-hearted people. So in case you read it: thank you, M. and S. Next round is on me!

The fact that my week at the Spanish Inhispania academy flew by so fast, means that I had fun. And meanwhile, I did some learning too: I must say that my Spanish improved impressively. I can't believe how fast things came back! 

While during my first week, I felt like the Little Mermaid who just lost her voice (you know, you want to say something, but nothing comes out), after one week at Inhispania, I felt more like Sebastian the Crab, babbling away about the birds and the bees - and all in Spanish. But now that my classes are over, I feel like my Spanish is already fading again. I know I should practise every day, but it's quite hard considering that my job consists of teaching French and English...

Which brings me to D-day: my first day of teaching at my internship school in Alcalá. It's needless to say that I was extremely stressed out, especially when I did not have the printing code and my mentor wasn't around to show me how things worked. But I managed. I kept it cool and I played my part. 

Because teaching is acting. It's freaking out inside but calmly smiling to your pupils. It's feeling insecure but acting like you're in charge. And with a little luck, your pupils - your public - might actually fall for it and enjoy your play and not throw tomatoes at you. Some might even go for a standing ovation at the end, which confirms your great performance. And they did...

After my first lesson, the pupils walked out of the class saying "thank you", which you should not take for granted here in Spain. But it get's better! Yesterday, at the end of a lesson, I said "thank you for your attention", and my pupils started applauding. But there's more! I hadn't finished my class and I needed five more minutes. So I told my pupils I would continue next class, but they were so eager to know how my class would end that they proposed that I finished my lesson, and they gave up their break so I could finish! Talking about an "encore"... And today, this sweet little girl who hadn't said a word during my class, came over to my desk to say "thank you for this fun class". Aww -  I melted. 

I won the public, that's one thing, but what about the art critic? They are every actor's fear. They don't laugh, even when they think it's funny. They are just sitting there, lurking at you in some dark corner, taking notes. Then, at the end of your 50-minute play, they say something but somehow keep their judgement to themselves. Then they disappear, because they are busy - they have other plays to attend to. And you did not get the chance to ask them if they liked it. And even if you did, would you dare? Because what if the answer is no? You decide to just wait for their review, because even though you are a fierce actor, you are a coward.

The next day, the critic publishes his review... You read it, but you don't know what to think. You ask yourself if a critic - by definition - has to criticise you. Or that perhaps it is forbidden for a critic to write positive things in order to live up to their feared image. Whatever the explanation, you need to know. So, you pull yourself together and go and see the critic. And then, you ask it.  

"So.... Uhm.... Was it good?"

"Of course it was good. I just wrote down some points of improvement, that's all."

You're relieved, a little happy even. But at the same time, you're disappointed too, because why in this world must we always focus on the negative and forget to mention the good?

Spain, you will toughen me up. You remind me of arts academies: first you break, then you make. But what will you make of me?

Spanish classes @ Inhispania in Madrid

Sun, fun, fiesta y siesta

"Spain is not only sun, fun, fiesta and siesta", my correspondent wrote me the evening before I left for Spain. The next day when I arrived, I immediately understood what she meant. About clichés and culture shocks...

I already knew that Madrid would not be the Costa del Sol I had always associated Spain with, but I wasn't expecting Nordic temperatures either. So to all my friends who called me a "lucky bastard" because I was escaping the Belgian weather: you were wrong. I took it with me. 

"You brought the bad weather", my internship responsible welcomed me at the school.
I shook off the layer of snow that had turned my black umbrella white.
"I always pick the right time", I laughed. 

We were both looking outside at how thick snowflakes transformed the schoolgrounds into a ski resort. The responsible told me that some pupils living in the hills did not even make it to school because the roads were blocked. And those who did make it to school, were held hostage by the snow and would have to wait for it to melt again. 

After some small talk about the hot topic that was the cold weather, I was introduced to different people whose name I already forgot. But since 90 % of the Spanish are called Maria, Pablo, Juan or Javier, it doesn't really matter. So far for cliché number 1: confirmado!

And I should be happy that they are all called the same - it will make it easer to address the nearly 3000 pupils and the 300 staff members at my school. Aye. 3000, divided in classes of 30 pupils or more. Not only did I pick the right time, I guess I also picked the right school... And even though two days ago, I cut my hair to feel more like a Miss Van Crombruggen, after having visited my internship school, I feel like la petite Elise all over again. I guess I did not get the memo that I was going to teach at the largest public school of Spain... 

So I'll confess: even though I always wear my Almerian Indalo-charm, I have a harder time adjusting to Spanish life than I thought I would. The first day, at 6 in the evening, my stomach was already craving a fresh baguette from the Flor bakery in Nice, with a morceau of pélardon, my favourite goat cheese, accompanied by a fine bordeaux. Instead, I had a banana because I knew I'd have to wait another four hours before attacking homemade tapas, which brings us to cliché number 2: the Spanish live at night. Cliché confirmed.

But hey, apart from having my biorhythm completely turned upside down, there are plenty of advantages to it: I can do grocery shopping at 22h in the evening, or even spend all my money in my favourite clothes shop Mango. Because - cliché number 3, Spain is a shopping paradise! 

But cliché number 4 is without doubt the most important one. It's about the Spanish and their endless, sincere hospitality. I truly could not have dreamed of a warmer welcome here in Madrid than the one I got from my correspondent G. She gave up her entire weekend to pick me up at the airport, help me get installed at my university residence, show me around town (in the pouring rain), help me choose the perfect pots and pans in the Chinese bazar and point out the bio eggs at the Carrefour hyper market. 

As if that wasn't enough, she invited me for a lovely dinner at her home where I immediately got to practise whatever was left of my Spanish speaking skills. Because - cliché number 5: the Spanish speak, well... Spanish. 

All clichés confirmed, I must admit that it's given me a small culture shock. But isn't that what this Erasmus is all about, getting out of my comfort zone? 

Time to get Spanish.

Deséame suerte!

Ik hou van dansen en muziek...

Eviva España! The funny thing is that there is nu such thing as "eviva". It was a mistake by the songwriters who probably wanted to write "que viva" in times when autocorrect did not exist yet. But still, it became a hit song. In prehistoric times nonetheless. 

Why am I citing Samantha's 70s hit single? Because in less prehistoric times, I am going to España - and not for dancing and music (unfortunetely). I'm going on an internship. In other words: I'm going to WORK there!

I'll be in Spain for about 3 months and a half, of which during 2 months I'll be teaching French and English at a secondary school to a bunch of Spanish teenagers and then the last month, I'm going to do a wickedly cool internship in Madrid city!

Yes, Madrid, that's where I'm heading to in... 24 hours! Tomorrow, on the 3rd of February, once again, I'm leaving it all behind to go and live in a place I've never been before. And even though I'm becoming quite an expert at this, I can never get used to it. Everytime I leave, I feel bad. Everytime I arrive, I feel bad too.

Because time after time, I have to build a life from nothing but my name and my aim. And bless the Lord because I'm lucky, I've always rather quickly put together the pieces of the puzzle of my new life. And I've always been surrounded by loving people, I've always had good friends, I've always lived in nice places. But you never know what surprises lie ahead of you. 

So that's why, even though I've done this before and I have never, not even once, regretted it, I always feel bad upon my arrival. Because God only knows what awaits me this time...
But here's what I know: this is going to be another very instructive experience, and I can't wait to share it with you through this medium. 


Here's a video to get in the mood, polonaise incl. : 

¡Hasta pronto!