Making judgments about judgers

How often do you attribute your behavior to your background? Are you loud because you're Italian? A good dancer because you're Black? Cultured because you're French? Drunk because you're Irish?

What about the not-so-positive things? Are you lazy because you're Spanish? Selfish because you're American? Bullheaded because you're Australian? Shy because you're Korean?

In my opinion, I was brought up with the rise of political correctness. I grew up in a house where potentially offensive jokes were made, and often. But I went to a school where we learned to avoid generalizations and stereotypes (of white people anyway). Making judgments across the board was bad, and still is.

But when you're sitting at the dinner table with people from all over (Columbia, Sweden, Turkey, US, Spain, Germany), generalizations are practically unavoidable. We don't judge, necessarily, but maybe we make statements like "You are that way and I am this way because you're from there and I'm from here." And then maybe you laugh if it's funny, or keep talking if it's not.

Perhaps it is because we are in a diverse environment that we feel comfortable pointing out our differences. We can talk about skin color, eye shape, and language without offending each other. And we don't ever intend to offend.

I can't help but wonder, does this only happen when you travel?


An example: people here keep telling me how mannerly and hospitable latinos are compared to Spaniards. The generalization can range from something like "They'll always invite you to a drink or a meal" to "They don't know how to say no." It doesn't seem so bad though, because Spaniards aren't afraid to say it in front of latinos, and the latter don't seem offended. So no harm, no foul, right?


Another example: people here tend to stereotype the population of young people studying abroad in Spain. These kids are often characterized by poor Spanish-speaking skills, lots of drinking, and white socks with cargo shorts. They're seen as naive and vulnerable, but also great party-mates. These abroad-ers are privileged, for sure. But does that mean they warrant generalizations?


A final example: friends here always say the people of Pamplona are very guarded, so it's difficult to get to know someone. The population of Pamplona is described as closed-off, suspicious, and maybe even stubborn. I always want to argue, because I've met many great people from Pamplona. Then again, they seem to be people that have traveled. 


I don't think this phenomenon is limited to transient circumstances. I think it has become more apparent to me because I'm often in culturally/ethnically/linguistically diverse environments. Most of the time, I don't think twice about it, because my friends never have bad intentions when they make certain speculations about differences between people. But...I was always told you can't do that. You can't take one example, and generalize it to a whole sect of people.


Maybe it's because I am the one that's self-conscious of being stereotyped. I hate to think that there are people in this very city who dislike me because of my background. But shit, who complains about being stereotyped as an American? I feel like a fuckin' chump whining about how people might pin me as fat, stupid, and cruel -- because I'm not, duh. The thing is, though, I tend to talk a lot in conversations. And halfway through, I realize that I'm talking a lot. I think, is that because I'm American and I feel I should dominate conversations, or is that because I'm me? Hard to tell. So I shut up so they don't think I'm just another big loudmouth.


There are times, though, where I can't let a generalization slide. Maybe it's coming from an unexperienced mouth, or a vindictive soul. So I take the opposite stance, even if I think part of what the person is saying might be true, just because I don't think they know enough to make the conclusion they're making. Is that pretentious of me? Perhaps. I guess it's just the way I try to mediate my own generalization tendencies as well as my need for fairness and accuracy.

An good example of this, I think, would be this guy. Although I don't prefer to give him publicity, because he's just another businessman, that blog post made me think.

Well, first it made me indignant. He could've met a completely different world of people and had a very different outlook. He acknowledges this, and yet continues to generalize Americans as sensitive, overly positive, religious, etc.

The thing is, though, I agree with a lot of things he says, because I've met a lot of people similar to those he describes.

However, I'd be willing to argue to the death with him --not in an effort to defend my country or any bullshit like that-- but because I grew up in that country, and I think I know it better. I will not leave Spain after a year, and draft a list of reasons why it sucks. One year spent traveling or living in a country does not represent the experience of a childhood, a family, or imprisonment in that country. Ya dig?

Anyway, enough rambling from me. Stay tuned for some posts about neighborhood celebrations, American bands in Barcelona, and semi-annual updates on teaching English.

Nothin' to write home about

When I wake up, I have to climb over Elliot's huge (to me) sleepy body because my side of the bed is against the wall. I suppose I could stand straight up and walk forward until my feet drop off the bed, but that always seems a lot harder in the morning. It's worse when he's on his side; then it's practically like jumping a hurdle.

I walk into the kitchen, rubbing my eyes, to put some water on the stove for green tea. This gives me just enough time to grab my computer, my notebook, and a pen out of the bedroom, leaving Elliot to sleep peacefully without the tick-tack-ticking of my keyboard. By then the water is at a rolling boil; the burner I use gets too hot for rice cooking, but it's perfect for a quick cup of tea.

I finally sit down in the living room with the computer open in front of me on the coffee table, my notebook and pen on my left, and a steaming mug on my right. And I work.

Because, you know, that's what people do to make money and make a living. My job might not be ideal for some -- hell it's not even ideal for me -- but it does allow me to rent an apartment here in Pamplona, pay for local/organic/artisanal food, indulge in the occasional big night out, but work less than 25 hours per week.

Well, shit if this doesn't get old, too. I'm not yet ready to come home, but work is work. And work in Spain doesn't necessarily beat work in Philadelphia or anywhere else in the US, just because it's in Spain. I've finally achieved here the routine that I've had everywhere else that I've ever lived (i.e. Greensburg and Philadelphia).

Get up. Go to work.
Leave work. Eat. Drink with your friends.
Go on a trip. Forget about work 'til Sunday.
Get up on Monday. And go to work.


Part of me is conflicted. What benefit is there to living in Spain when you work/don't make quite enough money, which prevents you from exploring everything you came here to see?

The other part of me is like "Duh doofus, you knew that when you came here."

Damn it. She's right. I came here to learn a language, not to spend all my money waltzing through Europe. I just hope family and friends aren't too bummed out to hear upon our return that we never went to Amsterdam or Paris or Berlin or anywhere cool. (You know that Spain is always at the bottom of everyone's list of places to visit in Europe. You know it.)

Anyway, the routine always sparks another tendency in me: the fantasy of something to look forward to. So, all of a sudden, in the midst of my post-college exotic getaway, I'm starting to think about my next step. Where do we go after we leave Europe?

Believe me, the "plan" changes all the time. A few stellar examples...

1. The better place where they speak Spanish. Leave Spain in December to come home for the holidays. See family, friends, and "The Hobbit." Then hop a flight to Cancun in January to stay at hammock hostels in the Yucatan for 2 months or so. Basically avoid Pennsylvania winter at all costs.

2. The place that totally contradicts the reasoning for #1. Leave Spain in December to come home for the holidays. Find an internship for Elliot in Alaska. Spend 6 months writing and learning to fish and hunt. Embrace the cold by investing in super warm socks and long underwear.

3. The place where all our friends and family live. Leave Spain in December to come home. Stay in Pennsylvania for a year at most. Work a shit ton and save up money to achieve one of the above plans, or something better. Maybe go on a bike trip because we're due.

Is it because the grass just looks greener? Or because I'm at a point in my life where settling makes me restless? I'd like to think the latter, because there are times when I really, really like it here. When I don't want to leave in December. There are also times when I think I should return to a city I know, because I miss the people and places there so much. I just think I owe it to myself to see more before I stay put anywhere.

Doesn't mean train rides through southern France don't get fucking boring. Doesn't mean living in a city with people you love doesn't get fucking old.

We move around and we change our minds. Doesn't mean we're weak or not dedicated. But yeah, it definitely means I don't know what I want.

PS. To any concerned family members, Elliot and I have not made any decisions you don't know about, so no worries. Just humor us, I guess.

Investing in a temporary home

When Elliot and I first got here, within the first 2 weeks, we had spent somewhere around $2000.

We knew we were going to buy bikes, so that $600 expense was expected. But then I saw some front/rear panniers that I liked. And for safety's sake, we had to buy locks and helmets. That all racked up another $200.

When we found a place to live, we anticipated paying the rent up front. So we shelled out $400 for January. Oh, but then there was last month's rent, too. And some compensation for the 10 days remaining in December at the time. So our first rent payment was more like $900.

On our first night in the new place, we shivered in our thin little sleeping bags, as the winter air rolled off the Pyrenees right through our old, drafty windows. It was time to get some bedding. This also proved to be very expensive as we had to buy the largest comforter Spain had to offer; another $250 with sheets.

Shit, that's only $1950. Oh wait, yeah, there were the English textbooks, the rosemary and thyme plants, the pay-as-you-go cell phones, a few pieces of furniture, and some big gourmet Navarran meals. I guess I underestimated after all.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that moving is expensive, especially when you can't bring the things you already have on the airplane with you. Of course, there are necessities: shelter, transportation, food. What's really hard is paying money for things you don't really need; rather, things that just make you feel better, more comfortable. When your home is transient, minimalism is key.

But I'm not trying to live out of a suitcase. I like putting shit out on display: postcards, pictures, Kinder egg surprises. I like being surrounded by objects, colors, and smells that make me feel at home.

And the kitchen! It's hard to tolerate a less-than-ideal kitchen: without pot holders, without a good knife, without bowls, without storage space. Sure, I could make do with what's here. But then I'm living differently than I would naturally.

Little by little, I'm investing in this place, even if I'll only be here a year. In the end, I can bring some things home: panniers, paring knife, maybe even some bike parts. But most of it I'll give away, or leave for the next inhabitant to use. Although I'm conflicted about some of the purchases I've made, I'm more comfortable here now than I was in the beginning.

BEFORE

AFTER

As I said before, the kitchen is important to me. Adding some orange color while keeping the unavoidable fluorescent lighting helped energize this room a bit (i.e. less hospital-like). Also, what you don't see is that I scrubbed the awful grease stains off the wall and ceiling, and also sealed the gap between the counter and tile to avoid mold growth. Workin' woman I am!

BEFORE

AFTER

I never realized how important a table was to me until I lived four months without one. We used to eat at the tiny counter in the kitchen or in front of the TV. Now I don't feel so embarrassed about inviting people over for dinner. In fact, we're thinking of starting a cards night.

Adding some color and decorations (home-made masks by roomie) and arranging a common bookshelf complete with knickknacks has made this room functional and comfortable, whereas it used to just be, well, the entryway.

BEFORE

AFTER

Again, color can change everything. And all this paint was paid for by the landlord (woo!).

BEFORE

AFTER

We decided not to paint our room, but I did move some furniture around to open it up a little bit. Handywoman Sarah also fixed the armoire on the right that was causing us so much trouble (the back panel had fallen off and so the sides would bow out causing the shelves and our clothes to fall all the time).

BEFORE

AFTER

Pow! New shower curtain, and a shelf made from an Ikea CD case, painted orange -- makes all the difference.

Maybe there were some unnecessary changes, but like I said, I don't want to live minimally. Most of these things were second-hand, and none of them will be thrown away in the end.

Of course the Metallica clock is stupid, but with one battery, it works! And now I don't have to
buy another clock.

I was just using dish rags to avoid burning myself, but these pot holders allow me to hold
something for more than 3 seconds.

When I saw the same incense holder I had in high school, I had to get it. Plus our hallway stinks
like shit all the time.

Sometimes I think it will be quite a while before I live anywhere for more than a year or two. But that shouldn't mean that my homes look less like homes, or that they function without a solid cutting board. I feel compelled to make where I live more comfortable, because I'm a homebody and I spend a lot of time...at home.

It's just that dumb minimalist sustainability nut on my shoulder that's telling me how much of an impact traveling can have as far as consumption goes. Stupid hippy.

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?

It's tourist -- I mean cider season!

We came here to see the real thing. We aren't interested in spending a lot of money for sight-seeing, swanky hotels, and guided tours. We came here to meet locals, eat their food, and wander off the beaten path. We're not tourists, we're travelers.

That's what I said -- or maybe you said that -- actually I think it was a kid from my high school -- maybe some random blogger on the internet? I guess it doesn't matter.

What does matter is that this kind of trip doesn't really exist. Try as we might, Elliot and I will not leave Spain knowing how the people here live. Mostly because we have no foundation here: no family, no friends from childhood, no tradition. And yet we consistently attempt to throw ourselves into the lives of others. Not rudely, of course -- we always wait for an invite. But we'll gladly join your dinner on Christmas Eve or your housewarming party. We genuinely want to learn your traditions.

Take a cidery, for example. This kind of establishment is a major part of basque culture, and highly visible throughout this region. Elliot and I have already been to a "cidery" in Pamplona a couple times. It was less a place of production, and more a restaurant. But we loved the style of having a meal at a sidrería.

Elliot standing in front of the cidery in Astigarraga.

They start you off with some chorizo a la sidra, which consists of some delicious sausage cooked in cider. Then you move onto your second course: pimientos piquillos (closely related to roasted red peppers) and a tortilla de bacalao, which is what we Americans would recognize as a big ol' fish omelet. Next, your main course: txuleton (pronounced chu-le-TON), which is a briefly cooked slab of steak from near the cow's ribs or spine. Finally, dessert. And all the while, you're drinking as much cider as you can stand from a tap in the wall. When you leave, you pay a flat rate per person (usually in the ballpark of $35-40).

Halfway through the txuleton; as you can see it's served pretty pink on the inside.

Cheese, jam, and walnuts for dessert. At this point, I wasn't super hungry.

Our experience in Pamplona was great: food, drink, and atmosphere all added to our enjoyment of the place. But when you get right down to it, that place just ain't a cidery. It's a restaurant. So off to San Sebastian we went this past weekend.

View of San Sebastian from a hillside. During July and August, that beach is swarming.

An aside: A few weeks ago, when we were planning a sort of get-away, we considered Paris. After all, it would be the weekend before Valentine's Day, and I had never been. We quickly realized the great expense involved in getting there (let alone staying there), and thus settled on a spot a little closer to Pamplona. That was San Sebastian: 20 km away from the French border, but only an hour away from Pamplona by bus!

We stayed at Hotel Parma, right where the river meets the ocean. And boy did we have a view!

San Sebastian (or Donosti as it's called in basque) is an awesome little seaside town in Northern Spain, on the coast of the Baltic Sea. It's also a lot more basque than Pamplona, so you see and hear the language everywhere. Our plan was to arrive, eat, drink, and sleep on a hotel bed in a room with heat. We also wanted to check out the city's aquarium, and do some walking along the coast. Talk about a tourist adventure!

All the signs in the aquarium were in four langauges: Basque, Spanish, French, & English.

That green thing is a little shark egg, and that shadow inside is a little baby shark!

On the previous Thursday, we mentioned to a friend that we would be staying in San Sebastian that weekend. And to our surprise, he said: "Well, hey! My girl and I are going to be in Donosti, too! And we also want to go to a cidery!" (Notice: dialogue not a direct translation, nor even a real memory of what was said)

Sure enough, as soon as we got of the bus, our friends were on their way to pick us up and take us out into the country to visit a real, authentic cidery in the mountains. Elliot and I shouted "Ye haw!" and we set out to fill our bellies with food and bubbly ferments.

Find the apple!

To avoid redundancy, I'll just say the menu was pretty much the same. The portions were a little bigger, and the food tasted a little better, but we knew what to expect.

It's like a kegger, except with cider...and way better food.

The atmosphere, though -- totally different. There we were, in this big hall with eight or nine huge cider tanks (some were metal, and some were wooden barrels). Everyone ate at great long wooden tables, communal style; and no one sat down, for two reasons.

1. It was cold as shit. I'm saying the temperature inside was equal to the temperature outside (even in the bathrooms!) and so everyone was standing to eat, wiggling their hips and doin' the little cold pants dance.

2. We were at a cidery. And there's a method to drinkin' the stuff. It involves filling up your glass at an angle to produce more carbonation, and only filling up your glass a little so you can drink what's in it before the bubbles disappear. If you don't make it to the bottom of your glass before your cider goes flat, you pitch the remains in one of the various buckets positioned in front of the tanks. Thus, if you want to drink a lot of cider, you kinda gotta stand around the barrel.

Awesome action shot showing how you have to catch the cider in your cup from a distance.
No kidding! Had to use the "sports" setting on my camera.

In Pamplona, we only had one cider tap to choose from. In the little village of Astigarraga we had several, and they all had different tastes. Some were noticeably more sour or sweet, some were strong, some were bitter. They all used the same apples, but little things can affect the way a ferment turns out. So you end up with several different ciders. As we drank more, we started to notice which tanks the guests (including ourselves) preferred.

That's one of the many cider barrels to the left, and an old but very functional apple press on the right.

I'd like to think we were among village natives, or at the very least people from Donosti. But alas, we were not the only out-of-towners. Knowledge of the cidery tradition is spreading, and the region where cider is often made gains more tourists every year from neighboring cities, and even neighboring countries (like France). Our friends were explaining that many people have even started arranging tour buses that struggle up and down mountain sides to transport people to these village establishments. Elliot and I aren't the only foreigners that love a good meal and endless booze.

While I can certainly acknowledge that our weekend get-away would have been largely different had we not gotten a lift from friends outside the city, it's hard to ignore my own role as a naive tourist. Even when you think you may have found a hole-in-the-wall, a secret place that has preserved its tradition and authenticity, chances are it isn't what it seems. It only takes one person to post something on the internet (as I do now) to let the cat outta the bag.

Sometimes I think this situation in Europe is far more advanced than in other continents, mostly because everyone wants to travel in Europe -- even Europeans. People are enchanted with the old and traditional. They marvel at the little villages, the stone houses, maybe even the clothes hanging outside a window to dry. It seems like you have a better chance of escaping tourist exploitation in the US -- but maybe I just think that because I'm American. After all, I know more people, more places.

I suppose you could even compare the cideries in basque country to the vineyards in California. Eating in cideries was once a tradition for the basque people to decide what bottles they were going to take home for the year. Similarly, wine tasting rooms were a way for people to get to know grape-growers and wine-makers, as well as their products. Now both are tourist destinations for natives and foreigners alike.

Me, me, me! Hammin' it up like a tourist should. That's San Sebastian's port behind me.

I can't say tourism is bad -- I'm a tourist. But what's too much? When is authenticity lost?

Selling myself short

We were barely two weeks into our new lives in Spain, but we already had appointments with prospective students and even more calling. Elliot answered the call from Liliana, but handed the phone to me as she expressed interest in classes for her two sons, ages 14 and 19. We had decided that I would teach the younger learners; and I felt more comfortable with kids. It was still difficult for me to talk on the phone, so I tried to keep the conversation short. With the air of an experienced babysitter, and perhaps a hint of arrogance, I was on my bike to their apartment the next morning.

Liliana buzzed me into the building and greeted me at the door with a baby on her hip.

"Hola, ¿como estás?" I said, trying to make small talk while I looked for a place to put down my helmet and my bag. It had been raining, so I apologized for dripping everywhere. She smiled at me revealing two silver front teeth.

"Somos de Perú," she said, adding that her sons had only been in Spain for four years. Each had some language training, but they hadn't really retained anything. And it turned out that the baby on her hip was her nephew; his father was also living in the apartment.

After meeting the boys briefly, and talking more with their mother about what kind of class they would prefer, we started discussing price. Elliot and I have a sliding scale rate of 10€ to 15€ per hour for our classes, depending on how much preparation we have to do outside of the class. These boys already had textbooks, so Liliana and I figured not much more would be needed. I settled, then, at 10€ per hour. She wanted two hours a week for each of them, so I left thinking I had done right by this family, and I had added 40€ to our weekly income.


My first class with the older teen was just a few days later. I found their place a little easier this time, so I arrived a few minutes early. It was one of the boys who buzzed me up this time, but the mother still greeted me at the door. A few words into our small talk and I realized she was saying something more than hello, how are you. There was a problem with the price.


Suddenly, I felt like she was speaking very quickly. She wanted me to lower the price, that much was clear. She had spoken to other people who said they've heard of teachers charging less. She wanted to pay 35€ instead of 40€.


I tried to explain that the rate I charged was for my time and experience, that Elliot and I were partners and we decided on a minimum rate of 10€ per hour. After all, we had read that most teachers charged a minimum of 15€ per hour. I felt like we were already giving her a deal. No one else had disputed price before. Why did I have to sell myself to her for five more euros?


I gave into her discounted price at first, because I was already there to teach a class, and I wanted to avoid any further confrontation. So I taught the class, all the while thinking anxiously about what had just happened. By the time two hours had passed, I had decided to talk about it later with Elliot. If he thought it was too little, I would call Liliana and explain that we couldn't accommodate her situation. At this point, I definitely preferred talking to her on the phone rather than to her face. 


Once we finished, she came back into the living room with a 50€ bill. I was confused again.


"Lo siento, igual no te he entendido." I felt like an amateur. Dumb. Maybe even crazy. And she seemed a little frustrated. Why wasn't I getting this?


I thought she wanted to pay 35€ per week for two classes, each two hours long. But she thought I expected that price for each class, thus amounting to 70€ per week. Ah, what a great misunderstanding! I was so glad to tell her I didn't expect to earn nearly as much as she thought. I couldn't stop smiling, anticipating that this weird tension would evaporate. We both laughed, me nervously and her somewhat skeptically, but I left feeling better.


The weird tension didn't really go away, though. I realized over the next few weeks that these boys didn't know a whole lot. Each of them had important exams within the month, so we just had to hit the books to cover as much material as possible. And the books sucked. These kids relied heavily on dictionaries and internet translations, which made conversation nearly impossible. Let's just say it's a good thing I spoke Spanish; otherwise the classes may have crashed and burned. 


Plus I was feeling a lot of pressure from their mother. Every week she would ask me how they were doing, if they were advancing. I was hesitant to say yes, because they weren't. But how could I say no -- we had only been working together for a few weeks.


When the exams were approaching, I started to wonder what our classes could be like afterward. I could design my own lesson plans, teach at a more appropriate pace, and maybe even get these boys to enjoy the classes! There was a catch, however. In order for me to do this comfortably, I would have to ask for a little more money. But I felt like money was what had made this relationship weird in the first place.


Biking to their apartment one day, I rehearsed the conversation in my head. At the end of that class, I asked to speak with her. I kept my speech tempo up, to get in as much as possible before she could interrupt. I tried to remain open by making these more formal classes seem like just another option. But at the same time, I emphasized that the books alone don't do a great job of explaining and elaborating certain topics.


She seemed interested, but she still continued to ask why I would want five euros more per class. Sure, I wanted to say, it's only five euros more. But maybe she was thinking that's 20 more per month. So I stood there, and sold myself again. Well, I explained, I have to prepare these extra materials outside of class, and this takes time. She understood, and conceded.


But it just seemed so reluctant. Of course I expected her teenage sons to be a little resistant, but not her. I didn't want her to think that I was teaching classes purely for monetary gain, and at the same time I could not trivialize my own work ethic. 


I'm proud of myself, because I've never asked for a raise before. I didn't think I would feel so conflicted afterward, though.  

Tales from Manayunk

... or Manayunk puts the "hilly" in "Philly"
... or A fuckin' good day
... or Delayed update post


Whatever you'd like to call this post, it's about to get real.

August 7: Friends came over to celebrate leaving our house, as well as take some of our shit. To those of you who stopped by to bid your farewell and swipe a few things, I thank you. It was a delight.

August 10-11: Father and younger brother arrive to help us move out of 3712 Brandywine -- which proved to be an awful task. We were able to donate a lot of furniture, clothing, and housewares to AIDS Thrift and residents on our block. I am most grateful to the family down the street who took the organ. The curse has now been passed.

August 12-14: Elliot and I spent the weekend in Wheeling, WV with his parents to enjoy three days of their annual BluesFest. I can now say I've experienced 27 cumulative hours of the blues, as well as some new thoughts about age, race, and gender. I also got a straw hat and a sweet wrist bracelet tan line.

August 15: Elliot and I hightail it back to Philly around midnight, approximately 1.5 hours after the last Blues Fest band to beat the garbage truck so we could finally get rid of this busted and moldy futon in our basement. That was five hours of too much coffee, Gardettos, and lots of music to which we could sing along (The Killers, RATM, Silversun Pickups, etc). We successfully stayed awake to finish cleaning the house and leave for good.

August 16-19: The worst first week we could have had for our longer commute from Yunktown. Torrential downpour, but only when we were outside! Anyway, it was fun to bike together, soaking wet and singing made up songs about the weather. Like this one...

It's fuh-king -- ray-ning
It's fuh-king -- ray-ning
It's fucking ----- raining
It's fucking ----- raining


But all of that hubbub finally brought me to TODAY! One of the best days I've had in weeks, and I was all alone. First, I woke up at 11:30. And not because I went to bed at 3, but rather because I needed 12 hours of sleep.

Then I researched some key locations to visit in Yunkersville.

Map of Yunkshire; come visit sometime.

I went to the Chop Shop, a cheap chain salon, because I left my clippers packed up at my parent's house. I appreciated the hair dresser's honesty when she told me, in so many words, that I did a shitty job of cutting my own hair. Now my hair has texture, like a stucco wall or some really coarse sandpaper.

Then I ventured to the Weaver's Way Co-op storefront on Carpenter Lane, where I bought some food and marveled at the intersection where the market was located. A food co-op, "green" dry-cleaner, trendy cafe, and bookstore -- all at the same intersection. This led to a lot of thinking which now leads to a story within a story:

Pennsylvania Ave. in Greensburg, PA via jmd41280

This kind of neighborhood makes me think of Pennsylvania Ave. in Greensburg because of the great assortment of shops. Independent businesses are wonderful not only because you can shake hands with the owners, but also because they demonstrate the needs of an area. I appreciate these kinds of intersections because it sort of illustrates the people who live there.


However, the automobile makes neighborhoods like these accessible for those who don't live there; which can also prevent the development of similar intersections in areas that need them. That's why I had to bike 3 miles to get to Weaver's Way. And why most of the people I saw in these shops were white. Not to say that white people don't live in Mt. Airy, Manayunk, or Roxborough, but these areas also have an equal if not greater black population. Thus these intersections are not so accessible for some. 


And they cater to awful people who talk very loudly and explain to their granddaughters that they want to add red peppers to a recipe "for some color" and make pretentious book suggestions to other customers and shove me aside without saying excuse me. But I won't hold this against the co-op.


This all culminated in my decision to write down what my perfect settling place would include, but that's for another entry -- and possibly even another planet.


After that trip, I did some laundry down the street at a self-serve place called the Wissahickon Washaus. No one was there but some security cameras, and that was fine as I read my book from the library.

Finally bought a six-pack at a pub down the street and made a place on the side porch (a real-live porch!) with some cheese and crackers to write this blog for y'all.

I very much enjoyed my day in Manayunk today. Exploring is great. Still can't believe this whole other world resides in the city I've been living in for four years. Now I know how they fit over five million people in this place.

Philadelphia, man. Dig it.

Leaving Mantua

Most of the people I know living in Philadelphia have dealt with some kind of tension, either in their own neighborhoods, or in others to which they've visited.

Jumped in West Kensington
Pistol-whipped in Olney
Heckled in Francisville
Beaten in Center City
Punched in Fishtown
Cat-called in Point Breeze
Robbed on the Broad Street Line

For the most part, we all have something in common: we're kind of poor but not really poor. So we can afford to live on the edge -- that which lies between a more contentious area and one that is more, say, white.

Mantua, Philadelphia (via photographyclubcolumbia)

My edge is Brandywine Street. Technically in Mantua, but five steps away from Powelton Village where college kids have crept into the 150-year-old neighborhood over the last decade or so.

I feel safe on my block. It's usually quiet, except when the dude a few houses down blares his car stereo (old and new R&B that I don't really mind). No one has ever made me feel uneasy. Some neighbors have even expressed their enjoyment -- not annoyance -- of weekly band practices held in our living room.

But I wouldn't say that I feel completely comfortable in Mantua.

1. I avoid Haverford Avenue on my ride home, even though it technically represents a quicker route from the Spring Garden bridge. I take Hamilton Avenue instead because it's less likely that people are on the sidewalks or out in the street. Even more unlikely that people on the street are going to fuck with someone on a bike. Hamilton is lined with big, old houses with iron fences, English ivy, Christmas lights, and porches. Once you get past 34th Street, Haverford consists mainly of empty lots, boarded windows, and a sketchy pizza place. When my family was visiting a couple years ago, I told them to use Hamilton even if the GPS suggested to use Haverford. I wasn't necessarily worried about them being fucked with, but I figured they would have a better impression of my neighborhood if they got to my house via Hamilton. Anyway, they decided to go against my directions to see what the fuss was about and the first thing my 14-year-old brother said when he came through the door was "I think we just saw a drug deal."

2. I never made a decent effort to know my neighbors. Sure, I recognize most of them, but there's never more than a hello and a wave when we cross paths. During block parties, I hung out on the stoop for a hot minute, but never crossed the street to drink a beer with the dudes that grill all the time. Interestingly, I never got to know the other white college kids on the block either. Never really saw them outside. A kind of collective agoraphobia. There is a grass lot on our street, about the size of two rowhouses. Perfect for an urban garden -- sun, space, and proximity. I thought about this project, and the best/fairest way to go about it. Should I start it on my own, or get the support of other families on the block? Should we share a communal garden, or have individual plots? Should I push for organic and sustainable methods of gardening that I've only read about, or let everyone do their own thing? The final question I asked myself was, Should I even be the one to do this? I decided I shouldn't be. After all, I was one of the newest tenants on the block. It'd be pretty white of me to move in, not talk to anyone, stick a shovel in the ground, and start making "recommendations." So the lot remains empty.

3. I didn't plan to be here long. I moved to Philadelphia for school. I moved to Mantua because it was convenient, cheap, and relatively safe. Always wanted to live off of Baltimore Ave. (see previous post). Lately, I've been all too eager to leave. I never felt like a Mantua resident to begin with. No investment in this house or this street. Gave up on living in the city.

So in the next two weeks, I'm leaving this neighborhood. I'll be living in Manayunk for a few weeks (stay tuned!) and then moving back to the childhood comfort of Greensburg.

I realize that I am in a privileged position, to come and go as I please. On one hand, I feel like an intruder living in a neighborhood where I don't have any roots; on the other, I feel sheltered and naive living where I feel too comfortable. And as a traveler, I'm an outsider anywhere.

I don't have any conclusions. But I do have some advice: visit as much of Philly as you can (or substitute Philly with wherever you live). While I wasn't completely comfortable here, I feel confident in saying I've lived here because I know where things are, and I know what places look like.

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