TEFLees in Spain

Both of my phone alarms sound simultaneously, startling my head from the pillow. I hit the snooze button on each, a quick nine minute siesta, until my bare feet actually have to touch down on the cold floor of my room. The sun’s just started peeking through my shutters. It’s Thursday. As an English teacher in Madrid, Thursday is the new Friday. Wednesday, the new Thursday. No one works Fridays – a constant string of three day weekends stretch throughout our calendar year. I’m not by any means a morning person, but the daily battle with my double snooze button is easier on Thursday. Everything is easier on Thursday – especially this Thursday because tomorrow is one of the dozen Spanish holidays so none of my students have to work. Today’s going to be a good day.

I dress and eat quickly and pop in to the café downstairs for a small shot of hot liquid energy. Spanish coffee is one of the most powerful weapons of motivation in my alarm clock arsenal. Delicious, fresh, quick, and strong – and black. The barmen downstairs don’t know me by name, but as soon as I pull up a stool at the bar with a groggy, “Buenos dias,” my coffee is already being poured. I feel like a local, like I belong. I feel like I’ve managed to elbow my way into having a place in this city. This feeling is another weapon.

Heart pumping with caffeine, I scurry along with the crowd across Plaza Colon to the metro station – a five minute uphill hike. The gigantic Spanish flag flutters with the light springtime breeze as the sun climbs its way over the skyline of downtown. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. The flag, the plaza, the immaculate blue sky like a clean slate – all weapons in the alarm clock arsenal.

The metro’s crowded, as usual. People all hustling, late, typical Spanish. No one speaks. I pop out my head phones while jogging down the escalator to better hear the daily morning metro performer of Alonso Martinez. With his karaoke machine and keyboard remixes of “Hey Jude” and “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys, his gold chains, sequined shirt, pot belly and bowler hat, he reminds me of a wannabe Vegas lounge singer. He must smoke two packs a day – again, typical Spaniard – but neither age nor lack of talent will stop him as he closes his eyes and belts out his hoarse lyrics for the enjoyment of all functioning eardrums coming and going this morning on line 5. Like so many other things in Madrid, none of this makes the slightest bit of sense – but it does give me a good laugh. And therefore, another weapon.