Mi Horario Loco

Since I started my last post complaining about the weather, I feel it would be appropriate to do so again.  Although the sun has thankfully been a permanent fixture since its triumphant comeback after the nasty rainy spell, the temperature has dropped considerably. This in itself is not unreasonable – it is late October, after all – but the reality is the temperature just can’t make its mind up! The mornings are very chilly. I’m talking gloves, scarf, coat, see-your-breath weather. It makes getting out of bed even more difficult than usual, as my feet just don’t want to make contact with that icy tiled floor in my bedroom.

The evenings too can feel fairly Baltic, particularly in my bedroom which doesn’t enjoy the advantage of the sun during the day. In the middle of the day, however, it’s as if the sun suddenly remembers what it’s there for and thinks ‘Oh, I’m a big ball of fire – maybe I should start acting like one!’ The temperature soars and you begin to feel a bit foolish (not to mention as though you’re cooking alive) wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy in all your winter woollens, with just your eyes and nose poking out. Gloves and scarves are discarded, layers are shed, and finally your body temperature is restored to normal... until the evening, when Mr Sunshine gives up the ghost and that frosty feeling creeps back in.

So far we’ve been martyrs in our gallant quest to keep the heating off (to save the planet but also, I’ll admit, to save the pennies), but I don’t know how much longer I can last. If it gets any more difficult for me to get out of bed, I run the risk of just staying there all day with the duvet pulled up to my chin until eventually I get fired and have to go home with my tail between my legs. Which would be unfortunate, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Anyhow, enough about the weather – three paragraphs is a tad excessive but I am, after all, British, and talking about the weather is what we do best.

Last weekend was great. Hugh arrived in Cuenca late Saturday afternoon, despite a series of ordeals for which the French can be held accountable: thanks to their incessant striking, the air traffic was all messed up so his plane was delayed by over an hour, causing him very nearly to miss his coach to Cuenca.

On Saturday night, we felt we’d earned a good stiff drink or six, so I took him to Calle San Francisco where we indulged in some good old-fashioned bar-hopping to take full advantage of the free tapas. Later on, our bellies full and our heads slightly warm and fuzzy, we hiked up the hill to the old town to meet up with Natira, Beatriz, Pedro (whose birthday it was) and some of their friends. Soon after, we went to La Calle, Cuenca’s very own street of bars and clubs. I was delighted to have finally found the heart of the city’s nightlife, and even more so to be able to witness botellón in the nearby Plaza España. For those who are unfamiliar with the term, botellón is a Spanish tradition whereby young people all over the country gather in public squares to drink and socialise before moving onto bars. In Spain, they’re serious party animals. Not only do they eat later (it is the norm to have lunch at 3pm and dinner at 10pm) but they party later, too. Botellón barely gets going until midnight, and it peaks at around 2am. Generally, the nightclubs don’t even open until 3am, and finally shut their doors at around 8 or sometimes even 9 o’clock in the morning.

Beatriz, Hugh, me and Natira in a pub in La Calle

As first-timers, however, Hugh and I retired at a modest 3.30am. We had been out since 9pm (and Hugh had been awake since 5am the previous day), so I think it was an admirable effort! It was a fun night out, and I particularly enjoyed chatting away to Beatriz and Pedro’s friends in very uninhibited Spanish (thanks to the alcohol, of which I may have had a tad too much). I even gave one of them my number in case he wanted private English classes, as he mentioned he wanted to learn!

Speaking of private classes, I seem to have gone a bit wild for them in the past week. Somehow I’ve ended up with six classes per week, on top of my job at San José. I know what you’re thinking – I’ve taken on too much. I agree, but it’s something I just can’t seem to help. It’s always been in my nature to cram as much into my life as possible and that, combined with my inability to say no to people is how I’ve ended up with so much on my plate. It also doesn’t help that the demand for native English speakers willing to give private classes far outweighs the number of native English speakers who are living in Cuenca. And English English (i.e. home-grown in the British isles) seems to be what Spaniards desire the most. When it comes to American English, they somewhat turn their noses up, it seems. Of course, this is not always the case – if it was, then Natira wouldn’t have any private classes, but she does.

So, as well as Marta and Jesús, I now have: Jorge and Álvaro, the sons of a teacher at San José, who take the class together; another Marta and her husband Rafael, who also take the class together (she is an English teacher and he a civil servant, and they live in a very nice flat in the up-and-coming new bit of Cuenca); and 3 other girls who I’m yet to meet – my first classes with them will be next week. Two of them are sisters and the daughters of another teacher at San José, and the third is the daughter of a neighbour of Ana’s, whose name is Consuelo (I don’t yet know her daughter’s name). When Consuelo rang me, I was in the midst of the bustling staffroom at school, and found speaking to her on the phone and understanding what she was saying very difficult indeed. I did, however, pick up on the fact that she was asking if I’d also be interested in giving classes to her friend’s daughter, which, you’ll be relieved to hear, I politely declined. Six is quite enough, thanks! A girl needs some time to herself.

Hugh charming the locals in the old town

Anyway, I digress. Back to the weekend! Sunday was lovely and sunny, so Hugh and I wandered round the old town and then went for a big 3-course lunch at around 3 o’clock, followed by a much needed siesta. He left Monday lunchtime, and it was sad to say goodbye but thanks to Ryanair, it would only be two weeks until I saw him again. That’s right – he’s back again next weekend, and this time we’re spending the weekend in Madrid.

This week at school was exhausting – teaching is stressful, especially as most of the time I don’t have a clue what I’m doing or what is expected of me. I’m more or less given free rein to do what I like with them, which may sound like a good thing, but actually I’d prefer a bit more guidance. As a 21-year-old student with no experience of teaching teenagers (or indeed, anyone) I’m not finding it so easy to just pull wonderful, stimulating, educational activities out of thin air.

On the contrary, I usually turn up without having prepared anything, hoping that the teacher will tell me what to do. In these cases, they usually just ask me to do something from the text book with the kids, while they take a back seat. It seems it doesn’t matter too much what I do as long as I’m the one doing it. As a native speaker my mere presence, it appears, is what they desire. Even if it is dull work from a text book that we’re working on, the teachers invariably ask me to lead the class and read out the instructions. I suppose it’s because they think it’s better for the students to hear English as it’s spoken by a real English person.

Having said that, I don’t feel as though I’m pulling my weight if I turn up empty-handed, and I can’t help but feel the pressure of the teachers’ expectations pushing down on me. I get the impression they want new, exciting, fun ways to teach disinterested adolescents a subject that the majority of them don’t really care about, and that they think I’m the person to deliver it. Well, sorry guys, but I’m out of my depth. I’ll try, but if it all goes horribly wrong and the kids end up staring at me in disgust wondering what this weird, falsely enthusiastic English girl who’s lamely trying and failing to inject ‘fun’ into their curriculum is doing in their classroom, then DON’T BLAME ME!

Enough of the negativity and self-deprecation for now, though.  Jokes aside, I actually don’t think I’m doing too badly so far. Kids have started shouting ‘hello, Helen!’ at me in the corridors (of course I have no idea what any of their names are, but that doesn’t matter as long as I smile and say hello back), and this evening as I walked past a group of youths on my way to the cinema, I even heard my name being shouted in the street. I feel almost like a local celebrity!

The atmosphere in San José is a lovely one. Students don’t wear uniform (this is the norm in schools across Spain) and teachers dress casually, thus creating an altogether more relaxed and amiable feeling. Many of the teachers – I’m thinking particularly of Ana – have a rapport with their students that you rarely see in British schools. There is mutual respect, which is nice to see. Of course, it’s not perfect – the one fatal flaw of all this happy-go-luckiness is the lack of discipline. When students get rowdy, the teachers’ approach tends to be to ‘ssshh’ a bit and then make excuses for them (‘Oh, they’re hungry’ or ‘It’s the end of the day – they’re tired, poor things’) when personally all I want to do is to yell at them to shut up and stop talking while I’m talking because it’s rude. As an assistant and a young one at that – I’m only about 4 or 5 years older than most of my students – I have neither the authority nor the gall to discipline them, so instead I patiently persevere and leave the behaviour side of things for the teacher to deal with (or overlook, as the case may be).

Next week, I’m going to attempt to teach my classes about Halloween (you know, because it’s such a traditional English celebration... all the way from America). I haven’t got very far with planning how I’m going to go about that, but I’m told repeatedly that the most important thing is to get the students talking, which is no mean feat. Some of them would rather be doused in honey and fed to the bees than answer me in English when I ask them how their weekend was. Speaking English is just, like, so not cool. Having said that, I do have some lovely classes and as much as I grumble, none of them are really all that bad. One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learnt is that instead of asking for volunteers to answer questions, I’ll save myself time and embarrassment by just picking on people. Ruthless, yes; effective, yes!

Last night I went out with Natira and Jaclyn (the other American assistant who’s living in Cuenca) for drinks and some lovely free tapas – a recurring theme in my blogs, I fear. Five glasses of wine in three different bars and enough free tapas to fill my belly for the night set me back less than 10 euros. I love this place!

Tonight, Natira, Corinna and I went to see a frankly shocking film at the cinema called Di Di Hollywood. I won’t bother giving you a synopsis (that’s what Google’s for), but let’s just say that it was borderline pornography. Not quite what I was expecting, but good for my Spanish nonetheless!

Tomorrow, Mary and Krista (two other assistants are living and working in schools in small towns outside of Cuenca – they are American and Bermudan respectively) are coming to Cuenca for the weekend, so a big night out is on the cards tomorrow evening. Bring. It. On.

¡Hasta luego!