Mi Llegada: My Arrival
I travelled for about 21 excruciating hours (I know Australian friends are rolling their eyes about now) to get to Vigo. I was sleep deprived, smelly, with red eyes and too much luggage, but I finally made it on the afternoon of Wednesday, Sept 11. It was extremely indirect but it was dirt cheap, so who am I to complain?
I (very luckily) got my luggage quickly and without a problem. I exited the tiny airport of Peinador and within a second had spotted my directora (my boss, the "director" of the school). Rosa is a shapely, beautiful Spaniard with gorgeous voluminous curly hair that puts River Song to shame. She brought along her two kids, Sara and Alberto.
Together we went to Salceda where they live. It's a small town of about 15,000 people, and it seems to be right inside of a forest. Galicia, so I discovered, is very green. It's right inside the coast and not very industrialized. Suburbs are scarce to non-existent here in Spain, so when you're not in the city, it's just long stretches of fields and vineyards and lovely quaint little houses with their well tended gardens. It's hilly and beautiful and presents a whole new spectrum of allergens.
We stopped at a little store and bought a giant pastry (they were celebrating my arrival, don'tcha know), and this was my first experience with Gallego. I watched as Rosa told the woman at the counter what she wanted, but the words just weren't registering in my head. Sara must have seen the look of confusion on my face. "They're speaking Gallego," she told me. Oh. I get it now. Good to know I'm not a complete idiot. Galician, in English, is the local language. It's sort of a mixture of Spanish and Portuguese, but it's actually one of the oldest Spanish languages (Quick note here-what we think of as "Spanish" is actually called "Castellano" here. Many of the states here in Spain have their own language, Galicia with Galician, Cataluña with Catalan, and Valencia with Valencian. To them, all of these are "Spanish" languages, so what we refer to is actually Castellano).
It was very apparent that my Spanish was rusty. Beyond rusty. Covered in rust. A big pile of "Sí" and "pues..." and "claro!" unrecognizable from all the rust. However, Rosa's husband Alfredo is extremely open and talkative, and insisted on talking to me and trying to get me out of my shell. He relentlessly encouraged me to make conversation regardless of my many mistakes and trip ups. He insists that Spaniards are going to be much more forgiving of my mistakes if I try and be sociable and talkative. They're not going to dislike you if you make mistakes and stumble over your words. They're going to dislike you if you don't talk, he says. Well chosen words spoken to someone as shy as I am.
The first few days passed by as well as you could hope. I was jet lagged after all my travel, but apart from sleeping, there was a lot of eating. They eat a massive lunch, and let me tell you something: 100% is the amount of your food you're expected to eat. One of my "travel tips" in my previous blog was to "clean your plate. literally." But I don't think I really appreciated that until now. Seriously, when they're done eating everything (and I mean everything, not a piece of rice or a single noodle is left), they wipe up the remains with a piece of bread. Then they make you coffee and insist you take three cookies or a few pieces of chocolate. Alfredo kept making fun of me for being "a dieta" (on a diet) because I could never finish, so I usually just sucked it up and continued eating until I couldn't move. This went on for days.
Thursday I went on a walk around the town with Sara, Rosa and Alfredo's 12 year old daughter. It went reasonably well, conversation-wise. That is to say, talking to Sara is much less intimidating than trying to spit good Spanish with my brand new boss. We walked for a long time, and she explained to me that Salceda has a centre and 7 "neighborhoods" extending out from it. It's a small little town and it's seems that everybody knows everybody. She was still on summer break for another few days, so we walked and walked and she told me all about her life in Spain and the beautiful scenery and about the lovely sunny weather that was extremely rare for this time of year because it's usually really rainy and awful.
The next day, we all went out to the centre of Salceda. We went to a plaza and had a beer or three (Alfredo and Rosa were doing a great job of making me feel welcome) while Alberto kicked a soccer ball around the square with the other kids. The purpose of our trip to the centre was to pick Sara up, because she was hanging out with her friends at the library. Yeah, you read that correctly. My new 12 year old friend was hanging out with her friends at the local library on her last Friday night of summer break. Alfredo says she's a really good student and makes excellent grades, but I could have guessed that.
They asked me if I'd like to go to Portugal the next day. Uh, yeah. Where do I sign up? Just about 20 minutes south, you cross a bride above the Miño River that separates Galicia from Portugal. It's wild to see street signs that say "Portugal" with an arrow pointing to a specific exit. Across the river, and there we were. Portugal.
I told Alfredo that from where I used to live, you could drive for six hours in a car and still be in the same state, and that it was really strange for me to think that you could drive for 15-20 minutes over a bridge and be in a different country entirely. He said that if I lived up north, he could say the same for Canada. But that's missing the point.
First we went to a city called Mançao (the 'ç' is pronounced like the 'th' as in 'thanks' but not 'this'). The photo at the top of my blog is actually taken from Mançao (incorrectly identified as Mançao on my Facebook. In fact, the photo is of a small city called Tuí, but taken while standing in Mançao, Portugal). Then we went to another city a bit further away called Valença. Valença is divided between old town and new town (as, it seems, a lotta these Euro cities are). Old town is fascinating with its castles and old war relics, but Alfredo says it's more expensive because of its tourists, and instead we all went to a place in new town to eat. You'd expect the newer, more metropolitan area to be more expensive, but take that as you will. If you ever find yourself in the old town of an old Spanish city, you'll know to wait to eat.
The whole week they were so helpful to me and my struggle to find a place to live. I had been looking online, but I didn't know where specifically in the city I needed to be. Rosa had told me about the deal with the CRD (Centro Residencia Docente, which is the dorm I mentioned in a previous post) in an email this past summer, and it sounded great but I really wasn't sure. Then Alfredo told me that the deal is better than I thought, and that rent, bills (heating, internet, water), and food were all included. FOOD. INCLUDED. I was shocked, but at the same time partial to having my own place. It was difficult for me to let go of my expectations. I had fantasies about living independently and paying my own way, but with super cool foreign roommates who would be around my age and like the things I like and listen to the music I listen to and we would get into all kinds of Spanish shenanigans together. It was going to be just like the movie, The Spanish Apartment.
When I went with Alfredo and Rosa to see the CRD, it was dismal. I felt like the daughter being unwillingly shipped off to boarding school. Grim and bleak are words that come to mind. Well, you've perhaps seen photos. No space to host guests, which is something I've been telling just about everyone I'd be able to do ("Come and visit me in Spain!!! It'll be just like that movie The Spanish Apartment!" I'd said). These shattered expectations were the reason I didn't want to move into the amazingly free (WITH FOOD. FOOD!) student residence. However, my options quickly dwindled, and I needed to make a decision. Monday morning, Rosa told Benito (the director of this particular school) that I accepted his offer.
Where we left off was me attempting to make the place look less like an asylum, and I think I did a fairly good job of that, wouldn't you say? Maybe?
Anyway, the CRD is a very weird set up. The best I can describe it is that there are a few vocational and community college-type schools in Vigo, and students have the opportunity to go to those schools even though they don't live in Vigo by staying at the CRD. It's made up of all students who go to different schools and live and eat at the CRD Monday through Friday and go home on the weekends. After the shared bathrooms, the spotty wifi, and the lack of control over what I eat, the weekends are the worst part because I'm the only one around. Me and the security guard. I'm like a young Ebeneezer Scrooge during the holidays, alone and forgotten with no one around and nothing to do until the students all come back. But let's not dwell on the negative. The important thing is that I'm getting used to it. And the best thing is that I'm surrounded by young people who only speak Spanish (and Gallego, but I just avoid those people. Kidding!).
Alright! Expect another update soon!
El mundo es un libro y ellos que no viajan leen solo una página.
I (very luckily) got my luggage quickly and without a problem. I exited the tiny airport of Peinador and within a second had spotted my directora (my boss, the "director" of the school). Rosa is a shapely, beautiful Spaniard with gorgeous voluminous curly hair that puts River Song to shame. She brought along her two kids, Sara and Alberto.
Together we went to Salceda where they live. It's a small town of about 15,000 people, and it seems to be right inside of a forest. Galicia, so I discovered, is very green. It's right inside the coast and not very industrialized. Suburbs are scarce to non-existent here in Spain, so when you're not in the city, it's just long stretches of fields and vineyards and lovely quaint little houses with their well tended gardens. It's hilly and beautiful and presents a whole new spectrum of allergens.
We stopped at a little store and bought a giant pastry (they were celebrating my arrival, don'tcha know), and this was my first experience with Gallego. I watched as Rosa told the woman at the counter what she wanted, but the words just weren't registering in my head. Sara must have seen the look of confusion on my face. "They're speaking Gallego," she told me. Oh. I get it now. Good to know I'm not a complete idiot. Galician, in English, is the local language. It's sort of a mixture of Spanish and Portuguese, but it's actually one of the oldest Spanish languages (Quick note here-what we think of as "Spanish" is actually called "Castellano" here. Many of the states here in Spain have their own language, Galicia with Galician, Cataluña with Catalan, and Valencia with Valencian. To them, all of these are "Spanish" languages, so what we refer to is actually Castellano).
It was very apparent that my Spanish was rusty. Beyond rusty. Covered in rust. A big pile of "Sí" and "pues..." and "claro!" unrecognizable from all the rust. However, Rosa's husband Alfredo is extremely open and talkative, and insisted on talking to me and trying to get me out of my shell. He relentlessly encouraged me to make conversation regardless of my many mistakes and trip ups. He insists that Spaniards are going to be much more forgiving of my mistakes if I try and be sociable and talkative. They're not going to dislike you if you make mistakes and stumble over your words. They're going to dislike you if you don't talk, he says. Well chosen words spoken to someone as shy as I am.
Thursday I went on a walk around the town with Sara, Rosa and Alfredo's 12 year old daughter. It went reasonably well, conversation-wise. That is to say, talking to Sara is much less intimidating than trying to spit good Spanish with my brand new boss. We walked for a long time, and she explained to me that Salceda has a centre and 7 "neighborhoods" extending out from it. It's a small little town and it's seems that everybody knows everybody. She was still on summer break for another few days, so we walked and walked and she told me all about her life in Spain and the beautiful scenery and about the lovely sunny weather that was extremely rare for this time of year because it's usually really rainy and awful.
The next day, we all went out to the centre of Salceda. We went to a plaza and had a beer or three (Alfredo and Rosa were doing a great job of making me feel welcome) while Alberto kicked a soccer ball around the square with the other kids. The purpose of our trip to the centre was to pick Sara up, because she was hanging out with her friends at the library. Yeah, you read that correctly. My new 12 year old friend was hanging out with her friends at the local library on her last Friday night of summer break. Alfredo says she's a really good student and makes excellent grades, but I could have guessed that.
They asked me if I'd like to go to Portugal the next day. Uh, yeah. Where do I sign up? Just about 20 minutes south, you cross a bride above the Miño River that separates Galicia from Portugal. It's wild to see street signs that say "Portugal" with an arrow pointing to a specific exit. Across the river, and there we were. Portugal.
I told Alfredo that from where I used to live, you could drive for six hours in a car and still be in the same state, and that it was really strange for me to think that you could drive for 15-20 minutes over a bridge and be in a different country entirely. He said that if I lived up north, he could say the same for Canada. But that's missing the point.
First we went to a city called Mançao (the 'ç' is pronounced like the 'th' as in 'thanks' but not 'this'). The photo at the top of my blog is actually taken from Mançao (incorrectly identified as Mançao on my Facebook. In fact, the photo is of a small city called Tuí, but taken while standing in Mançao, Portugal). Then we went to another city a bit further away called Valença. Valença is divided between old town and new town (as, it seems, a lotta these Euro cities are). Old town is fascinating with its castles and old war relics, but Alfredo says it's more expensive because of its tourists, and instead we all went to a place in new town to eat. You'd expect the newer, more metropolitan area to be more expensive, but take that as you will. If you ever find yourself in the old town of an old Spanish city, you'll know to wait to eat.
The whole week they were so helpful to me and my struggle to find a place to live. I had been looking online, but I didn't know where specifically in the city I needed to be. Rosa had told me about the deal with the CRD (Centro Residencia Docente, which is the dorm I mentioned in a previous post) in an email this past summer, and it sounded great but I really wasn't sure. Then Alfredo told me that the deal is better than I thought, and that rent, bills (heating, internet, water), and food were all included. FOOD. INCLUDED. I was shocked, but at the same time partial to having my own place. It was difficult for me to let go of my expectations. I had fantasies about living independently and paying my own way, but with super cool foreign roommates who would be around my age and like the things I like and listen to the music I listen to and we would get into all kinds of Spanish shenanigans together. It was going to be just like the movie, The Spanish Apartment.
When I went with Alfredo and Rosa to see the CRD, it was dismal. I felt like the daughter being unwillingly shipped off to boarding school. Grim and bleak are words that come to mind. Well, you've perhaps seen photos. No space to host guests, which is something I've been telling just about everyone I'd be able to do ("Come and visit me in Spain!!! It'll be just like that movie The Spanish Apartment!" I'd said). These shattered expectations were the reason I didn't want to move into the amazingly free (WITH FOOD. FOOD!) student residence. However, my options quickly dwindled, and I needed to make a decision. Monday morning, Rosa told Benito (the director of this particular school) that I accepted his offer.
Where we left off was me attempting to make the place look less like an asylum, and I think I did a fairly good job of that, wouldn't you say? Maybe?
 |
| Before |
 |
| After |
 |
| Before |
 |
| After |
 | |
| Before |
 |
| After |
Anyway, the CRD is a very weird set up. The best I can describe it is that there are a few vocational and community college-type schools in Vigo, and students have the opportunity to go to those schools even though they don't live in Vigo by staying at the CRD. It's made up of all students who go to different schools and live and eat at the CRD Monday through Friday and go home on the weekends. After the shared bathrooms, the spotty wifi, and the lack of control over what I eat, the weekends are the worst part because I'm the only one around. Me and the security guard. I'm like a young Ebeneezer Scrooge during the holidays, alone and forgotten with no one around and nothing to do until the students all come back. But let's not dwell on the negative. The important thing is that I'm getting used to it. And the best thing is that I'm surrounded by young people who only speak Spanish (and Gallego, but I just avoid those people. Kidding!).
Alright! Expect another update soon!
El mundo es un libro y ellos que no viajan leen solo una página.
Love reading your blog posts. Can you message me your mailing address? I want to send you a care package.
ReplyDelete