TEFLees in Spain

My first class is at a sports newspaper called Diario AS. It’s my favorite class. By far. Not only are the students incessantly cheerful, but they are, without fail, at least 20 minutes late, every day. Now, this would appear to be a real inconsiderate hassle to the uninitiated. But you learn quickly that the Spanish do live up to some of their stereotypes – you can either take advantage of it or let them drive you nuts. I decide to run with it. During this down time I’m extremely productive. I plan lessons for the week, fill out my teaching paperwork, study Spanish, or write. Pre-class downtime: another weapon.

Class starts at 9. It ends at 10:30. My students arrive at 9:30. My paycheck doesn’t suffer. If anything, I’m just happy to be here rather than in Torrejon de Ardoz, the industrial armpit of Madrid, where I have my other morning class. But whatever. At 9:30, my students arrive, telling me that since today is “Friday” we should forgo the phrasal verb worksheets, and opt instead for a Spanish breakfast at the café next door. My favorite class again, like I said. So, while sipping coffee #2 (this one with milk and sugar) and nibbling fresh tortilla (Spanish egg and potato casserole – also another weapon) my students drill me, as they always do, with questions concerning every aspect of my life. They study me like a museum exhibit, prod and poke my mind like a concerned psychotherapist, and, hanging on my every word, are prone to fits of spontaneous laughter like fascinated children. I am, essentially, the court jester. Their bi-weekly morning entertainment. Kids have cartoons. My students have me.

When class/breakfast is over I have four hours to kill until my next group. Once again, another half empty glass situation. I choose to be optimistic and continue demonstrating my Spanishness by taking a siesta. Who doesn’t honestly love naps? Honestly? This type of thing would never fly in the Anglo Saxon world. Alas, Spain. Siesta: another weapon.

My next class is at 2:30. I struggle but win snooze button battle #2, and hop back on the metro to the Picasso Tower, 20 minutes travelling in total. The company is Merrill Lynch, their office on the 39th floor. Although I’m there, in their office, in the middle of the day, my students, still, are fifteen minutes late. So I commence with the wise spending of time by studying Spanish. For the record, my Spanish is offensively awful. It is however, functional enough to communicate basic needs (i.e. ordering and paying for beer and coffee). Nonetheless, it needs work. My students, four women of about 30, take English classes because they actually use English in their jobs. My first class is an all Spanish newspaper. My students from there never to my knowledge actually use English. Ever. But seeing as they have yet to catch on to this fun fact, I remain employed. When I walk into the Merrill Lynch office, my students are usually at their desks or at lunch. English is being spoken everywhere. It’s like a strange dream where I’ve been teleported home but everyone’s talking with a Spanish accent. I’m not certain, but this, I imagine, is what it must feel like to live in Miami.