February 9, 2010

My language development is coming along, if only slowly. I am more readily able to communicate in real world situations outside restaurants and banks now. And strangely enough, a lot of these situations have to do with keys, for some reason. Last week I was able to communicate to our housekeeper Jacín that our front door key was no longer working but our housemate Guido’s was. (Sarah’s key has never worked, by the way.) After some physical/mechanical help from a third party (never got his name) and some rough conversation about the door jamb and knob, we all seemed to have resolved this issue for the time being. Then just last Friday, at La Inmaculada where we teach English, I was able to track down the key to a locked cabinet that contained the computer, remote controls and the CD/DVD player. Of course, I cannot take all the credit for these small victories. There were some very nice people who were willing to make an effort to help me.

With these efforts fresh in my mind, I’ve been reflecting on El Día de la Paz – the Day of Peace – recently held at La Inmaculada. This day is observed all over the world, from what I understand. All the students at the school, ages 2 through 18 gathered on the playground. When we were all settled, Principal Sister Asún read a poem and Father Javier read a short homily. Then we all, more or less, sang John Lennon’s “Imagine.” (The language level of the school as a whole is still not quite where it needs to be to understand the whole song. And Father Javier had a great sense of humor about this. They got the gist though.) Then about 100 white balloons were let go into the beautiful Spanish blue sky… half of which were quickly caught in three young and leafless trees just on the other side of the wall of the playground. We all just had to laugh. Shortly afterward, my fifth-graders asked me to read and explain the song’s lyrics, which I of course did.

Afterwards, I thought: what a great metaphor for peace efforts today.

Start with good-hearted and peace-based reflections that at least one person cannot fully understand on a basic language level (me) and still many more do not have a full understanding and appreciation of. Then move on to a song that even fewer people understand. (I know of people in the U.S. who scoff at this song and misunderstand it’s true meaning – that is, just for a minute stop thinking that you are absolutely right and have all the answers – and also have a problem with the man who wrote and sang it. Though I’m sure these same people would not have the same problems with a piece of music by Beethoven or a poem by Frost.) This is then followed by a symbol of peaceful intention that is then quickly snatched by prickly dormant things just on the other side of a wall.

Now I’ve had some people throw a reference from the Gospel in my face. Something like, “Do not supposed I came to bring peace but a sword.” And this is supposed to somehow justify their positions on violence and war. I find this both disturbing and poorly conceived. On the first Christmas the angels proclaimed “peace on Earth, good will to men,” not war and oh-well-they-had-it-coming-to-them. Pretty sure Jesus constantly spoke of turning the other cheek, blessed are the meek and the peace-makers, love your neighbor, bless your enemies… Should I keep going? All of these “crazy” attitudes, if practiced, were going to turn society on its head. People resisted these ideals and they infuriated others. They caused real social turmoil – I think that’s plain to see. So the guy who said this is advocating threats, invasion and occupation as retribution for Sept. 11^th and trade deficits? It simply does not make sense. So my response to them (if they’d ever listen to my response) would be something like, “Do not suppose I brought an actual weapon that would cause death and displacement of families, but a metaphor for deep and uncomfortable personal and social change. There is no reference to Jesus performing any act of war.”

I was very disappointed when the Obama administration decided to send 30,000 more troops to Afghanistan. It seemed out of character. And with all the talk of the deficit, why is there no talk of scaling back the tens of billions of dollars we’ve spent over there each month? For years? Maybe we could all try a little harder.

Some say that I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one…

January 10, 2010

We haven’t seen as many women crying in public in all our lives as we did in Italy. At the airport, at the Metro station, on the Metro, in restrooms, walking down the street with mascara streaming, sobbing in elevators and at historic sites. A woman who didn’t cry in public almost stood out more than one who didn’t carry a designer handbag in Rome. OK. That might be a stretch. But really, I don’t know what there is to cry about. Italy has an almost magical spell over it that takes you outside of yourself, and Sarah and I experienced more of it than we’d ever hoped.

Italy has a more refined way about it, on the whole, than Spain. The history there is a bit richer and has left a little deeper mark on our present day Western culture, what with the likes of Davinci, Dante, Michelangelo and the Roman Empire effecting nearly every corner of our lives. That’s a tall order to beat. And even more recently their filmmakers and designers hold sway over much of the world. Though Cervantes, El Greco and Almodavar have done well in Spain. For the most part, Spain is more enticing for the long-term. The Spanish are not quite as impressed with themselves as the Italians. The Spanish culture has a little more grit to it. The people are more helpful, they form lines in a more orderly fashion, and the public information is much easier to follow back in Madrid. Rome’s public transportation is rather mysterious and a lot dirtier.

In addition – and this is for all you single folks out there – Spaniards are overall a more attractive people than the Italians. (Compare Penelope Cruz with Al Pacino… Wait. Is that fair?) The Spanish are more daring in their fashion sense too. Though they sometimes fail, at least they fail grandly. (Right now I’m thinking of that lady dressed head-to-toe in purple.) I also find the Spanish language more appealing to listen to.

We believe, perhaps out of necessity, that we are happier living in Spain than we would be in Italy.

With all that said, Italy should definitely be on your list of things to see before you die. Some highlights:

The Coliseum: a monument to what humans are capable of – both the magnificent and the brutal

Leaning Tower of Pisa: truly surreal to look at a leaning, 900-year-old tower

Florence: all of it… everywhere you look is something worth stopping and staring at, but there’s especially something about the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore and all is iconography and seeing Michelangelo’s David

Pompei: an ancient city frozen in time

Wandering through Naples: lines to get in to see old, old palaces and seaside fortresses – lines to get in to Gucci and Prada

The Sistine Chapel: you’ve seen it all before, but you still can’t believe what you’re looking at

Dante’s House: OK, this should have been covered in the “Florence – all of it” thing, but what a feeling to stand where the great poet actually spent his daily life

The Wine: so cheap, so good

The Food: "angry" spicy tomato penne pasta in Naples, the perfect pizza crust in Rome, quattro formaggi gnocchi in Florence, peanutbutter sandwiches on Christmas night

Pics are online at our Flickr site (www.flickr.com/photos/rothtravels). We hope you enjoy them.

Happy New Year everyone! Best wishes to all of you for a great 2010.

December 18, 2009

Merry Christmas...

Here are some new pictures from around Madrid.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/rothtravels/sets/72157623019757208/show/

December 17, 2009

Ahh… Spain. Amidst the beauty of the architecture, the delicacy of the food and the intrigue of the people lies an interesting fundamental establishment… socialized medicine. Yes, I said it. This is a phrase that triggers elation, contemplation or anxiety in the hearts of Americans – depending on who you ask. It’s become a polarized subject for debate… to say the least. And as one who has not had health insurance for a few years now, it is an issue my husband and I find intriguing.

Last week, I had the opportunity to become more intimately involved with this system. A hair follicle located in my armpit (yes, rather gross, I admit – but a source of rather real pain) became irritated and infected. I wasn’t exactly sure of the rules governing Spain’s health system, so I turned to my student handbook and made a phone call.

Could I make an appointment? Of course. So. Did I want to come in at 12:30pm or 4:15pm or 6:45pm? Um, Today? I asked. Of course, today. And just two hours after my initial call, I was ushered into a lovely doctor’s office and my armpit was viewed with concern. Antibiotics might be the answer. 12€ later, I had antibiotics and a hopeful attitude.

However, two days later with my armpit inflamed and growing by the hour, (probably an exaggeration, but not much of one) I was encouraged to visit the Emergency Room. Now once again, I wasn’t sure my armpit equated an “emergencia,” but off I went to a nearby hospital.

Upon arriving in an examination room, the doctor took one look at my armpit and made a large slashing gesture with his hand, complete with sound effects. This was a gesture that overcame all language barriers. Yep. My armpit needed to be cut open and drained. (I hope you’re not eating while reading this, by the way.) The doctor opened the door and invited a few other people to look at my freakish arm infection. Apparently, this was something they didn’t see every day. Somehow they patiently communicated that I needed to wait 4 hours after I had last eaten before they’d drain the area. OK. I had a good book with me. No problem. As I sat waiting, a few more people were brought in to catch an eyeful of my armpit. (To this day, I don’t know if this was a teaching hospital, or if they just specialized in the axillary.)

Three and a half hours later, I was wheeled to a different floor and shown to a dressing room where I was given a hot little O.R. outfit. I looked around and realized I was on the operating room floor. OK. I guess it’s a kind of surgery. I changed and put on booties to cover my feet and a hairnet to cover my head.

The nurses escorted me to an operating room, complete with a sterile bed and giant light. As I was lying there, they told me they needed to check with the anesthesiologist to see if I had waited long enough after eating. I nodded. Anesthesiologist? When the doctor returned, he told me they couldn’t put me under general anesthesia as I had eaten such a short time before. I said that was fine – local anesthesia would be just fine. (In my mind, I wondered how I would have gone about finding Peter and telling him they put me under for my armpit. And could you help me get home. How do you put that in a text message?)

The doctor had studied some in the U.S. and his English was fairly good. He joked as he went along. Once the procedure was complete, he patted me on the shoulder, told me to get dressed, and I went along my way.

Just over a week later, my armpit is back to normal and my experience is now just fodder for stories. But when I reflect on this experience, though, I’m left feeling grateful for living in a place where an experience like this only cost me a grand total of 12€. Had this occurred last year when I lived in Indiana, I have no idea what the end cost would have been.

The purpose of this blog is not to make a statement about the health care system in the United States. It is a complicated issue which needs a lot of research and a good deal more wisdom. However, I am concerned that basic health services are not available for those without the ability to pay. And pay a lot. There must be a way to enable everyone to have access to the care they need – even if it’s just for a silly armpit infection.

November 22, 2009

So, once upon a time, we were very good about making regular contributions to our blog. We updated it weekly even with unreliable internet. Plenty of stories were written and shared of odd happenings of our life abroad.

In Spain, we have lapsed in our regular contributions. In fact, we haven’t posted anything in almost a month. Many may wonder why we’ve failed to keep up on this project… are we busy? Have we lost internet connections? Are school and work taking all our time?

While some of these things are true, I believe the primary reason for our unreliability is our keen enjoyment of Madrid and Spain and our adventure here. Blog writing had become a therapeutic outlet while living in a developing nation and in the absence of the need to vent, we’ve lagged behind in our updates. Somehow, stories of beautiful walks down Madrid’s corridors with blue skies and sidewalks covered with autumn leaves seem less interesting than stories of Indonesian policemen who wake us at 2am to see our marriage papers. Complaints about housemates who leave their (entire) chicken out for the day or leave rotting fruits and vegetables in the kitchen aren’t nearly as interesting as complaints about fellow teachers who black out over the weekend after drinking too much. And, tales of our students who want to learn and the headmistress who bends over backwards to make sure we have all the teaching supplies we need just don’t seem to hold a candle to the epic tales of ceilings that fell in or generators that failed to work as was a regular occurrence in Indonesia.

Madrid is not a perfect city. Spain is not a perfect country. There are things here that drive us crazy. But, the beauty of our time here is so full of good memories that our need for therapeutic release is minimal.

At a time of year when many in the U.S. are beginning to turn their thoughts toward Thanksgiving, we can only say what we are thankful for this year.

• We are thankful for the opportunity to explore new places and new adventures.
• We’re thankful for each other and for the life we are sharing.
• We’re thankful for bread and cheese and the culinary delicacies of Spain.
• We’re thankful for closed sewers and clean public transportation.
• We’re thankful for steady work and a good university.
• I’m thankful that Peter gets the chance to study and work with language all day, every day.
• We’re thankful for the chance to travel and experience the amazing world we live in.

And, we’re thankful for our family and our friends. We miss you all very much.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving.

November 4, 2009

My nephew Nick had a school project, and he recently asked us for help with it. His second grade class read a book about a guy named Flat Stanley, who had been flattened in a serious, yet hilarious, accident involving a bookcase. In the story, Flat Stanley discovers he can visit anywhere in the world for only the cost of postage. Cool.

Well, Flat Stanley came to Madrid. We three had a great time seeing Madrid and all it has to offer.

His adventures are posted on our Flickr site. If you're interested in seeing all Flat Stanley saw, check out www.flickr.com/photos/rothtravels.

November 4, 2009

Yeah. I know. I know. It’s been awhile. Too long. But here’s the thing: we’re pretty busy, and when you have some free time in such a great place like Madrid… Well, you know what I’m saying. I don’t feel like hanging in front of the computer screen, is all. Please accept our apologies.

Not that we don’t love you. Quite the contrary. We think of our family and friends often. More than it seems. Really. Sometimes adjusting has its challenges, but overall it’s pretty cool here.

There is, however, one aspect of living in Madrid that has been very difficult for me in particular. Finding that great cup of coffee is still something that eludes me. This upsets me. I live in a city of, what, something like 4 million people – a world-class place that was in the running to host the Olympics – and I’m left with going to Starbucks? That’s the best they can do? The Spanish seem OK with this though.

The perils of a being coffee snob in Spain are many. First, Starbucks is the only place I can get just a regular old cup of joe. Everywhere else only speaks the language of “café con leche” (coffee with hot milk). The other places don’t usually sell beans for brewing at home either. But even going to the ‘Bucks comes along with more than it’s usual baggage. Strangely, many Starbucks in town (and there are many) have drip machines which are supposedly “broken”, and drip coffee is rarely ever brewed. I believe this is because most Spaniards get lattes or café con leches or (of course) Frappaccinos. Most of the time the staff try to give me an Americano instead, but they don’t fool me. I can tell the difference.

But being cheated out of caffeine and regional coffee flavors from all over the world isn’t the only coffee-related danger here. Twice I was given coffee that had gone cold but was warmed up with the steam wand at the espresso machine – the one that’s usually used for steaming milk. And I’m here to tell you, coffee with a frothy head of foam is disgusting… as well as against several health code regulations in the States. And speaking of public health violations, last Saturday, Sarah and I were at a mall and I was putting forth great effort to receive what I had ordered while we were being spit upon by a few cheeky little Spaniards two floors up. I chased them and gave them a look that crossed all language barriers while they hid behind their clueless parents. (yes, lots of parents are inattentive here in Europe too.)

Don’t feel sorry for me. I’d still rather be here with lame coffee than in the States at this stage of my life. Yep, it’s pretty cool here.

Before I go, I want to send a shout out to a dear friend of ours who is ill, and who has seasoned many of life’s greatest storms with so many of us. A friend who has given so much more than he’s received: Morrissey. The troubadour of our most intimate sorrows – the boy with the thorn in his side – collapsed on stage the other week while singing “This Charming Man.” I’ve been wearing black since hearing the news… because black is how I feel on the inside. But maybe I’d be more of an encouragement if I wore gold lamé. Get well soon, Moz.

October 6, 2009

There are times when I’m reminded that living in a country other than the U.S. carries with it good and bad experiences. Yes, I know this is a rather simple and obvious statement. Sometimes the good and the bad are random experiences spread over a period of time while in other situations, they all happen on the same day. Today was one of those days.

Peter and I began teaching English at a Catholic elementary school last Thursday. The headmistress and teachers are wonderful, but English is still a second language and any new job carries with it a number of unknown and unspoken rules. Today, I began my class with a group of 5-year-olds only to be interrupted at the half-hour mark because they needed to go to recess – they’d be back in a half hour. (My schedule indicated a full hour with this class followed by a second hour with 1^st graders.) Ok.

My next big project for the day was to get my hair colored. Many of you know that this is a creative outlet for me and an experience I thoroughly enjoy. I went into a salon armed with my Spanish-English dictionary. I said “tinte” and pointed to my hair. “Sí, sí.” They got me settled into a chair and dressed with all sorts of disposable, protective gear. When they came to talk about what I wanted I told them “rojo” and used charades to further explain. They said “no”. I was confused… No, you don’t think red is good? No, you can’t do it because my hair is bleached? I pointed to the pink in my hair and nodded. It’s all good. No. The answer was no. I still don’t know why the answer was no. I don’t really even know what the question was, but I got up and left. No hair color for me.

As a recent member of the Facebook world, I occasionally post comments about my day, and I shared my salon experience online. One of our housemates is a “friend” and he saw the post. When I arrived home this evening, he said that it appeared I hadn’t found anyone to color my hair. I said, “No, I’ll figure something out.”

After dinner, I washed our dishes as Ulysses (our newest housemate) did yo-yo tricks. Isi (Isiduardo) came into the kitchen and asked me if I really wanted my hair “painted”. I said that I did. He offered his girlfriend as a resource for good places in town to get my hair painted if that was what I really wanted. She’s an esthetician and may even be able to “paint” me herself.

And so, at the end of the day, the good and the bad have settled out, and the good far outweighs the bad.

Dear Friends,

So, here we are in Spain. As you can imagine, this is a great and truly rare opportunity that we’re very excited about. Now what if I told you that you could help us on this adventure? It’s true.

I’m working on getting a scholarship lined up through a nice organization called Crosslites. Each year they have an essay contest, with the top prize being a $2,000 scholarship award. But the Crosslites judges are only part of the process. Our friends’ and family’s votes also carry some weight in this process. In fact, they count for a lot. This particular part of the process counts for 90% of each entrant’s piece. Of course, this is where you all come in.

Please go to http://crosslites.com/scholarship.aspx/Essay/ffa83cf58a31b2760d5c7847ee960b6fand read my piece. (Don’t worry it’s short – only about 600 words long, is all.) You should see my name listed there. This is your chance to help a couple of students in a real way. Plus, my essay sums up a lot of Sarah’s and my experience in Indonesia and how it affected us. So maybe you can help us as we continue to make sense of that whole experience. You can vote as many times as you like too. And feel free to send us your comments. We’d appreciate them.

Thanks for your support in everything we’ve done. We look forward to hearing from you.

Vote early and vote often, because this time it's legal.

September 26, 2009

Learning the language of Spain (that is, “Spanish”) is much easier than learning the language of Indonesia (that would be “Indonesian”). This might seem obvious. But really it’s not as obvious as it may seem, and it’s not obvious for the reasons we all might think.

First of all, picking up Spanish is easier because, if you reach back to what you learned in high school, it’s a Romantic language. Communication is comunicación, etc. So, yes. We English and Spanish speakers have a lot in common. However, Bahasa Indonesian is a new language (first taught in schools around 1945) and hasn’t gone through all the evolution and morphing that Spanish and English has. That should make it much easier to learn, because there’s not all that cryptic crap and slang mixed in yet.

Blah, blah, blah. Boring.

For me, the true reason that Spanish is easier to pick up than Indonesian is because people here are much more willing to teach you their language. If I could have another moment to reflect on Indonesia: It was somewhat frustrating to try and use what little of the language we had learned at the grocery or the café. That is to say, when whitey tries speaking Indonesian it’s almost always a hilarious event… especially to women, for some reason. I could hardly say anything without some giggling that was then followed by, “Apa?” (what?). An unstable and somewhat strange combination were we: funny and incomprehensible. In addition to being ill-at-ease with strange sounding foreigners, most people in a developing nation want to show off how much English they know, to practice. At least that was our experience. And often if we asked, how do you say it’s raining or what’s in that sauce, it was difficult to get a good answer. Often they just weren’t interested in talking about their language for some reason. Not always of course. But getting language questions answered was a privilege one had to earn with much time… even from other white people who knew the language.

Most of our housemates here speak at least some English and put us to shame with their knowledge of French, German, Italian and in one case Chinese. But that helps us goofy Americans out a lot. And we’re learning. But there’s so much farther we have to go. For instance, explaining to our beef-loving Argentinean housemate Guido (pronounced ghee-doh) why we haven’t eaten meat in over 10 years was pretty much a lost cause. Neither one of us had enough common language to discuss the many facets of that subject. So we gave up. He said I was still OK though. It’s also interesting to note that our Spanish residents make fun of Guido’s accent.

Another housemate, Isiduardo (or just Isi), told me I need to learn Spanish, “So you can be relationships,” he said Now, I’m not quite sure what Isi’s definition of relationships entails. So I let that one go. But I am proud to say I’ve acquired enough Spanish to communicate – both less incomprehensibly and less hilariously – about how our laundry would need to be done a different day to our housekeeper, who speaks zero English. (Pablo, another housemate, told me her name about three times and I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t get it.) So… I’m improving. I guess.

Yet we do not just take from this culture. Oh no. We have made contributions to our housemate’s English lexicon as well. I’ve been able to settle some confusion over a few hip-hop terms – which I will not repeat here, for many reasons. I also was able help Pablo understand the somewhat subtle difference between snot and booger after he’d watched Revenge of the Nerds. (I thought he was talking about Revenge of the Nurse at first, of which I am unfamiliar.) Interestingly enough, I also taught an entire class the definition of booger in Indonesia. (“Mr. Peter, mucous sticky-sticky. What is like stone?”) It’s a popular English word, apparently. Maybe I don’t use it enough.

Booger.

As always, we’ll keep you posted as to where we are as we crawl up this learning curve in Spain. I’ll also let you know what our housekeeper’s name is after I learn it.

September 17, 2009

So, Sarah’s taking an ethics class. It seems she has us discussing ethical issues (or seemingly ethical issues) wherever we go…pondering questions like “What is cultural relativism? Should we make a comment when someone steals our bath soap? What if their culture doesn’t have the same beliefs about property as we do?” Etc.

People aren’t that much different here in Spain than they are in the States. The unemployment rate is high here too. Almost twice the U.S.’s actually. So when the weight of the world gets too heavy to bear, what’s a brother to do? That’s right. Take it out on the dog.

There aren’t any leash laws in Spain. (Nor do you have to clean up after your dogs, so watch where you’re stepping in Madrid.) The other day Sarah and I were walking back from the grocery, enjoying all Madrid had to offer, when a dog (boxer? lab?… I don’t know – they’re all mutts here) runs past us. Fido was then quickly followed by an older Spaniard, chasing him at a pretty impressive clip across a couple of lanes of traffic. He caught up with his dog about a half a block on in the middle of the parkway.

As we got closer, we realized this stressed out little man was beating the living crap out of his wayward dog. It went on and on – scolding him, backhanding him, slapping him, grabbing his jowls, then more scolding, backhanding, slapping and grabbing again and again… over and over. Finally, when he kicked Fido and the poor dog yipped, well, that was it. We’d both had enough. Even though we hadn’t been in Spain quite two weeks, Sarah and I both felt at home enough to yell at the guy. “Hey, leave him alone!” Sarah shouted. I told him to “Knock it off!” both of which I’m sure were lost somewhere in translation. We’re pretty sure he got the idea though.

And he did knock it off. I think he might’ve even got the hint that he went too far with his corrective canine measures. I’m sure he cared very much for his companion. But why this need to absolutely crush one who’s made a mistake under his righteous indignation? I could theorize, but let’s just leave it as it simply being a human reaction. I find myself kicking the dog sometimes too. But when I do, I hope you’ll be that brash American who will yell at me from across the street. I’ll get the idea.

Pictures...

We´re trying to be technologically savvy. Trying is the key word here.

As such, we´ve created a Flickr account where you can see pictures of our random travels.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/rothtravels

Hope you enjoy.

September 10, 2009

Ah… Madrid. It is truly amazing.

I arrived in Madrid and found the guy who was to take Peter and I to our new apartment. He was holding a sign which said “Peter Roth”. He kept saying something about manaña, and I kept telling him I couldn’t find my husband. He eventually found someone on the other end of his cell phone that spoke enough English to tell me Peter wouldn’t be arriving until the next day. Ok, I headed to our new home.

We share a house with people from Venezuela, Peru, Jamaica, Colombia, and Spain. It is a crazy, multicultural home. They are all very nice and somehow we all try to figure out what we’re saying to each other. All of us are students and attend at least 4 different colleges in Madrid.

And, if I thought that was “multicultural,” my experience with varying countries got more diverse as my first week progressed. In orientation, we were assigned to groups by the first letter of our last name. In my group of about 30 students, there were over 10 different countries represented. At lunch, I ate with students from Switzerland, Japan, China and New York. The school itself has students from over 65 different countries.

Multicultural experience was a part of my objective in going to school abroad. My living environment and school setting will offer great chances for me to get to learn about many different places and the people who live there. I am looking forward to it.

September 8, 2009

There goes the neighborhood.

Well, I made it here. I´m still wrapping my mind around the idea that I will be living and studying in Madrid for the next two or so years. For a while I wasn´t sure I would actually ever make it here.

A few of you might know that I was two days late arriving in Madrid. Yep. Two whole days. Sarah made it right on time though. You see, we came on separate flights. We were going to leave on the same day and arrive with a difference of only a couple of hours. That was the plan. It didn´t happen that way though.

The original plan was that since Sarah´s program started a month before mine (hers on Sept. 3rd and mine on Oct. 5th), I would join her around mid-September. Might as well earn a little extra cash instead of sitting around beautiful Madrid doing nothing but writing blogs and drinking coffee and Rioja. You know, do something productive. However, I couldn´t find any work at all in Fort Wayne, so I decided to come with Sarah. Problem was she´d already gotten her plane reservation, and I had to go on a different airline. I know this sounds weird, but it´s the way of the world in these troubled times.

I got held up by severe weather and missed my connector to Madrid by, literally, minutes. So I stayed the night in a crappy Best Western in Atlanta and ate dinner with a guy named Gabriel, who was in the Air Force and was trying to get back to base in Tampa. Next day, my flight was overbooked. I gave up my seat for 600 Delta-dollars, a free hotel and free food. I missed Sarah, but we were only going to be in orientation most of the time, right? And now, we got a free flight.

So I end up getting her finally. Obviously. I think my first words in the Admissions Office were, ¨Hi, I´m two days late.¨They were all waiting for me and were glad to see I made it. Now I have job prospects for tutoring English and will start working with undergrads in the Writing Center next week. And, by the way, all I missed the first day of orientation was a big talk about alcohol abuse and rape. Sarah filled me in, so now I know what to look out for. (She won´t pull any of that funny stuff on me.) Sarah´s into her fourth full day of classes as I write this and likes her profs so far. She mostly hangs out with the Masters students and sits at our table during lunch. She tells people she´s dating an upperclassman. She´s so cool and over the undergrad thing...

Steppin' Out -- Again

Hello, friends! We’re back and stronger than ever. After a year of being derailed (though recharging) in Fort Wayne, Indiana, the saving grace of travel is visiting us yet again. Yes, Sarah and I are packing our bags. This time for Madrid.

Now, having lived in Indiana for a year – living near places like Rome City, Peru, Notre Dame, Angola and Goshen – I feel I must tell you I indeed mean the Madrid that is in Europe. This is pretty cool.

It’s amazing how life changes in one year. Not long ago, our life was sinking and sinking lower into the black depths of no return. As you know, Indonesia presented many challenges to us – all made worse by some white people there. (Really no different than the way it’s been for hundreds of years.) Then our program in Poland was cancelled, leaving us homeless, jobless and having been without income for months… on the other side of the world. Awesome. But these challenges have only made us better people, of course, and a path of has been forged before us. Hooray for direction! It’s kind of nice to have again.

I was invited to take part in a masters program at Saint Louis University’s Madrid campus. I’ll be studying English literature, linguistics and about teaching composition there. I’ll also have the opportunity to not just become fully bilingual but also to translate works from Spanish to English. Meanwhile, Sarah will be finishing her prerequisites for medical school there. This opportunity will be especially great for her, because after living in Indonesia she developed an interest in international preventative medicine. Yes, I know. She’s a much better person than I am. After all, I just want to tell stories.

We’ll live in Spain for at least two years. Then we’ll be off to medical school – wherever that may be… And I’ll follow.

Don’t worry. We’ll keep you posted each step of the way and hopefully a wee bit entertained as well. Check back every now and then. We’ll be here.

Peace out, America.

July 8, 2008

Sarah and I got some words of wisdom from a former co-worker at EF Makassar. He sent a critique of this blog regarding entries from the past year or so. He took exception to some of them, claiming they were unfair. At first we bristled, of course. The words seemed harsh. But when we thought about his comments with a fresh state of mind, his words changed our outlook on the world forever.

He said Sarah and I were very judgmental people and our only friends were white people, and that we only hung out with rich people. He said we wasted our chance to see the world’s fourth largest country and experience it first-hand. We locked ourselves away in our apartment, hidden from true Indonesian culture. Sarah and I have talked about our co-worker’s direction over the past day or so. We have seen our faults and are asking forgiveness.

No. Not really.

This person, Dave, couldn’t keep my attention past the first few paragraphs of his six-page alcohol-fueled diatribe. Seriously. Maybe that’s why so many students dislike him. On top of incredible B.O. and calling students “idiots,” he’s a rambling bore. (You should’ve heard his painful play-by-play of each lesson in the teachers’ room. Every other word was “bloody” and then half the rest were only slurred, incomprehensible jibber-jabber.) It’s hard to think of him or Simon (our former “director”) as anything more than cartoon characters by this point.

Most of you know about Dave. Remember? The lovable old coot that orders whiskey by the case to support his almost bottle-a-day addiction. What Dave didn’t, and apparently still doesn’t, understand is that Sarah and I didn’t mind Indonesia for the most part – it was the white people that were so bad. (Don’t get me wrong. Makassar is a challenging place to live – there are even locals who wouldn’t disagree with this.) Seems Dave got confused again. He apparently thought this blog was a BBC report on the status of Indonesia and not just personal raw thoughts and frustrations for friends and family to read.

Anyway, enough of that. That’s not what I set out to write. (Once again Dave and Simon have derailed my concentration with their nonsense.) Here’s an entry we’ve been putting together for a while now. It’s about some of our favorite people and moments in Indonesia.


After Sarah was fired from EF Makassar, we went on a trip to Yogyakarta, Central Java. There we visited nearby Prambanan and Borobudur – two 9th century temples, the former Hindu and the latter Buddhist. At Prambanan, we were approached by a group of young English students who wanted to practice their conversation skills. Sarah and I obliged. They were such a delightful group we spent the whole day with them. They explained Hinduism (better than I’ve ever had it explained before, of course) and they drove us on their motorbikes to some out-of-the-way temples and graves. They expected nothing in return.

The crew at our favorite coffee shop, J.Co (an Indonesian chain that’s doing much better than Starbucks, it appears), was always a bright spot in our day… especially before having to go to EF. They were very hard working and always smiled and greeted us by name. They knew our orders and sometimes would bring our coffee out to us so we didn’t have to get out of our seats. This was one of the places Sarah and I, as well as our good friends Sandra and Ginger, kept each other sane and planned our lives beyond Makassar. J.Co made me a fresh press pot of Sumatra coffee everyday I showed up. It’s the best coffee I found on Sulawesi – with the exception of the coffee I had in Toraja.

Speaking of… Doud, our guide up in the remote area of Toraja, was one of our favorite people we met in Indonesia. Knowledgeable, humorous and humble, he filled our heads with so much new information we had to lie down after our daily tours. He helped us see rituals and death in a new way. He’s a truly remarkable man.

We had our favorite becak drivers along our walk to school too. (Becaks are those tricycle taxis.) They shook our hands and greeted us each day. “Hello, chickadee!” was their favorite salutation. They also taught us a bit of the local Makassar dialect and loved to hear us repeat it. They laughed and laughed. Sometimes we gave them J.Co doughnuts. They loved that too.

During a visit in Jakarta on our way to Poland, we had the pleasure of meeting John McGlynn who is one of the founders of Lontar Press. Lontar is a non-profit whose mission it is to translate Indonesian authors into English. Without Lontar I would not have been introduced to a genuine and complex perspective of Indonesia. We spent an afternoon with John and talked about various authors, translation, art and future plans. His home was decorated with beautiful art of mostly Javanese contemporary painters and sculptors. People like John make the world a better place. All he contributed to me – the day we spent together, his friend Karin he introduced us to in Makassar, our email exchanges, and his work – helped me begin to understand Indonesian culture.

There are many students we miss as well. One of them – who I never actually had as a student but was one of Sarah’s – is named Onsi. I met with Onsi a couple of times to help with an essay he wanted to enter into a contest. Here is a nice email he sent to us almost two months after we had left EF. We actually received it while in Poland.

“hallo Peter, do you still remember me? i am onsi, former of sarah's student at EF in Makassar. i just know that you and Sarah have got out from EF. i really dispointed because i think you are a good teacher. may i know what is problem ? do you have any plan to comeback to Indonesia. if you want to come here, don't forget to contact me, brother. you can send me information by email. thank you.”

And another we received while in Hong Kong…
“peter, thank you very much for your email. i really happy to received your information. ok, if you have any time, do not forget to travel to indonesia and tell me please. Give some greetings for sarah and there are some greetings from students of EF and also Mr, Rod. maybe one time i might go to usa. good luck for you.”

Mr. Rod. Although many of our colleagues were drunk and unprofessional, Rod was one of the good ones. He began his contract one month after we did and suffered from similar maltreatment by coworkers. We spent a memorable day in immigration hearing his stories of life in Africa. His positive perspective and boundless energy provided us with much needed support. After our fateful departure, Rod was the one who collected our left belongings and offered to provide reference information if needed. We feel fortunate to have met him while living in Makassar.

And, although this blog is already quite long, I can’t help but pause to mention the non-EF expats who were our lifelines -- Sandra and Ellen, Ginger and Ernest. These individuals helped us maintain some semblance of normalcy when everything else was crazy. We have wonderful memories of shared meals and stories.

Though we had our rough times adjusting to an infinitely different culture and had to deal with easily the lowest, most unethical employers and co-workers we’ve ever had, Sarah and I do not regret for one moment our time in Makassar. It was incredible. Sure, hindsight’s 20/20. There are things we’d do differently. There are some things I wished we had done, but did not. That’s always true. But for it being our first time living overseas, I think we did pretty well considering we had little direction and support from expats who had lived there longer. And no one can convince me that we did not experience Indonesia as much as we should have, or that we lived just like we did in America. That almost makes me laugh out loud it’s so ridiculous. We are different and better and stronger people for this past year.

Well, I must be off now. I think I’ll start on a new bottle of liquor, wake up addled and impaired, and then dole out condescending advice to people who shower more than I do and who I never took the time to get to know. Cheers!

See you all soon.

June 14, 2008

We have finally left Indonesia and are now in Poland. Wow -- what a difference!

Our photo collection at RothTravelPhotos.blogspot.com has been updated. (We finally found a good internet connection.) You can see our pictures of central Java, Kuala Lumpur and other random Sulawesi sites.

June 3, 2008

Well, we’re in our last week of living in Makassar. This chapter in our lives is coming to a close finally.

Hello. Peter here. It’s been a while. I realize I haven’t contributed to this blog for quite sometime now. But that’s only because, honestly, I’ve gotten really tired of analyzing how I feel in Indonesia.

My feelings are a mixed bag. A really mixed bag, which will take a long time to sort out. Yes, in many ways it’s been a rough year, and this country has left me beat up and bloody more than once. Because of this, I feel like I can hear some of you out there giving warning to another person interested in teaching English as a foreign language. “I don’t know,” I hear you say. “Jim and Lois Roth have a boy who did that, and he had nothing but trouble. It was a terrible experience.”

And though we’ve dealt with more than our share of shady characters and liars and impossible situations, it’s been one of the best educations I could get. But first, here’s my own word of warning: If you want to be an EFL teacher and want to find a place to work that will be like Starbucks or office work in the States, then don’t do it. A fair employer who treats you like he/she is afraid of a lawsuit doesn’t exist in this line of work. Sometimes it felt like every time I left our apartment I had to fight and fight for the simplest things. We had to buy our own colored pencils and scissors for class. And I never had a reliable CD player at school.

I came here to see how the majority of the world lives, and the truth is it’s much rougher than what most of us are used to in America. Sarah and I had to learn to be truly flexible. We had to learn to find shelter and safe places. These are not seen as rights in a 10-year-old democracy. As an American I was used to our system of rights and liberties. And I really do believe in human and civil rights – they’re for everyone. But the test in Indonesia was this: Do I still believe in them when they’re not granted to me?

Searching for the answer is far from simple. I mean, I know what the answer should be. Yes, of course I do. I can say yes, but what do I really do when it comes down to it? What would you do if you had no running water for two days? I’ll tell you honestly, I lost it. And there was no one within earshot who was to blame.

Indonesia, like everything, is extremely complex. And that’s what I’ve come away with during this time. I feel America’s greatest fault is that we simplify things way too much. Too many pat answers. Bush is either a demented war monger who dances at people’s suffering, or he is a man dressed in white weeping before God on a cross each morning to understand the way of salvation. Whatever is what I say to each of those statements.

The American definitions of “liberal” and “conservative” do not exist over here. They’re kind of jokes outside the U.S., in fact. People are judged only by their leadership. Over here, I realize Bush to me is just a guy who’s not very bright who made a series of pretty poor decisions – though not every single one was bad, I must admit. And I’ve realized some people are like that. They just can’t take hold in life. Granted, Bush’s decisions affect a lot more people and his lack of insight doesn’t justify what he’s done or hasn’t done.

We as Americans – as humans – need to learn to be more sensitive and understanding. We need to be more sensitive to those who believe different than we do. I just read an interview with Salman Rushdie, and he said that believing in freedom of expression is only real if you grant it to someone you don’t agree with. That’s a challenge. It means nothing if we don’t acknowledge that the world is so complex that someone might not believe the same way or even want the same things we do.

The great Kurt Vonnegut said it best in his introduction to Slapstick. He tells what we need is “a little less love and a little more common decency.”

True, there are those people who are just plain ass-clowns, who want to say or do things just to test their “rights” and push our buttons. And if there’s no substance or conviction to their beliefs, then they ought to be slapped. But we need to listen first.

I’m not saying this in a bleeding heart/America sucks sort of way. I’ve come to love something very much about the USA. But I feel like it’s real now and not what a political party or news commentator has told me to think. It’s far deeper than Fox News flag waving pseudo-patriotism, but it’s not left-wing Michael Moore manipulative cynicism either. I feel like I disagree with both the “Right” and the “Left.” America has done a lot for the world. We’re an example of democracy and the benefits of capitalism. It’s hard to argue that things aren’t kind of nice in America. But we are not a beacon of freedom and altruism either. America wants more than her share. There’s no doubt about that.

Living in a place that is not as safe as growing up in the Indiana suburbs has been one of the best decisions of my life. True learning is a difficult and dark process. It’s hard work and full of unknowns. For everything I come to understand, there’s something new I don’t have an answer for. But to me that makes life worth living.

We need to have more conversations and fewer mini-trials to prove who’s right and wrong all the time. Whatever the subject. If we’d withhold judgment, we could possibly resolve a lot more of our differences. Why are we so concerned with proving the truth? If it’s truth, I wonder if it’s a little bigger than reason. I wonder if it shouldn’t just make itself apparent? No one owns truth. It’s not ours to use.

Living as an expat, you have to find what you have in common with those you come in contact with. You cannot focus on your differences. If you do you become isolated. Then you’re in trouble. And Sarah and I have found we have much more in common than not with the vast majority of people. (Minus the self-destructing alcoholic honkies we worked with.) That knowledge is a great thing to have received while in Indonesia.

May 22, 2008

Shortly after our last blog entry, strange, fascinating and positive things began to happen within our Makassar experience. People came out of the woodwork to support and defend us. Friendly faces appeared all around – in coffee shops, grocery stores and our regular haunts. It is clear that removing ourselves from the negative expat culture we had been in for 9 months was one of the healthiest and most refreshing decisions we have made this year. (Yes, the decision was made for me, but Peter has no regrets that he walked out in protest. :) )

Late last week, I went to the gym for my daily workout. (I spend 5 mornings a week at a fitness center located in the basement of the only 5-star hotel in Makassar. It’s my sanity check.) Apparently they were in the process of auditioning for a new aerobics instructor. The hotel’s general manager, his wife, the fitness center manager and a couple of other regulars had appeared in the center and “aerobics-style” music had begun to play. I continued on the Stairmaster while watching what was sure to be an amusing class. One of the guys from the fitness center counter took his place at the front of the room and began to move – not really finding any beat to speak of but moving nonetheless. After 10 minutes, he looked around and stopped – he was stuck.

I jumped in… I just couldn’t help myself. After teaching the remainder of the class, I had acquired quite a crowd. The general manager and the fitness center manager were wondering why they hadn’t hired me earlier and other students were commenting on how much they enjoyed the class. These were some of the first positive comments I had heard in a while. As it is, I am now teaching aerobics classes 4 times a week while training a new instructor to take over in early June when I leave Makassar. (Due to visa constraints, I am being paid in food vouchers – the irony is terribly funny.)

Fitness is my first love – after teaching my first class, I came home happier than I had been in a long time. In the midst of such a strange place and in the middle of a stressful and difficult situation, the opportunity arose to do the thing I love most – teach others how to make healthy choices. It has been such fun. Each day, the fitness center guy teaches a little more and I teach a little less. It’s like a month-long fitness teaching bootcamp where your trainee doesn’t speak any English and hasn’t ever taken an aerobics class before much less has any idea of how to teach one.

Indeed, Makassar has been a weird place. Yet, when we leave in just a few short weeks, we will remember some very good times as well as the difficult and strange ones. There will always be the day I was threatened with deportation and invited to teach an Indonesian aerobics class -- May 8^th will be remembered as one of the strangest days of my life.

May 8, 2008

An adventure. This doesn’t even come close to describing our time in Makassar, Indonesia. There have been times when we’ve seen some beautiful beaches and sunsets and waterfalls. There have also been times when we’ve been exposed to the most astounding and unbelievable human interactions – both positive and negative. Our blogging intent has been to realistically portray our experience living in southeastern Indonesia. This week has been no exception.

This site has included stories of teacher walkouts and unreliable electricity. We’ve included stories of ceilings that have collapsed as well as inconsistent pay schedules. Our “colleagues” have been described and their characters painted in such a way as to give a glimpse of our daily work environment.

Over the last month, Peter and I have moved forward with plans to accept teaching positions in Poland and begin a masters of education program involving intensive weeks of study in Krakow.

These circumstances as well as the appalling teaching environment led us to decide to buyout of our contract at the end of May. The buyout was provided for within our contract. We gave our notice in late April and endured a week of the silent treatment.

Monday, I was fired. I was told I was the worst teacher that had ever taught at EF English First Makassar. Yes, apparently I was worse than the alcoholics and the teachers who arrived hungover or with alcohol on their breath. I was informed that by leaving and never coming back I was doing the school a favor. I left.

Peter ventured into the office of the Director of Studies, Simon Still, moments later and asked what had happened. He was told that the director didn’t like me and that I hadn’t said “hello” or “goodbye” to him during the course of the year. Apparently this is cause for dismissal. When Peter suggested the director take responsibility for the ongoing communication within the school as well as the daily work environment, Simon informed him that he did not want to take responsibility and wasn’t going to. When told he was the worst manager Peter had ever had, Simon replied, with a shrug, that’s fine with him… he was ok with that. Peter left.

Between the 2 of us, we carried a teaching load of 15 classes. The average teacher at the school had 5 classes. Yes, for being the worst teacher at the school, I was teaching twice as many classes as the head teacher – 8 to his 4. I performed evaluations and placement screenings and was considered the “young learners” expert. Not bad for being the worst teacher ever. Hmmm…

Now, as one can imagine, this is a bit of a strange and stunning experience. I am unsure if we are still in shock or if we just don’t care anymore. But we feel strangely at ease. As we wandered Makassar today walking from one favorite place to another we realized that it’s not Indonesia that has been difficult – it is EF English First Makassar.

Indonesia is full of strange and fascinating people with a complex and unique heritage. Their religious, geographic and political situations are unlike anything known in the west. These systems are difficult to comprehend. Yet, it was our western connections that made them unbearable. It was the people from the west who made our lives frustrating and difficult.

For the first time in over 8 months, I took a full breath and realized that it was not Indonesia that made me feel insecure and disrespected – it was EF English First Makassar and it’s Director of Studies, Simon J. Still, BA (as his business card desires you to note). Had he even a bit of respect for the teachers he hired, had he tried just a bit to facilitate the teacher transition into this environment, our experience would have been very different.

And so, we are looking forward to our remaining month in Indonesia with the expectation that we will come away from the experience with much more positive energy now that we have severed our ties with the western institution housing the distracting and negative individuals who have tried to color our experience with their insecurities and disillusionments. We can begin to appreciate the true nature of the culture… We’ll let you know how it goes. ☺