TEFLees in Spain

It’s only been a few short months since I started this new trade, and I have to say I’m somewhat surprised at the results. I know that I can sometimes be hard on myself about my teaching abilities, but it can honestly be said that I’ve been taken aback at my students’ improvements.

For example, I’ll always remember how nervous one of my female professional students was on the first day of class, that her jaw was shaking with anxiety when she tried speaking English. Now she’s one of my best students, and is able to communicate confidently and express herself and opinions efficiently. And I can say that it’s been a joy to participate in her progress.

The skeptic in me could chalk it up to her own intelligence or motivation, but as humble as I want to be, I know that I had to play at least a small part. I’ve been through the training, I’ve done the legwork and followed all the proper teaching procedures, but it’s still kind of a shocking realization – I actually taught somebody something! The TEFL certificate says that I’m a teacher, but it hasn’t really been until now that I’ve felt like one

This is very important to hold onto for a teacher. I’ll admit, it’s not always the most glamorous of professions – no one here is seeking their fame and fortune through grammar and verb tenses – at least no one that I know of; the days can sometimes be long and the stresses can no doubt frustrate, as with any job – but as most careers only offer rewards in the form of a bimonthly bank transfer, teaching offers more. It’s the little rewards and victories that set teachers apart. At the end of the day it’s like I’ve gone out and contributed something to the world, or at the very least, to our native language – passive voice, phrasal verbs, and all. And if anything, I can look back and say that there are a few select individuals whose careers were forwarded by what I’d at first believed to be my meager teaching efforts. So do I deserve a nice big pat on the back for this? Well, it is my job, so I guess not. But if anything, I can at the very least assume that this means I’m not such a screw up after all. And that, for me, is quite enough in itself.

The lesson went on as usual, and as the hour and a half was winding down, I found myself feeling in higher spirits, yet still dreading the fifteen minute metro walk I had around the corner. With five minutes left to go until my arctic trudge though, we got on the subject of wine, and after a couple minutes of discussion, my student Raphael shot up from his seat.

In answer to my startled look, he quickly explained, “Oh, yes. I almost forgot. I have something for you.” And, turning to the door, he said, “I’ll be right back. I have to go to my office for a second.”

Brushing it off as another one of his frequent business call interruptions, I continued our discussion with the other student until he returned. I was surprised when he walked back in however, to see that he was holding a plastic bag whose contents contained what appeared to be some weighty cylindrical object and another abstract bulge on the side.

Before I could ask him as to reveal the mystery of its contents, he pulled out a beautiful green bottle of a 1999 Spanish red wine and a Real Madrid scarf. “Here,” he said, offering me the two objects. “We know you’re always cold in the morning, and that you like Real Madrid, so this is for you. And this is my favorite wine. You will love it. Merry Christmas.”

Lost for speech, I gratefully received the gifts, stammering out a meager, “Thanks,” and held the bottle out for inspection. In a place so far away from home, finding people who care enough to go out of their way for you can come few and far between. All I could think about at that moment was that these people, whose lives I’m but barely a part, thought enough about me in their free time to go to two different places, just to express their gratitude for my amateur teaching services. I’ll be honest, it did take me some effort to choke back the mist from my eyes.

To come from a mother who’s spent her last twenty some odd years checking the weather routinely to make sure I was properly clothed to brave the elements, the scarf was what put all this over the top. I’ll no doubt enjoy that bottle of wine right down to its last mahogany drop, but the scarf held a deeper meaning. My students actually worry about me being cold! I’m not just some foreign office invader who takes up three hours of their workweek with my feeble teaching efforts – they actually care. They even think about me when I’m not there!

After several very sincere expressions of gratitude, I was soon back out into the swirling wind. This time though, I was warmed to the bone. It was definitely an Ebenezer Scrooge type moment. Except of course that in a ninety minute period, I wasn’t visited by or forced to visit, any Yule-Tide apparitions to remind me of my past and warn me about the perils of the future. I was reminded that no matter where you go in the world, good people are around every corner, and as cheesy as it may sound, the Christmas spirit exists regardless of your proximity to home. So yes, the smells and the language may not be the same as usual, but Feliz Navidad does have a direct translation. And although I find myself longing for those cozy eggnog and marshmallow comforts of my living room fireplace, at least the love that gives meaning to our holiday celebrations is now, and always will be, universal.

As always, I must point out the humor in pronunciation problems. Case in point, the following two conversations.

It’s Monday morning. My phone rings. I answer it. It’s one of my students.

“Jose Luis! How are you today?”

“Very good, Matt. I had an amazing weekend.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, intrigued. “Well, tell me about it.”

“I went hunting in the south of Spain, and I killed ten bears.”

“Ten bears?”

Now, up until this point I was only listening with mild interest, but as soon as this information escaped his lips, I straightened up in my seat. Ten bears? Really? My friends and I always joke that Spain is a country where rules may technically exist but don’t necessarily apply, but ten bears? My home town contains within its borders one of Florida’s largest National forests, so naturally I’ve grown up around a lot of hunting. And although I’m not an avid participator in the sport, I at least know that hunting bears is not typically legal, and only then under extremely limited circumstances. But ten bears? Ten? Hey, this is Spain, so whatever.

I then went on to relate this bit of fun fact to a couple of teaching friends a little later on that day who reacted in similar disbelief, before heading over to Jose Luis’s home for the lesson. Eager to know more about his bear slaughtering weekend escapades, I broached the subject as soon as we sat down.

“So, Jose…ten bears this weekend? Really?”

“Yes, of course. Just like I told you.”

“Well, where did you go that had so many bears?” I tried, dumbfounded.

“There’s a ranch in the south of Spain with many many bears,” he explained.

“Yes, but ten is an awful lot of bears to kill in one weekend. In Florida, I don’t know if it’s legal to kill even one. What did you do with all of them?” I asked, imagining a freezer truck full of bear steaks.

Jose Luis scratched his thinning hair as he searched for the words in English. “First, we shot them. Then we had our dogs find them in the grass. Then we put them in a bag, and then later we had to take out the,” he stopped here, lost for vocabulary, and made a plucking motion with his hands.

“Fur?”

“No, not ‘fur.’ Plumas.”

“Plumas?” I repeated confusedly. As far as I knew, pluma was the Spanish word for feathers. What type of bear has feathers? I wondered before continuing. “I’m not a hundred percent sure, Jose, but I believe that the English word for that is feathers – but bears don’t have feathers…do they?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he answered, flapping his arms at me like I was a child who couldn’t understand. “Feathers. Feathers on their wings.”

And then it hit me – “Ohhhhhhhhhhh – birds!” I laughed, “Not bears!”

“Of course, birds,” he answered, straight faced. “What did you think I said?”

Claustrophobia, grumbling, another sardine packed upright in the metro. The frowning eyes and drooping faces of work-weary travelers checking wrist watches, an entire migration of madrileños en route to another nine hour stint of the daily grind - their stinging-pink fingertips burning in the cold. I stood amongst this silenced crowd of quiet coughers, where only the roar of the metro from tunnel to tunnel and the screeching brakes dared cut through the calm, wishing for that “class is cancelled” call to come.

On a morning like this, it’s tough to stay in the holiday spirit. The Spanish do things differently, so the familiar smells of the holidays I used to know and love are gone, and as scent is the closest sense tied to memory, I could certainly have used a nice whiff of cinnamon and pine to warm the innards.

But life does have its way of coming around, as I learned this morning. To stay in line with mother nature, I decided to match her dreary weather with a grumpy, groggy, and grumbly madrileño morning mood. It was one of those mornings where all you want is some fuzzy slippers, a hot cup of anything, and perhaps, a hug.

Looking on the bright side of the gloom however, I was at least starting off my day with my favorite class at a sports newspaper. Unfortunately, we rarely get on the subject of sports, but our typical session is usually spent laughing and talking about this and that instead of aggressively hitting the books.

Today, however, I didn’t really feel like talking. I didn’t really feel like laughing. What I really wanted was to crawl back into the soft comfort and warmth of my dark bedroom, and sleep the day away. But you can wish in one hand, spit in the other, and see which one gets you farther, as the old saying goes, so I braved the elements and dragged myself to class.

My next class wasn’t until 2:30, so I went back to sleep for a while, only to be awoken a couple hours later by my phone. I rolled over and looked at the screen before picking up, and much to my delight, I saw that it was my teaching agency calling – judging by the time I could easily guess that this was going to be another late cancellation. Sure enough, I was informed that my 2:30 class had a business seminar to attend at the same time as my class and they had to cancel. “That’s too bad,” I related to the agency’s head of studies with a hint of friendly sarcasm, “I was really looking forward to class today.”

What to do, what to do? I asked myself. Free time on a Wednesday afternoon is hard to come by – what am I supposed to do with myself? It was nearing 2:00, so I figured I ought to do as the Spanish do and eat a big, late lunch. As soon as I finished eating, I got yet another unexpected phone call. It was Jose, my evening student. No way I’m getting another class cancelled, I thought. But sure enough, that’s what happened.

Three classes down, one to go. My last class never ended up being cancelled though, but who was I to complain? I’d just technically had a full day of work as far as my time sheet was concerned, and I felt like laughing all the way to the bank. I soon fulfilled my remaining one and a half hours of teaching in the late afternoon, and I was home free. And I have to say it was one of the better classes I’d instructed so far. I realized how much more energy I brought into the classroom with a fresh mind free from fatigue. In a class where I’m usually running low on energy and patience after teaching all day, my students must have thought I’d gotten into one too many café solos, but I’m sure they enjoyed the extra bit of enthusiasm (and with their low level of English, that’s exactly what they need).

So, it’s been quite the day and I have to say that I’m pretty exhausted from all the “hard work,” so I’ll have to end it here. Tomorrow’s Thursday, so I need to get some rest for the weekend!

In all my classes, my curious students are always asking me about my impression on their native city, and what my fellow Americans typically think about Spanish people from across the sea. Every time, my answer is the same.

“We know about paella and bullfights, but the only stereotype we have is about Spanish people always being late.” This comment is always met with a laugh and knowingly exchanged glances between my students. For the newcomer to Madrid, it may take some getting used to, but Spanish tardiness is a basic truth that one has to accept while living abroad. As frustrating as it may sound, there is a positive side as well to Spanish time for the teacher of English.

There are three letters in the English language that, when put together in the proper order, carry a significant amount meaning for the English teacher in Madrid. C – T - L, which stands for “cancelled too late,” represents a fully paid mid week mini vacation. In other words, if a client decides at the last minute that they aren’t able to attend class on that same day, then the teacher still gets paid for the full class session.
Yes, sometimes these classes aren’t cancelled until you actually show up and wait for a few minutes, but if you’re particularly lucky, then you’ll get the cancellation message before walking out your door. And if you’ve happened to rub the rabbit’s foot right, then every now and then you’ll have an entire day off – paid in full.

Take today for instance: I woke up at 7:30, ate some breakfast, took a shower, got my teaching materials together, and grabbed my (pink) phone on my way out the door. When I flipped open the screen to check the time though, I noticed that I had a text waiting. My stomach fluttered in excitement as I knew a text this early could only mean one thing – cancelled class! Sure enough the text was from one of my students, apologizing for having to cancel class due to a company wide meeting. Apology accepted. Time to get back under my warm blankets.

So what’s the big deal? You might be wondering. My roommate and I happen to have similar taste in cell phone color selection - whatever. It’s not really that big a deal, I know, but it’s a guy thing. Whenever we go out, we’ve got our matching pink phones to go along. If we go to the bar together, we’re both on our pink phones. When we’re on the metro, restaurants, etc. - we get looks. Not that this matters, really. But Madrid is a very diverse city in more ways than one, and it would just be nice to not have to explain myself every time I meet someone new – “Oh, yeah, I have a pink phone – no, it’s not like that – yes, my Spanish really is that bad” – and blah blah blah.

This is especially true with all of my Spanish classes. They’re first impression of me on the first day of class is always – teacher has a pink phone. I don’t have a watch and none of my classrooms have clocks, so I have to check my phone for the time, and I usually start all of my first classes with the explanation of my phone mishap, just so they don’t get the wrong idea. It’s acted as a great ice breaker, actually. It gives them a good laugh and calms those first day jitters and awkward getting to know you chit chat. Even now, after a month and a half of teaching, I get at least one comment a week per class about my phone – and you’ll learn quickly: one extra laugh per class is definitely worth the embarrassment.

Coming here with a clean slate as far as Spanish speaking is concerned hasn’t been nearly as bad as I’d first thought it was going to be. I’ve taken the time to study on my own whenever I’m on a lengthy metro ride or in the time spent waiting for my students to arrive (an extra fifteen to thirty minutes per class, guaranteed). I think I’ve picked up quite a bit in my first few months abroad, but like I said, when I first arrived on Spanish soil, my vocabulary was definitely still in its infant stage.

If this is the case with you, no problem. You can get around fine, the trainers at TT will do everything they can to help you out and guide you with whatever your situation may be, but if you decide to purchase a cell phone on your own, make sure that you’ve got a solid grasp on Spanish linguistics. I on the other hand, had to learn the hard way.

During the third week of the course, my roommate (a friend of mine from home) and I, decided that it was finally time to get our Spanish cell phones. So we headed over to the nearby supermarket (where apparently you can buy phones) and did tried our best to negotiate the deal. We both agreed that we wanted the cheapest phone possible as long as it had a camera, and after a lot of frustrated finger pointing and Spanglish, we finally completed the cash transaction.

With a sense of accomplishment and relief to now be plugged in to the Spanish communication network (like a real Spaniard!), we hurried home to activate our phones and make some long overdue calls. As soon as I got into my room I began attacking the phone package like a kid on Christmas, tearing at the tape and ripping out the Styrofoam padding. When I finally made it down to the bottom, I was unpleasantly surprised to find that my phone was there alright – but it was Barbie pink! Well, lush pink is what it actually said on the sticker. Judging by the gasps of shock from the adjoining room, my roommate had just discovered the same…

There’s nothing like a good surprise to revitalize you during the teaching day. Big or small, it makes no difference – it’s just one of those little things that stays in the back of your mind throughout the rest of the day that spurs you on and keeps you positive. Today this surprise came in the form of a class conversation.

One of my students, Sylvia, started the year off very shy and quiet, and I’ve been pulling teeth trying to get her to come out of her shell and speak with confidence, as I know she knows a lot but speaks very little. In the beginning of class today though, when we were all saying hello and talking about our weekends, she finally piped up. One of the students mentioned video games, and it was like a switch had been flipped.

“I like to play video games,” she said.

“What games do you like to play?” I asked, expecting her to say something generic like Super Mario Brothers.

She paused for a few seconds, thinking about what to say, before continuing. “I like to play video games where you kill people.”

Okay, I thought. So this sweet, little, quiet, married woman in her mid thirties, who never says much, also happens to have a thirst for blood. Interesting. “Go on,” I encouraged, intrigued and wanting to know what next would come out of her mouth.

“Yes, I like very much to fight the other people and when I kill them with my…how do you say? Um…” she then made a slashing movement with her hands like she was wielding a sword. “Like in the movie Kill Bill?” She asked.

“Ah, yes,” I answered, “a sword.”

“Yes, a sword. When I kill everyone with my sword, I get to move on to the next…to the next…ugh. How do you say? Um…oh – level!

“Okay, very good Silvia!” I encouraged, thinking she was finished.

“I also like to play another game, I don’t know how to say the name, but you have a gun and you have to run around and kill zoombies.”

“Zoombies?” I asked, in challenge to her slight mistake.

“No, not zoombies,” she corrected. “Zombies. And when you shoot them, there is a lot of blood, and sometimes their head goes bwah!” she exclaimed, making an explosive gesture with her hands.

“Wow, that’s really interesting, Silvia. Thank you for sharing,” I replied, trying not to laugh as I imagined her glued to the tv, eyes squinting in concentration as she rampaged through the zombie-riddled streets, popping off rounds and squealing with delight over the showers of raining zombie blood and exploding heads. “Does anyone else have any other violent hobbies they’d like to share?”

Just because I come from a place where football is a game where only one out of fifty players actually uses his feet, doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate its European counterpart. Yes, we may call it soccer in that land across the sea, but I still have an avid interest in the sport thanks to my childhood video game hobby. If it weren’t for that, I’d basically know nothing about the game. I’d probably still think that you kick the ball with your toe, that every player runs to the ball no matter where it is on the field like a huddle of little kids, and that a pitch is something that only relates to America’s national pastime of baseball.

Fortunately I’ve been enlightened however, and so it was an awesome moment when I realized that I’d be moving to a city that is home to one of the best futbol teams on the planet. I’ve been here for just over three months though, and the closest I’ve come to entering Santiago Bernabeu Stadium where Real Madrid plays, is standing tip toe at the gate, trying to sneak a peak at the pitch. There’s been a list of excuses as long as my arm for this: I don’t have sufficient funds, I don’t have enough time, I don’t know how to go about buying tickets, etc. But all of these excuses flew out the window today during my noon class.

I started this one to one tutoring session about three weeks ago with this 25 year old guy who, like me, is straight out of college. We hit it off immediately as we quickly identified our common ground in the first minutes of our first class: “So, Antonio. What do you like to do in your free time?”

“Well, I like beer…and football,” he answered without hesitation.

“I think we’re going to get along just fine, amigo.”

I then came to discover that this student also happens to be a season ticket holder for Real Madrid, and goes to nearly all of the games. I didn’t want to pry, but I heard the opportunity knocking, so I offered to take some tickets off his hands in case he was ever in need of some seat occupants. He readily agreed that it was no problem – he’d hook me up as soon as he got the chance. But, this being Spain, I took his consenting with a grain of salt.

Oh yes, me of little faith. Well all of my doubts were put to rest today when Antonio walked in to class. After salutations were exchanged, he asked, “What are you doing next Wednesday?”

“I have no idea,” I answered. “I never think that far ahead.”

“I have four tickets to the Real Madrid game – do you want them?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied. “You can take your friends. I’m not going to be able to go to this game.”

“I don’t know what to say, but…thank you!”