Increased Insight and Classes over Cañas...

MORE THAN SOBER and less than drunk, I stepped down into the toxic breath of Avenida de America's seething subterranean bus terminal. Mid commute, having just pulled in from my furthest, longest, and most profitable class I clutched my bag and my book to which I was eager to return. Stephen Fry chronicling the exploits of a young madman between public school (in the English sense) and Cambridge "turning tricks down the Dilly" as he eschews his inherited privelages. Enthralling material that allowed me to hold off analyzing the day's events and to enjoy myself in my native language once more.

In the recent reearrangements of my schedule, my hours have been temporarily reduced and today I had only four classes. There are changes going on all around, it seems, but in keeping to the point I'll say simply that attendance has dipped as well. Such was the case in the second lesson, where only two of my five alumnos showed up, one sporting a headache and the other aching for a holiday. Of course my only option was to take class to the nearest bar where we grabbed a sunny table on the empty terrace and spoke of weekends, holidays, and ways to say numbers. I sat for most of the hour listening with my water two my two lovely alumnas conversate over their cervezas. It was only toward the end, after a short tutorial on dates and large figures (numerically speaking) that I engaged with one of the topic of sending her two teenagers to England. Three weeks they wish to stay in the sunny city of Brighton but their mother worries both for their safety and her wallet. Well and good, I say to she, but I must confess that the four months I spent in London were both my most expensive and most treasured. There followed the predictable 'yes, but's, and I began to notice a reluctance that stemmed from something more than fiscal insecurity. I suggested putting them to work for the duration of their time in Spain and was met with the too-well-known mother protectiveness for her children. Well and good, I think to me, but there was a lack of enthusiasm for the general idea. Here, an opportunity of a lifetime for two teenage continentals and their mother was far from jumping. I recalled her previous refusals to take her children to American or British films in their original versions and listened to subtle facial and vocal clues that told me she would be much happier if they had asked for those same weeks in Mallorca, Alicante, or even the distant Canarias. Finally she said she had some friends here who had a house in the English countryside and expressed her desire to rent one of her own in the following summer for the whole family to live in together. We walked back to their office building and as they chatted about the tasks to come I considered my revulsion at what felt to be a definite xenophobia. 2009 and the world is getting smaller yet still so many resist the homogonizing blend. I couldn't understand it and still find myself struggling.

At 18:00 that evening I strolled with my apple through the business park I visit twice a week in a wasteland place between Madrid and the city of Torrejon. The day had swam along thus far and I was well equipped for a lengthy lesson of speaking and grammar practice. But 20 minutes later when the lesson was to begin my first student, a man of a most erratic attendance record, stepped confidently in the room sporting slicked back hair and a shiny red and pink silk tie and announced to me his success in the struggle for an educational certificate. With more doors opened and a chic get-up to show it, Ricardo invited myself and his two other lesson-mates to take class to the bar. Porsupuesto Ricardo, que si.
We took a terrace table and I sipped my vino tinto while Ricardo elaborated on the process he had gone through. The topic of class experience and student interaction swiftly moved in the direction of recent changes in the country and the influx of immigrants from Morocco, Romania, and Latin America. A great deal of discussion and debate carried the topic from classroom communication to school quality to health care and all the while bounced between economics and the plus ultra. At one point the argument was raised that these foreign people have neither motivation nor desire to work and learn and I asked why it was they would ever want to leave their familiar homes for this foreign land in the first place. Hands went up and detestations were denied. So it's understood there's a problem with such general aversions but still they are harbored nonetheless. I sat in silence and let them talk things out with an English that at once increased in confidence and decreased in accuracy. We elected to enjoy the lesson for a full two hours and by the end we were discussing food and life in Iberia and I elaborated on my extraordinary weekend in an English that came out much more like Spanish than a profesor should allow.

With springy step I made my way to the bus stop across the concrete footbridge over the highway where I can never keep myself from checking the Madrid skyline like the face of a celebrity in the flesh. We had walked together from the bar discussing Spanish wines and locations in the city to find our favorite gems. At 20:20 the sun shown brightly and I looked at my city with love. Seven months I have been living here and if anything my feelings have only gotten stronger. But I still have so much to learn.

Today was a new day for me.
I gained further insight into these people with whom I share the venue of my life. First of all, women drink beer. If asked I could have testified long ago, but it still strikes me. Business women in dresses and suits eat ham and cheese finger sandwiches with goblettes of beer at 11:00am. They deshell nuts and slowly devour small jars of olives and pickels over multiple rounds at 19:00. It's miles from strange here but I never lose a vestige of childlike excitement bearing witness. But more importantly I am continuously reminded that no matter how many hours I spend with new people, walking new streets until they are no longer new, consuming their food and drink, visiting their cities and towns, and adopting their hours, I still have so much to learn about the people of this world. Twice today I found myself incredulously listening to what sounded little more than absurd distrust in things for which I feel only curiousity and desire. How little, I thought. How small. But maybe it's the opposite. I cannot avoid thinking of my own country and the call still sounding there for some barbarous wall to be erected high enough to stave off the slings and grappels of animals beyond. And my mind travels back to things I've read like holy men of Islam denouncing the idea that NATO and The West have any right telling theologistic experts how to craft their own laws. I once read an essay that challenged the view that the world was on a logical path toward rationalistic and enlightened atheism that so many like myself held to be self-evident. Many good points which I cannot regurgitate here were put forth and I have since been wary of rigid certainty in my ideals, when I'm able to remember.
And so today was a reminder. Perhaps the world is not continually shrinking just because we can access self-published videos and DIY guides in our palms on faraway beaches. Maybe there are limits and they're determined by the very people who are set to go beyond them. Either way I was taught today to avoid assuredniss and always consider revision. For instance my erroneous declaration that I am no longer a student. For now it's back to Stephen Fry and that most peculiar British...