Where has the summer gone . . .?

My time in Madrid is coming to a close. This is the last week for the graduate program in international education. I've been really fortunate to meet some great people from all over the world, not only in my class but from the other programs as well. It's really an eye opener to hear about the conditions in different countries and schools from Asia to South America.

In my cohort alone, there are teachers from Hong Kong, Tokyo, Hawaii, Cyprus, Uzbekistan, Morocco, and Barcelona. Nine teachers who are all on the path toward achieving the same goal, but coming from vastly different worlds. It is also female dominated as there is only one other male among the 9 students. This makes for a different atmosphere when we go for tapas and drinks after a long day of study. I'm usually the lone male since the other guy in the cohort is a self-professed workaholic. I take a more relaxed approach to learning as I try to get my academic goals accomplished while soaking up the culture and energy of Madrid.

Luiza has joined me for my last 2 weeks in this sun-drenched country. While I'm toiling away in the classroom, she heads to the public pool a couple metro stops away from the apartment I'm renting from a teacher at the American School of Madrid. When I haven't been writing papers or reflecting on what I've learned in class that day, we've taken in the sites in the city and the surrounding countryside.

Highlights so far have included a rather gruesome bull fight. You never get an "appreciation" for how barbaric the sport can be by watching some video clip on the Travel Channel or seeing some picture in a guidebook accompanied by a breathlessly romantic capsule describing the pageantry and elegance of the toreador as he skillfully dispatches his quarry. What they fail to show is that there is not just one but a whole platoon of bullfighters working on the unenviable task of disorienting and slaughtering these powerful beasts.

I will never be mistaken for an animal rights activist as I devour a juicy steak or reel in a tasty walleye. But I must say I felt pretty sorry for the bull as he was repeatedly stabbed between the shoulders by razor-barbed sticks. But the real gore is at the conclusion of the fight when the toreador plunges a three-foot long sword into the bull's back. It might require more than one bloodletting to bring the fight to an end. At this stage, the crowd was eerily silent. I think the bullfight we attended must have been predominantly tourists. To make a long story short, bull keels over and dies, carcass hooked up to a team of horses and then dragged out of the arena. Bring on the next bull . . .

The second weekend I was here, the girls and I decided to attend the Pride Parade. Yes, the Gay Pride Parade. Everybody was letting there freak flag fly, so to speak, as we saw everything from drag queens walking on impossibly tall heels to a convoy of mobile dance floors moving up Gran Via, the main avenue of Madrid. I would have to say that the truck that elicited the most hoots and hollers belonged to the "bears". This would be a tribe of gay men know for both their size and thick coat of fur.



Well, this is all for now. I know that this entry has been sitting here waiting to be published and one of my more ardent readers has been requesting some new material, so here you go Auntie Lori! More to come soon . . . sorry for the delay, but hey, it is still summer after all.