Back to school . . .

When I thought about going back to school to receive my master's degree in education, I envisioned many a weekend spent corresponding with some faceless professor on the other side of the world about how to properly cite a magazine article with three authors in proper APA form. I was also sure that this would be a long, drawn-out process involving the analysis of didactic research intended to cause poignant self-reflection on how I could improve my pedagogy (one of my favorite educratic buzz words). What? Oh, sorry. It seems that I'm allowing the writing style required in graduate school to seep into my recreational journalism. I once again apologize for being so pedantic but I'm trying to be a bit more serious about my academics this time around.

Luckily for me, my conception of what graduate school would be like has been grossly exaggerated. As I write this, I am sitting on a terrace in sunny Madrid listening to the sounds rise up from the street below, and given how the program is structured, did not have to contend with any homework over the weekend. Life is good.
For the rest of July, I will be living in the Spanish capital, trying to knock off the rust caused by years of academic inactivity. Yes, I know that spending the summer months exploring the Lewis and Clark trail, wrestling a salmon, or touring Yellowstone are some creative ways in which I've earned continuing education credits in the past, but that experience pales in comparison to the rigor of finishing four classes in as many weeks.

The first week of class went off without too much difficulty. Well, I suppose I should mention that my instructor, a vibrant, spry man in his 70's, had a stroke on the fourth day and could not return to complete the instruction. I'm not a physician but I would guess strokes aren't treated like a vasectomy where you can slap a bag of frozen peas on it and the swelling subsides. We are all thankful that he benefited from the expertise of a gifted neurologist and is on the road to recovery. It certainly made for a memorable first week.

As for the city itself, I could certainly see myself taking a position at the American School of Madrid for a few years. The culture here is unlike any other place I've experienced in Europe. The two week beach holiday in southern Spain last summer did not really give me a full appreciation for the Spanish way of life. Being able to study in such a cosmopolitan city is truly fortuitous.


My three years of Spanish in high school is also really paying off. I was able to insult a shopkeeper in his native tongue after he tried to rip me off by not giving me back my correct change. After only a week, I think I have just as many complete Spanish sentences as Polish phrases in my linguistic arsenal. Mr. Hobbs would be proud of me. Luiza is probably not since I did pledge some time devoted to Polish this summer.

I have a couple more blog entries worth of material from this first week. But for now, it's time to go punish my gastrointestinal system with some more spicy food. Viva España! Adios! And of course, do widzenia and dziękuję to my Polish readers!

Sensitive male . . .

Yet another cruel reminder that I'm still very much a foreigner occurred to me as I was attending my weekly Polish group meeting. Today, we were listening to a dialog on CD between a couple who were on a date at a restaurant. There is more of a backstory behind this meeting, but only those who have any familiarity with the book "Polish in 4 Weeks" will have an appreciation for such ramblings. And yes dear readers, I can hear you snickering out there at the absurdity of the book's title. Anybody who has tried to learn Polish, knows that you need to be either unemployed with no other source of entertainment or preparing for your Mormon mission to come anywhere close to learning Polish in 4 months, let alone weeks.

As the Polish are fond of saying, "Whatever!". Anyway, during the dialogue, the couple are ordering dinner and, in true chivalrous fashion, the man orders for the woman. I never understood this. Wouldn't it be more polite for the man to let the woman speak for herself?

It's ironic that I've had to reverse this practice, and get in touch with my feminine side when dining out with my girlfriend, Luiza. Anybody who has come over from the states for a visit knows that my Polish is limited to taxicabs and restaurants. There is some small shred of pride in actually knowing the words for "black coffee", "red wine", and "You're going the wrong f'ing way!" To the friend or relative straight off the plane, I come off sounding like a native Polack (a politically correct term over here, by the way).

But this butchering of the language has grown tiresome for "moja dziewczyna" (my girl) and she has now taken to ordering for me at restaurants. I am trying to regain my dignity by at least ordering my own beverage, but I think she's making the point that I don't make enough of an effort to study my Polish. Point taken.

Speaking of beverages, we went down to Krakow last weekend and I ran into my dream beer on the street. I tried to get it to stand still by giving it a couple zlotys and posing for a picture, but that brewski must have sensed my thirst and took off running before I could take a sip. Oh well, I will have to make due with his little brothers until we meet again.