Skiing down the mountain of my emotions

I've tried a lot of new things since my arrival in Spain.

Rabbit, horse, octopus, lamb.
Patxaran, ratafía, Jagermeister.
Haggling, apologizing, joking [in Spanish].

So when our friends invited us to a weekend in Hernani and a Saturday skiing on the slopes of Gourette, France, I didn't think twice. I just said yes.

It wasn't until I was on my ass at the bottom of a practice hill after having shoved off for the first time that I realized I might not be so great at it.

I'm not sure why, but before even trying, I was in the mindset that skiing was pretty simple. After seeing the "Aspen" episode of South Park a dozen times, I figured I would french-fry when I wanted to pick up speed, and pizza when I wanted to stop. So there I was, at the top of the same slope where all the French toddlers were taking lessons. I used my poles to thrust forward and found myself accelerating a bit too fast. I turned my knees inward, trying to pizza as much as possible, but I continued to hurl toward a line of people at the bottom. I let my ski poles drag on the snow and squatted down eventually coming to a stop. I got up laughing, gloves already soaked, but I was a bit shaken. Skiing wasn't something I was just going to pick up. It wasn't like riding a bike. It took a lot more focus and balance, which are not my strong points.

Later, though, I started having fun. I was still falling on every run, but we had progressed to an actual slope with turns and banks. They called it "Happy Place". I was feeling pretty good. We even got some action shots of me on two feet. I was french-frying a bit more, only pizza-ing when necessary, and I was excited to go again each time we got to the bottom.

We all decided to move onto something different, but on the same level. Like I said, I was in a good mood so I was game. I should've just stayed on the ground when I missed the opportunity to sit with my friends on the ski lift. I was swaying in the air by myself, watching the skiers underneath me. I was searching for a second Happy Place, but all I could see were wide, steep slopes. I had a bad feeling and we weren't even halfway up the lift; but I ignored it. What good was it going to do me then?

I stared out over the slope -- it was level blue, not level green as we thought -- and continued to force a smile even though my heart was racing. I lightly pushed forward to follow the others who had already shoved off. Suddenly, it was like that first practice run. I was going too fast, and pizza-ing wasn't slowing me down enough. I twisted my body and dragged my poles, making myself fall. Putting my skis in a perpendicular position, I lifted myself back up on wobbly legs. Elliot and the others had stopped a bit further down the hill, waiting for me.

"Come on, Sarah! It's okay!" And then some instructions in Spanish on how to zig-zag down the hill, rather than diving straight down. It didn't matter. The mere thought of twisting my body even slightly flooded my brain with thoughts of picking up momentum, going too fast, not being able to stop, flying off a hillside and busting my skull on ice and rocks. I was absolutely paralyzed. And I started to sob a little.

Suddenly, I was 16 and I was in Mexico. I was trying to make a deal with this vendor selling ceramic Aztec calendars at the pyramids in Teotihuacan. He handed me the piece so I could examine it, but I let it drop and shatter on the desert ground. I was mortified; and even more so when this man, who was obviously worse off than me, apologized and offered to give it to me for nothing. I tried to say, in broken Spanish, that I could not possibly accept, that I would pay double what he was asking. I walked away humiliated, and when the first person asked me what was wrong, I burst into tears and buried my face in Elliot's shirt.

Elliot inched his way back up the hill to help me. I apologized, not only because I didn't mean to get so upset; but also because I had a feeling the rest of my day wouldn't get any better. I had reached my peak of anxiety and fear, and I ended up walking or falling down what was left of the run. The muscles in my butt and legs had also grown tired, and so maneuvering haphazardly down the hills was even more difficult.

I was shaken up and exhausted. I felt like a wet blanket, but I didn't want to be. I felt unable to express myself in any language, unable to cheer myself up. I wanted to disappear so my friends could have fun.

Traveling has always seemed sort of against my personality. I consider myself very much an introvert, but at the same time I truly enjoy meeting new people and seeing new places. I also like being with Elliot, who is widely known as the most social of all butterflies. So I'm often in situations that make me anxious or on edge. Normally, it doesn't phase me. I may not be outgoing or flamboyant, but I remain interested and eager. But there have been a handful of moments in my life where this anxiousness has caught up with me, where I feel like imploding.

I suppose I'm telling you this, not only because it involves travel, exploration, and a bit of culture shock -- but also because, like my writing, my feelings (bad or good) are not something I put on display very often.

Pamplona por las mañanas

Recently, I've been making a conscious-although-sometimes-sleepy effort to get up earlier. It's very easy to think that, because I don't start "working" until four or five in the afternoon, I can stay out until whenever and wake up when my body allows.

False. I may only teach English 2 hours per day, but you gotta count the 1-2 additional hours per day that I work on lesson plans. Then add approximately 1-1.5 hours per day of travel (human-powered travel, that is). And finally, I've been doing some freelance translation lately which can occupy 2 or sometimes 3 hours of my day. Consequently, my day should start around 8 AM, not the 11 AM to which I've become accustomed. Otherwise, I'm sacrificing my nights and my weekends to work.

In addition to productivity benefits, getting up at an earlier hour has led me to see a new side of Pamplona. You see, I read that one of the best ways to wake up is to immediately go outside and do something active. So I've been hopping out of bed at the sound of my alarm and rushing out the door before my brain has a chance to say, "Wait, no, dude it's WARM IN THE BED." I wander around for 45 minutes or so and then return home refreshed and with a nice, hot baguette. Anyway, I take my camera with me. That's right, I'm waking up early and taking more photos -- killing two life-goals with one stone!

Parque Taconera: a great park near our place with pebble walkways, playgrounds, and animals. Very peaceful in the 
morning, even though it's situated in the city center.

Maybe you thought by animals I meant squirrels and birds. Nah, this park has chickens, ducks, swans, and deer. In Pennsylvania, this might look like a petting zoo; but since you can't pet them, it looks downright hillbilly. But so cultural gaps go!

As you can see, the deer above are hanging around the edge of this wall because one of them has been left behind and they're not sure how to recover her. I watched as they kept glancing down and she kept looking up.

All he's gotta do is climb this here stone ramp. I suppose it would be difficult to figure out...for a deer.

This duck and swan pond is also located in Parque Taconera. It's impressive that the noise from the streets close by doesn't really permeate the park.

A view from the edge of Parque Taconera of the neighborhood Rochapea. I teach a few classes in this area, located down the hill from the old part. It's also got some great parks and nice walkways alongside the river (Río Arga).

Upon seeing this from the park, I had my "Duh, that's where they keep the bulls when they're not in the ring or in the streets" moment.

I've seen this dilapidated abode close up from the riverside, but getting a bird's-eye view was something new.

Talk about local agriculture! So there's this secret place -- if you go down the hill from the bull ring on the right side, follow the diverging pathway down the hill, and then make a right following the Camino de Santiago -- where you'll find several greenhouses, gardens, ponies, and the rich smell of soil and shit.

So little and tubby! Although the animals along this walk were cute, they weren't very animated at this hour; thus I did not attempt to pet them.

Also stumbled upon this wacky bridge. It's a little difficult to see in the photo, but there are gaps in between the gray
slabs, which make me nervous when dogs cross the bridge because I can't help but imagine little paws slipping
through the cracks. Neato nonetheless!

The Ciudadela (see-you-duh-della) always makes for an epic walk, as a park that once was the fortress protecting Pamplona from outsiders and enemies.

As you can see, it's just a huge expanse of stone and grass. There are several little pathways that lead you in and out of the fortress; also many modern art pieces to gawk at, especially in the center. Elliot tells me he used to come out here to play ultimate frisbee with his ex-pat friends.

In the center of the Ciudadela is a quaint little courtyard where you'll often run into friends taking the same shortcut you are through the park.

Something I may have gone my whole Pamplonian life without seeing: the dude who sweeps and mops the stairwell of our building. Only in the morning!

So getting up early can have many perks, especially if you make an effort to do something with your extra time. To me, these walks are worth the 15 minutes of yawns and sleepy eyes after I wake up. I know I'll be glad to have these photos when I leave.

Going underground

Music, for myself and many of the people I know, is the glue that binds us. It often represents a state of mind, be it political or inebriated, to which friends can relate. Not only does it facilitate a successful chill session, but your music tastes can let people know how you like to feel, even if it doesn't show on the outside. Throughout my life, I have associated a kind of music (hell, sometimes I can narrow it down to a fuckin' song) with the people I know and love. 

The most all encompassing word I can think of is alternative, and that's what we tend to be. Our sexualities, our politics, our food, our clothes, our language, and our music reflect an alternative to what is considered mainstream, acceptable, or normal.

Continuously, to my surprise, I've found that this glue might be contained only within the US, perhaps just Pennsylvania. As I meet the alternative folk of Pamplona, we share a lot of things, but music isn't usually one of them. This has perpetuated a long series of thoughts about music, the scene, friendship, differences, etc. which I will try to get into here, as coherently as possible.

Take our trip to Elizondo last weekend: it's a rural little town north of Pamplona, very close to the French border. Elliot and I accompanied our friend in his camper to his band's show at Elizondo's gaztetxea (pronounced gaz-ste-che). Now, the best English to Basque translation we can come up with is infoshop, and even that phrase doesn't have a whole lot of meaning for some people.

In a lot of ways, this show was what I was used to in Philly.

You know, a lot of young people, makeshift stage, shit on the floor, BO smell, etc. There were posters promoting other shows or political protests plastered on the walls, folks drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, and random shouts and screams in between songs.

The differences were interesting though. Besides the in-house bar and the rural location, this show was distinct from anything I had ever experienced in Philly or Pittsburgh. This was mostly due, I think, to the persistence of tradition in everything unconventional.

Before the show, we marched through the town with other attendees and a band of drums, flutes, and violins. This folky spectacle was not really rooted in anything indie (i.e. bearded 20-somethings playing soft tunes), nor was it a harkening to old times (bearded 20-somethings playing the banjo). This tradition maintains itself as just that. We marched for an hour or so, stopping at a few bars along the way so musicians and marchers alike could wet their whistles and enjoy the night.

After the parade, people sat down to dinner (vegan-friendly) provided by the gaztetxea. While potlucks and the like certainly aren't foreign ideas to the alternative scenes in the US, I wouldn't call them common. Furthermore, we usually don't cook for 40+ people pre-show. After dinner, we heard bottles of patxaran clinking as people served themselves and passed them down the table. Eating, and eating with a group, is very integral to Navarran culture. This goes for its subcultures as well. I can't tell you how many times I've heard someone say to me, "Here in Navarra, we eat well, and we drink well."

Finally, the band was not punk at all. Nor was it metal, hardcore, or noise. It was an overall feel-good band with flamenco, reggae, and funk influences. That's not a bad thing, it's just...different. The singer, wonderful. The band, exceptional. The music, definitely rooted in genre(s) that have been popular in Spain (in some cases, across the world) for a long time. From what I could understand of the lyrics, it seems like they use words as a way of challenging norms, rather than the music. In the US, there are a lot of bands that do both, but the music is always somewhat (often very) provocative. However, the band we saw last weekend was pretty chill. Again, not a bad thing.

I wouldn't say my tastes in music are limited. But I will admit that I have some narrow perceptions of what it is to be alternative, or what it is to challenge a system. Sometimes, I think I will butt heads with people due to their ideas of what is radical. Consequently, I miss out on the opportunity to see the divergences in people. I neglect to see their extremes. And so dulls my own ax against a mutual evil we might have, figuratively speaking. 

Of course, I have my own nuanced philosophies, which I tend to hold back due to a fear of butting heads with people who think differently. People who think differently because they were socialized differently.

A question I ask myself, and now I ask you: How does the conversation begin?

When bilingualism becomes no-lingualism

"Dude, are you smoked?"

In English, I was trying to ask if he was high -- you know if he was puffin' the herb -- and it came out different. Probably because in Spanish I would ask, "¿Tio, estás fumado?" which literally means smoked. I guess it sounds cool in English regardless, but the point is: I fucked up in my native language.


Don't be fooled. That ain't the first nor the last time that has happened. I say stupid stuff in my native language all the time now. I'd like to tell you that's because I'm excelling in my second language. But that ain't the truth neither.

I value my words -- on paper and in conversation -- so much that it pains me to say something I know isn't correct. In Pamplona, I'm constantly switching back and forth between two languages. I use Spanish to survive, and I use English to teach, or get a fuckin' point across to my beau. This kind of linguistic adaptation results in both languages suffering. Man, even that sentence doesn't really make any sense does it?

Let me give you an example. One of my students is of elementary school age. We talk about things like the difference between mammals and reptiles, or the process of photosynthesis. After an hour of speaking in English, his mother usually approaches me with my payment and some small talk. This is where my head starts to spin.

I can follow her just fine. We're talking about the weather, then Easter break, and finally classes during the summer. I try to say something insightful and persuasive like: "Summer is a great time for English classes because we can take it easy. Without school and homework, an hour a week of English doesn't seem like a big deal. Our classes would be fun and relaxed!"

Instead this, roughly translated, is what comes out: "Summer is a good time for classes, because you can take advantage of the lack of homework. In the summer, classes don't...relaxed."

By the end of my rambling, the mom understands what I'm trying to say and probably finishes my sentence for me. Maybe she understands that after talking about chlorophyll and carbon dioxide for an hour, my Spanish might sound a little rusty. Or maybe she just thinks I'm a big ol' dummy.

So while my English deteriorates, my Spanish slowly improves. I'm certainly not struggling to understand, and I'm less hesitant in conversation. But I wanna sound eloquent and I end up sounding like...well...a goddamn foreigner.

I WANT SPEAK SPANISH GOOD.

Burning bridges

Spain has a reputation alright -- apart from its phenomenal food, contentious history, and dreamy scenery, the country's people have become known as kind of, well, loafers.

Sure, the first lazy latin stereotype to come to mind is the sombrero-dawning Mexican sleeping in the shadow of a cactus. However, especially in northern Europe, Spanish people are often pigeon-holed as lousy workers who mooch off other countries' euros. Because of this, the new conservative government is cutting back, not only on social programs, but also something called the puente (literally "bridge").

Spaniards have a total of 14 religious and municipal holidays per year. This seems like a travesty to some Europeans; take the Germans, who only get between 8 and 11 holidays per year, depending on the state. Keepin' it relative: the US has 10 federal holidays. To top it off, it's common for Spaniards to take an extra day or two off, especially if two holidays occur close together. That's what we call a "bridge holiday".

Let's say, for example, Constitution Day (Dec. 6) falls on a Tuesday and the Immaculate Conception Day falls on the following Thursday (Dec. 8). It's possible -- hell even probable -- that some workers may take off the Wednesday in between. Some businesses might even close for the whole week.

So in the eyes of those who don't live in Spain (i.e. Northern Europeans), they're taking advantage of the European Union. Not only do they take three-hour lunches every day, but they go on vacation all the time, even when there isn't a legitimate holiday. And who takes off for the immaculate conception anyway?

In response to this, the current conservative prime minister has declared that most public holidays (excluding Christmas or New Year's Day) will be moved to Monday -- you know, like they do in the states. That way, Spaniards can only take a three-day weekend, and nothing more.

To some, this is a blow to tradition. After all, these holidays have long been an opportunity for relaxation, maybe a little travel, and celebration.

To others, however, the elimination of bridge holidays have been a godsend. Namely, workers paid by the hour are thrilled to have work. In fact, they found these extra days annoying. After all, they don't get paid for time off.

Salaried workers, of course, could give a shit. They often have paid vacation days, and thus, take off when they want to, whether federally mandated or not.

Now that you know the scoop, join the debate. Because I'm not quite sure how I feel about this issue.

On one hand, you have a society less preoccupied with work. A society that likes spending money to enjoy themselves; whether that means a weekend beach trip, a fancy dinner, or a drinking binge. They value relaxation and recreation, and they try not to take life so seriously.

On the other hand, you've got a bunch of slackers who may be holding other people back. In an increasingly globalized world, it serves to work a more compact schedule that's compatible with that of other countries (especially those within your time zone). And tradition is no excuse; we've been giving up the tradition of oppressing women for decades.

On one hand, I hate this kind of legislation because it encourages a work ethic with which I can't agree. More and more, the 9-5 workday of the Western world is expected, whether you're really working or not, and whether you enjoy your job or not. To assimilate, Spain has changed its retirement age to 67, just like Germany. Spain's life expectancy is somewhere around 81 years old. Doesn't leave a lot of time to enjoy your spoils, does it?

On the other hand, I understand the need to eliminate public holidays. Most of them celebrate a religion I don't support anyway. Plus, there are people who want to work, because they don't have any money. If they can't work, they can't support themselves or their families. The unemployment rate has peaked at somewhere around 23% (nearly 50% in some demographics). But my next question is, why can't they find jobs? Is there a deeper problem with the economy? Will more workdays boost employment?

Something I am really proud of is my own work ethic. I'm organized and I have a great method of conquering projects. But I can't decide if that is my own nature, or whether I've been taught to value production and nothing else. I haven't learned a new skill in a long time, although I've attempted many: banjo, painting, knitting, gardening. Some of my efforts have failed because of outside forces, but most failed because I couldn't get ahead of the learning curve. I wasn't producing anything, so I gave up. It was easier to spend an extra 10 hours at work anyway, because I was guaranteed to make something: cash money.

The good news I used that extra dough to get myself here, another country, another continent. But I face the same troubles in Spain. I plan English lessons, almost compulsively, all the while wishing I had time to devote to writing, reading, or taking a walk. But I can pump out lesson plans like a champ. So I do it.

It comes down to a really difficult question: why do we work? The answer seems so simple: to live.

Who's living?

The way it's always been...

I chose to embed this song for two very good reasons:

1. Diana Ross, a babe and a legend, is beltin' out a classic.
2. I'm comin' out to y'all...as a writer.

Maybe you already figured it out. Many of you know me for journal-keeping, news-reporting, note-scribbling, and blog-posting. But chances are, I've never said to your face: "I'm a writer." To be honest, I never say it out loud.

In the same way I've been afraid to call myself fluent in Spanish, I've been hesitant to call myself a writer. Just like I constantly make mistakes in my second language, I often find myself in situations where the words don't come out right. And sometimes, they don't even come out at all.

But this trip has opened up more than one door for me. I came here, primarily, to perfect a language -- to discover new words, new expressions, new accents. An opportunity I did not foresee, was a shit ton of free time to perfect my writing.

Perfect seems like such a stronger word when I see it before writing as opposed to before language. I've learned to abandon all inhibitions when using Spanish. It's a must when it comes to learning, and later practicing, a foreign language. I'm much more inhibitive about my writing (better read: much more sensitive to criticism).

When I was younger, I went through the typical "what-I-wanna-be-when-I-grow-up" phases. First, I wanted to be a paleontologist. Then a tornado chaser. Finally, in 8th grade, I remember promising myself to be the youngest published author in history. Unfortunately, 13-year-old me didn't realize the world of competition for child authors.

Anyway, as I got older, I became more cynical about...you know...dreams. Duh, they don't happen. At least not before a long streak of disappointments. I continued to keep a journal, even through college. I continued to get paid very little for journalistic ventures, which were, for the most part, easy and fun. But attempting anything more creative, more autonomous, was pretty intimidating.

Now, seeking employment, or even feedback, for my writing -- outside of a less competitive, more laid-back university publication -- is downright terrifying. Because the worst that could happen is that I get rejected. Yeah, it's the absolute worst.

To make a long story short, I ain't gonna be a coward no more. I'm still cynical, but I'm going to stop hesitating, and start trying. Many life plans have come and gone, just as easily as a cheese pizza, but writing has always been at the back of my mind. It's always been something I knew I wanted to do. Now, it's just about letting more people see what I write.

So here I am...

Name: Sarah Sanders
Profession: Writer
Interests: Gender, travel, language, cities, psychology
Inspiration: The two Georges (Carlin & Orwell)


This is what it's all about.

Tales of a drunken ex-pat

First thing's first: being drunk in Spain is pretty much like being drunk in the states. The main difference is instead of thinking things like "Woah, I love my friends, man!" you think things like "Woah, I'm in Spain, man!"

But maybe I should be more precise. Because drinking is not just a way to get drunk. Here, in fact, drinking is part of the very fabric that is la cultura Pamplonica. So I'm just doing as the Romans do, ya dig?

Anyway, I often have the same thoughts when I'm out at a bar:

Man, I am so geeked out on being here. Maybe I'll never leave.
I speak Spanish way better when I'm a little tipsy.
I bet I could entertain everybody just as well as this band.
I just wanna kiss everyone, because they are all so awesome.


It's funny, though, how those thoughts can completely turn themselves around with a little more cerveza:

I speak Spanish way better when I'm sober.
I wish friends from home were here.
I would kiss all of them, because they are all so awesome.
I hate this band.


Sometimes, I even get a little rowdy. I don't start fights or anything, but I start nudging Elliot and saying things like:

You see all these white people?
Dude, you are so handsome.
Man, ain't nobody here who knows how to dance.


Most of my nights out bar-hoppin' end up with me talking to some random dude from Pamplona about Philadelphia:

Philly is the best place for music, man.
New York City isn't at all like Philly.
I'm not really from Philly.


In general, I get emotional when I drink. Whether it's feelin' on top of the world, or lonely as hell, it gets real. Can't wait to share a beer with y'all on the other side. For now, I'll just keep on clinking glasses with the Pamplona folk.

How I miss the American drinks on the table...
This is the impression I give Spaniards as an ambassador to the free world.