Columbus Day

The second Monday in October is Día de la Hispanidad, otherwise known as, Columbus Day. This was the day I finally got to move into my very own room. When I arrived, the Polish girl occupying it was still moving out, but now it’s mine. Monday night, I finally got to do my laundry, lie down in a bed, in a room by myself. I woke in the morning to the sound of a thunderstorm, thinking, now this is bliss. Until I realized that much awaited laundry I had finally been able to do was hanging outside in that peaceful thunderstorm. I thus began my second week of work.
Work actually is pretty great. I very much enjoy having advanced level students. A few days ago, we were doing a lesson on television. Not yielding very much from the book’s questions, what’s your favourite (the books are published in Britain) type of show? Do you prefer public programming? Etc., I decided to go with route with which I was more familiar. I split them into groups and had the pitch shows to me. I plan to do this lesson again next week, but my particular favorite from this one were a game show called “Wheel of Transvestites,” “The Spooky Email,” and “G8 on Safari,” a reality show that sent world leaders on safari through Africa with only five dollars.
This week also saw my first freelance job. You would not believe how hard it is to get two 15 year-old girls to talk. When I was 15, I think my family would have paid to get me to shut up. (“When I was 15,” as though reactions to my tireless jawing and confusion over the difference between an inner and outer monologue have changed so radically in the last seven years). But, I think I put them a little more at ease by the end, and I went home with 20 euros in my pocket.
My roommates are great. Nadia and Maria are 28 and 29. They work together at some empresa that represents other empresas and, ok, to be honest, I’ve asked three times, and still can’t piece together what exactly they do or whom they do it for. But, Nadia speaks three or four languages and has promised to lend me books. My third roommate is named Rafa. He works for some environmental agency, and from his closet across the kitchen from my room, he’s beginning to write a doctoral thesis on water and poverty. They like to shoot the shit, have been super supportive, know how to speak English decently, but don’t do so with me. Ideal.
The last wonderful thing I’ll tell you about here is this: I get to cook my own meals! This means going to the market, a venture I was forewarned about by my roommates. “It can be intimidating,” “Foreigners usually take pictures,” they told me. Thinking them mad (I’d been to les halles in Avignon), I went happily with my little bag. They were half right. Buying fruit was fine, but the butcher had me smiling uncomfortably to myself. They sell every part of every animal, including brains, which come in small plastic packages and retain the small amount of blood that surrounds the brain. The American in my head was jumping up and down, pointing and shouting, “Don’t you see that?! Brains, girl, brains! In packages. That means they’re packaged in bulk. That means people buy them. Hmmm. I wonder what consistency they have…”