In Search of More Students

I have finally found another student. His name is José Luis, and at 70-something, he seems to be a man of many trades. Well dressed and with a calm walk, he is a retired French teacher, but life seems to have brought him in many directions, once living in Morocco for many years and now managing a couple apartment buildings he owns in the city center. We do our lessons in one where he has an office. The building is being renovated, but it’s breathtaking, with an Arab-style courtyard and gilded columns. The office itself has high ceilings and, as he informed me, the original marble from when the building was built in the 1860s. He’s one of those older men who feel the need to tell a young woman like myself how things are. He’s going to save me the trouble of making life’s little mistakes by alerting me to potential pitfalls. I manage to find older men like this everywhere, in cafés, on airplanes, in hotel lobbies.
His level is actually fairly good, yet I’ve been informed several times that it is my thicker-than-usual American accent that is presenting problems. I was unaware of my Southern California drawl. In all honesty, this man entertains me endlessly. During our second lesson, I showed him a picture of an actress as a way to introduce a listening comprehension that was about a movie. I asked if he recognized her or knew who she was.
“I don’t know. Women are all the same to me.”
There must have been some mistake because this could not possibly be what he meant to say. So, I had him explain what he intended to relate. Nope, no dice. He knew what he said. We’re all the same.
“José Luis, are you married?” Here was my mouth, off and running as usual, politic or not.
“Yes. No. I was, but we made the divorce. But, I have been with many women after that. But, they were all the same, jealous, posesivas? Is this the word?”
“The word is possessive. José Luis, has it ever occurred to you that perhaps it is not all the women who are the same, but you that is the same with all of them?” This solicited a laugh.
“Yes, this one I have heard before. You are all the same.”
“Do you know this word? Misogynist? Have you heard it before?” Another laugh. Thank goodness because it meant I still had a job. Apparently, he had heard that word before. But, he’s well intentioned, and like all older men who are trying to save me the trouble, he reminded me of my Grandfather.

Banana Bread and Joshua Redman

The rest of my weekend was a somewhat mellower affair. Friday, I was home by 11 and Saturday, by 1. A few girls here run something called Pachange. It’s a language exchange group that meets every other Saturday night. They do their best to set you up with whatever language you’re looking for. They found me a Spaniard that had lived in France, so for an hour we spoke English and for an hour French. Unfortunately, by the end of the second hour, my patience for this guy was about done. He had brought along a friend with him who spoke neither English nor French. This meant translating much of any conversation we had back into Spanish, and after about an hour of sitting through my inability to hide how peeved I was, his friend finally left. The upside of it all is that I did get to speak French, and I ran into some of my students, one of whom I strong-armed into taking me around the plaza on his motorcycle.
I also met my roommate’s seven year old sister. Word of warning, if you are learning another language and have trouble understanding young children, do not be discouraged. This little girl talked a mile minute, said everything that popped into her head and wanted to touch everything. Honestly, she reminded me of me. We all made banana bread together (likely a mistake as Rafa and I finished the whole thing in under two days), and I let her play video games on my computer as a sort of respite. You’re never more protective of your computer than when it’s in the hands of a seven year old.
There’s a sort of a small jazz fest going on this week at the Teatro Cervantes. The theater is an old one, with three balconies, boxes, and rows or powder blue seats that finally end in the rafter section, which is just brown benches. It’s a beautiful theater with a fresco on the ceiling and fake gold garlands adorning each balcony, and, even without knowing how old it was, I spent part of the concert inventing grand stories of intrigue that had taken place there. I went to see Joshua Redman play, a saxophonist from New York. He was amazing, made me see why Julio Cortázar used to talk about jazz music and boxing together. Redman was frankly athletic, moving about, music trying to escape from him everywhere, not just his hands and his horn, but his feet too. His trio (sax, drums, bass) played for an hour and a half or more, and by the end I was exhausted even if they weren’t. The sight of live music, as seen from above. I always forget what a thrill it is to see people possessed by their art.
Anyway, hopefully pictures to come soon, as I have finally bought a camera.

A Typical Thursday Night?

Means Friday morning with a well-earned hangover. But, the night was worth the repeated thudding realizations that no, there’s no jackhammer between your ears and that if you stand up, there’s only a 50/50 chance you’ll actually throw up. Last night, after a new route home from work turned a 12-minute walk into a 40-minute one (turns out, most European cities, not arranged in grid patterns), I opted for dinner with my friends over the gym. While we have not yet acclimated to the schedule, I think my American friends and I are getting a knack for the Spanish style meal, the one in which two and a half hours evaporate into bread, wine bottles, and laughing at toothless, singing buskers.
Indecision and epically good mojitos brought us to a youth hostel close to Plaza de la Merced. Fabio is Brazilian, and if you give him six minutes, mint and a lot of sugar, the night is sure to evolve (devolve?) into a sweet, rummy blur. But, this isn’t what kept us there. In the hostel bar, a jam session was brewing, and the cast of characters I met is possibly my favorite part. The rotating band consisted of two guys playing guitars, a Frenchman, Jerome, who’d grown up in Algeria, and a German, Waldo, who assured me that he did know where he was and no, he didn’t own any striped clothing or wear glasses. Later, while discussing our new president elect, Waldo forgave me for being just one more person to exhaust that joke. Two Nordic guys kept switching off playing a jambeau, Petes, a Norwegian who explained why the rose tattoo on his neck had special significance and truly believed in the personal touch of the LOVE and HATE on his knuckles, and a Swede, who was my age but frankly looked like someone had stretched a 15-year-old and put a Peruvian shirt on him. Occasionally, Marisol from Colombia would overcome her shyness and play. And then there was me, singing, in a smoke filled room, in front of people that could actually hear me. Towards the end of the night, Waldo asked if I knew “Summertime,” and despite the clinking of glasses and the hum of talk in at least three different languages, I very nearly silenced the room for two and a half minutes. It was one of the greatest moments of my life, given to me by people from at least nine different countries. In all honesty, that’s what made it better, a group of happy, supportive strangers, from all over the world.
The strange hitch is that most of the lovely people I met in the travelers’ hostel actually live in Málaga. Perhaps they had stayed there when they arrived, but now it had become a home for hanging out, for finding odd friends, for playing guitar and staying up late.