Wednesday, September 29: I go to the Bozeman airport (again) and actually get on the plane this time, which whisks me away to Salt Lake, where I have a comfortable layover before popping on over to Paris, where I arrive Thursday morning.
Thursday, September 30: I navigate through the bowels of Charles de Gaulle to find my baggage, only to find that my bags have been checked all the way through to Madrid but I still need to march through the crowd of customs officers who seem to be stopping people at random, and they stopped me although I was baggage-less. I arrive in Spain (YES!) and go through the same random check, except this time they just asked where I was coming from, and when I said “Estados Unidos” they let me go without checking my passport or anything. I tell you, I’m not sure what the point of all those security officers is, if they’re just supposed to stand around and only look at bags of non-white people. Along those lines, while I was waiting for my next flight out of Madrid (which ended up being delayed for 3 hours) I was watching a man at a baggage scanning machine before the bags were put on our airplane. He was not even facing the machine, but instead was staring off into the sunset as bag after bag went through the machine behind him. Ah, well—guess all the terrorists were on vacation. Or they were all headed off to vacation on Mallorca, and didn’t feel like blowing anything up on the outbound leg. Perhaps I should put in a security suggestion for the return leg, just in case.
When we were landing in Palma, I turned to the woman next to me and explained that I’d never been to Palma before, and how much should a taxi cost from the airport into the city? I was thinking about Quito, where you have to barter with the taxistas, and if you don’t know what you’re doing you could end up paying $7 or $8 for a taxi ride that should only cost $4, or $3 if you live in the northern part of Quito. I wasn’t about to get ripped off here! Once I got out of the terminal with luggage in hand, however, it turned out that I needn’t have worried. There was a clearly-marked line for people who wanted taxis, and there was a man waiting at the end to direct you into a certain taxi (no clamoring taxistas! No “señorita-linda-taxi-bonita-taxi-taxi-taxi!”) and then when I asked the taxista if she had a taxi meter, she stared at me as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and said, “Of course!” and all I could think was, “TOTO, WE ARE NOT IN ECUADOR ANY MORE!!!”
I am now (11PM) cozily ensconced in a spanking clean hostel that has free Wi-Fi, or “wee-fee” as said by the gentleman at the front desk, and I’m going to get up bright and early tomorrow, find LOTS of coffee to combat jet lag, and wander around until 9, when I have an orientation for the teaching-assistantship program. S’aventura ha començat! Jo estic llista a estimar a Espanya.
Friday, October 1: This morning, I met all of the other auxiliares de conversación. I got up a little late, so I rushed through the streets of Palma (already a balmy 70ºF at 8am) and took a few wrong twists and turns, but as soon as I saw an ENORMOUS group of Americans (I have to say that it is easier to spot an American than any other nationality--we stand out like a sore thumb, I guess) I knew I had come to the right spot. After the orientation, one girl showed up late and bounded into the courtyard where we were having lunch, and bellowed, "Y'all Americans? God, all I heard was Spanish, and I didn't know if you were my people or not! Super! I just flew into Muh-LOR-kuh this morning!" (For all you curious Americans, the island is pronounced "mah-YOR-kah".)
The entire orientation was in Spanish, and the first presentation on the technicalities of the Spanish education system lasted for over an hour. I was so happy I could sing (on the inside)! We got so much great info, all presented by a guy with a wonderfully thick accent talking at top speed, that my brain cells felt bigger and smarter just from listening to him. Apparently, obligatory education ends at 16 in Spain, and after that you can either go to a "middle-grade" vo-tech school or you can get your Bachelor's degree (the equivalent of our first two years of basic classes in college), both of which last for 2 years. After that, when you're 18, you can go from either school into a "superior-grade" vo-tech school, or from the Bachelor's degree place to a university and get a Master's and/or a Doctorate. You can choose to end your schooling at any stage, depending on what sort of career you want--but unfortunately, in the Balearic Islands almost 40% of the students choose to leave school BEFORE they turn 16.
After the orientation, I wandered through old town Palma, which looks almost identical to the historical center of Quito. Quito was founded by the Spanish in the 1500s; Palma was founded originally by the Romans, then settled by the Muslims, then conquered by the Christians in the 13th Century. Both were spruced up in the last decade or so. One story from the streets of Palma before I close out: a little boy, who had to be less than 3 years old, tripped and fell on his hands. He expressed himself loudly and clearly, carefully pronouncing each syllable, "Maldito sea!" ("Damn it!")
Now that it's past 7pm there are free tapas in the café across the plaza, so bona nit! Fins demà.
my first spanish breakfast: café americano, zumo de naranja, cruasán
hahaha Jen, your airport security experience was very similar to mine once in Libya! A security person wanted to go through one of my dad's bags (a box full of car parts) and my dad talked his way out of it (he told him it would be too much of a headache).
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