TtMadrid

Getting a job across the world can be hard work. Using only the Internet, you have to determine whether the people on the other side are real or not, whether the amazing opportunities you are reading about in print are valid, legitimate offers. When you conclude safely that this is all true, and apply, you are corresponding, again through Internet. No smiles, body language, comforting gestures. You don't see the way it really works, the offices and buildings, where they are, what they really look like. For phone interviews, you must schedule in advance a time for you, the interviewee, and the interviewer to talk over e-mail. This exchange could last several days, as each of you are waking and living on different clocks, checking your email throughout, missing each other's messages. And finding a time that actually works for two people living full lives in two different time zones...this can take awhile. There is, of course a considerable time difference, and because of this, phone interviews might take place and seemingly unprofessional times. There is also many other worries: what if the connection is bad? What if my battery dies? What if someone else calls me right before the time I am expecting? It also, plainly, just seems odd. Scheduling your life around a phone call? You must be in a place quiet enough to take a professional call. You must also be prepared, supposedly, like an interview (though thankfully, no interview clothes required!--go ahead and try to catch me in a business suit ever!). You wait, expectantly, as the time nears, looking at your phone, hoping you have signal, and that your positive attitude and hard work ethic are conveyed through the cellular wave signals. Or whatever they are.
The director of your final chosen program, a decision you have arrived at after months of said search, frustrations, and anxiety, and years of dreaming, calls you at prearranged time. She has a British accent, and you feel dumb and silly, maybe slow to speak. "I'm graduating from Indiana University" --she probably thinks you've never been anywhere! She's probably never heard of Indiana, but pictures a rural, farming community with a small population of close-minded patriots. She probably thinks you buy into all the American brainwashings that most of the world agree that Americans buy into! She is probably laughing at the way you say things. But she tells you your application was impressive and the program is exciting--she tells you things you never thought of before, only feeding your excitement. It's a great way to travel, as the certification is universal, it's a great way to network, it looks good on grad school applications, job applications, you can find jobs in the government, maybe a company will take you full-time. Life is fast-paced and the connections you make with the people of the world are life-changing. Join our program!
You say yes, see you in September, and she gives you the name of an American about the same age as you that you can contact with specific questions and fears you might have about this procedure coming from America--another virtual contact, a cyperspace friend. She tells you the same, the program has been amazing, I make great money, I love my life, I live with random people who are now my best friends, I travel Europe on the weekends. She is returning to America in August, and she feels the slow spread of devestation already setting in. Kind of like the first time you had to leave Spain, and you hated it, you felt like you were being dragged against your will, and that first morning you woke up in America, in your childhood bed, you burst into tears.
But you chat with this girl, and the director e-mails you an admissions packet, a metro map of Madrid(you didn't tell her you have a copy tacked onto your wall, or another copy in a box of notes and memorys from two years ago), the expectations of the program. And it's done. You have a place to be come September, a calling. There is something out there for you besides the student role. Of course, there is much to do between now and then--making enough money to live for a couple of months, before you start getting paid, buying teacher clothes, finding a place to live, networking and making friends. But you have a place. And it's the place you wanted all along, and you think you can make hte most of this opportunity, see more of the world, and maybe you will be satisfied, can come back to what is here and feel ready for somethign else--something more reliable.
You have a program that is excited to teach you what it can and support you through your move and new occupation. In just a few months, you will be a college graduate, and then you will be a graduate that teaches English in Spain, or maybe somewhere else, if you decide--because you can decide whatever you like. You will get your TESL certification, and from there it is up to you.

Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

Not all of Mexico is dangerous. Most of it is not any more dangerous than a city in the U.S. The people are hard-working, and they are happy. They don't make a lot of money, but they live near their families and play soccer several times a week with their friends. It makes them sad that people are scared to travel to Mexico, because they have pride in their country and see that it is beautiful. They know their friends and family are good people.
Lots of them speak better English than any of the visiting tourists speak Spanish. This is ironic because so many of these people live their lives trading, selling, and sleeping on the beach. They have never left Mexico, and don't have the opportunities to travel outside of their country.

On Weather

Texas. God bless Texas. The summers are hot, so hot you sweat through the minimal amounts of clothing you wear. Showering sometimes two, three times a day, and changing clothes just as often. Football games under the hot sun all the way through the season and then the mild, cloudy winter. Most days were sweatshirt weather with the occasional day of shorts and flipflops. Never pack away your flip flops.
On this particular morning, the weatherman predicted "winter storm warnings." Winter coats and mismatching accessories were everywhere; only eyes could be seen between hood and scarf.
We laughed, this powdery dusting, a cold wind, was shutting down schools and bridges. Salt trucks had no salt, sand was dumped in heaps on sidewalks. No one had ice scrapers, no one had gloves. Grocery stores were running out of supplies, lines were wrapped through the aisles, everyone in new-looking winter coats several years out of style.

Briefly, On Time

I woke up today to thunder storms and a lost hour. The wind is hard and chilly; the clocks are turned an hour past what they read 24 hours ago. I woke up at "10"--and time is forcing me to rush through my day. Time is an interesting concept. It is man made, used by men. Often, like many things we think we own, time ends up using us.


Forward motion and change are the themes of the day. The symbolism is a little over the top.

VIVA

In less than a week from right now, I will be on the beach in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. It couldn't come soon enough. I just spent the entire day in the library, and have a feeling the week leading up to my 6AM departure next Friday will be much of the same. Even my blog lacks interest...I realized I haven't written in nearly a week, and this is the best I could come up with.
A busy week ahead, but I will hopefully get creative again sometime soon. Who knows what kind of technological access I will have in Mexico, not even sure if my phone will work (does anyone know?)...
Maybe the next time blogspot will see me, I will have a tan!

On Observation

At the gym at school, you are responsible for wiping down the equipment you use when you finish. For reasons probably including cost and convenience, instead of hand towels or rags, paper towel dispensers are placed sporadically throughout the gym to use for this task. To me, it seems common sense that little paper towel is required to wipe the face and arms of an elliptical machine or the seat of a stationary bike. I watch people pump out lengths and lengths of paper towels, fold them over and over into thick squares, and this makes me cringe. I of course agree with the notion of cleanliness and sanitation, but some of these people have no evidence of sweat--their t-shirts are not drenched with pooling sweat, but alarmingly dry. Yet they find the need to be so carelessly wasteful. While I would not call myself an activist, though I am trying to be more conscious about the Earth's resources, I feel, however, that anyone could recognize that a length of paper towel that is twice one's own height is more than sufficient to take care of the residue left by one's sweaty palms.
When I am on the elliptical, I have nearly a full 360 degree scope of vision, and no one is safe from my observant and critical eye. The machines face a panel of mirrors, and I observe my fellow gym-goers with interest. There is the girl down the row from me with spandex shorts and hoop earrings. Grad students hunch over bicycles, text books open in front of them, highlighters in hand. Nearly everytime I am there, there is a large man who always wears the same outfit: gray cotton shorts and a white t-shirt he has cut the arms out of. When he is on a stationary bike, he pumps hard, occasionally standing up, and shoutign "HA!"--a sort of military sounding, grunting noise. People who are not accustomed to this look around the gym to see where the sound was coming from. Everyone is using an iPod, banded around their arm or clipped to their shirt, and some take out their ear pieces as they glance around. Other days, he uses the elliptical. There are different varieties of ellipticals at the gym, and he and I prefer the same kind. When he ellipticals, he does so vigorously. He keeps his arms lifted above his head most of the time, matching the motion of his legs. He is a big sweaty man, little hair, but a thick white mustache tops his upper lip--much like the kind my own father had when I was very young (besides the obvious color difference :) ), and I try to keep my distance. This is not always possible, as you must sign up for a time slot on the machines, and I have not yet learned his name in order to not pick the one beside him.
You know, in this particular case, my judgmental eyes will look away; I grant him permission to use as many paper towels as he feels appropriate.
The track is another matter: you need to know the rules of the road to use it. I get lost in my head when I'm running, which is why the track is a very useful tool: no matter how far away you get mentally, you can't get too far away physically--the track keeps you on course. There are suggestions hanging above the lanes of the track that read "walk," "jog," "run." To me, these merely indicate that the slowest moving people stay toward the inside of the track. You must always be under the assumption that you are the slowest person on the track. Until someone comes up that you must pass, stick to the inside lane. Sorority girls run the tracks in groups of four or five, all with various event t-shirts. They spread across the track and everyone else squeezes by, pressed against the wall. I see two older women nearly every day. They are tan, fried and dyed hair pulled back with scrunchies, tiny waists. They wear the same outfits every day, which I always wonder if they wash. They are both tall and long-legged, pushing each other to run laps on the track. Another girl I see everyday is my friend. We have never spoken, but while I am stretching I will see her run by. We will nod at each other in acknowledgment. She is taller than me, but otherwise we are much the same. We run the track. We strap our iPods to our left arms. We have extra hair ties on our left wrist. I think she usually outruns me, though. When I'm running, I try to keep track of my laps. I see dust clumps on the floor. I see the people walking outside, on the path below. Sometimes it's raining or snowing or sunny and I see that, too. I see people playing volleyball on the basketball court or some playing basketball on the basketball court. Sometimes I see AJ Ratliffe down there, the basketball player from our team last year, who left of mysterious personal problems. He is unmistakable with "AJ" tattooed across his bicep. With all these distractions, I often forget the lap I am on. I have my own set of rules in how to deal with track time. For situations such as this, I go back to the last lap I remember counting and start over from there. I usually have a number in my head of how many I need to run that day--16, 24--and I feel uneasy stopping before I am positive that I have reached this number.
I walk a few laps after a run, watching the people pass by, a woman with no shoes and her work clothes on outwalks me. People doing yoga and core strengthening near the track on blue mats. An employee spraying down the blue mats as fast as he can, and glaring at the students as they take them down from the wall and use them. I understand this feeling. When I worked at the pool, I would have the whole deck cleaned up, new towels on the table, toys and noodles in their respective bins, and it would last 5 minutes. At the Limited, I fold a stack of sweaters, ready to close, and someone comes in and pulls one from the middle of the stack. It is infuriating, and seems like a personal offense. Of course, the sweaters are there to be looked at, the gym mats there to be used, but I understand the sentiment.
A lot of people to see at the gym.

Middle Way House

Point of interest:
I am doing a sociology internship this semester for 400 level credit. It's turned out to be very rewarding. Essentially, I go to the Rise, which is a housing project for victims of domestic violence twice a week. I write weekly journals about my observations and experiences, and at the end of the semester I will write a research paper about domestic violence in the community or how the economy effects domestic violence, something like that.
Women are put on a wait list for a spot at the Rise, because it is often hard to have availability. This obviously demonstrates the need for this sort of facility in the community. It is long term housing, unlike Middle Way House (which sponsors and operates the Rise), which only offers short-term emergency housing. The Rise is more like transitional housing. I operate the desk and door, signing people in and out, greeting tenants, answering the phone, checking IDs. I also am being trained in some of the bureaucratic policies. I help the site manager make sure the paper work is in order before someone can move in. The woman must prove that she has been abused and that she is homeless. She also must have papers about any source of income and child support she might have. From here, we calculate the amount of rent she must pay each month. The Rise is an interesting dynamic, because these women are all living here for the same reason. The children all grow up in close quarters, and seem to be very close. The way the staff interacts with the tenants is different than I expected, because they are tough on them. They expect rent when it is due and for everyone to follow procedure in other ways. I guess I wasn't expecting this, because of the difficult situations the tenants have come from. I guess I expected it to be a more cuddly atmosphere, but I understand now why the distance and sternness works: it is more of a catalyst to get these women back into the real world.

A little different than my usual posts, but nonetheless is something I am up to!