Today was my first day. Okay, not really. I mean, I went into the school, but I spent all of half an hour with students. Instead, I met with the directora, the other English teachers, and so forth; I got my schedule (I have Fridays off, WHAT?!), and my insurance. The directora is a nun, and there are a few more there, but the teachers are almost entirely secular, or such is my understanding. I’ve met two male teachers, Angel and Luis, but most seem to be women.
I’ll be working with every single year of students. Yes, that’s right — in my SIXTEEN HOURS a week, I get FIFTEEN GROUPS. The way the system works, there’s escuela infantil, for the super-young kids, between the ages 3 and 6; I get all of those on Wednesdays, with two really sweet young women named Laura and Adelaida (I think that’s how you spell it). They’re in a separate school, a few blocks away, but I’m only there for a little over three hours. On Mondays and Thursdays, I spend much of my time with the six groups of primary school students. Kids here are in six years of primary school: from six to 12. So I have six groups of them. Hurrah! Some of the higher-level kids will speak English, but many will not. Which is okay. With the primary students, I’ll work with Luis, Palóma, and Llanos.
This school is small, remember, so my understanding is that there’s one class of each age-group. Maybe I’m wrong. It seems like that is so, however. I still don’t get exactly how this works. I don’t think the teachers stick with their groups all day; I know my boss Maria doesn’t.
On Tuesdays, and also part of the time on Mondays/Thursdays, I get to work with Maria, who’s in charge of the English department, with the secondary school students. There are four years of secondary school, from 12 to around 16. There are also two classes of “diversificación,” which in my understanding means “kids who have failed some classes and/or been held back.” The younger group of these is actually the one I worked with today — some of them had a lot of fun trying to ask me questions. I didn’t get asked “Do you like meat?” like Emily apparently did, but I did get asked about my car that I no longer have, and about football.
This is all more information than most people want to know. I won’t bore you with my actual schedule.
Right, so this morning I tried to open a bank account. I failed — because I need a certificate of something? So I went to the police commissioner’s office they told me to. And was told to go to another one. So I went to that one. Around this point, I realized that wearing my nice new shirts was a Bad Idea. Because my heels hurt. But, well, nothing to do, since I had to be at the colegio in an hour. So, at the second commissioner’s office, I got the paperwork, made copies of my passport, filled out the paperwork, handed it in, was told to come back in ten days, and given another paper that supposedly I can use for opening a bank account. Hopefully I can; I’ll try tomorrow. If not, I’ll need to go talk to my landlord and pay him in cash, which will be more complicated than it’s worth, since I need a bank account anyway.
Indeed. So I took the metro to work, and then rushed down the street to the school, only to realize that Maria was sitting in the comedor eating, and I could’ve walked slowly and saved my heels the pain. Because at some point around this time, I had developed awful blisters, broken ‘em, and was enjoying the feeling.
When I got home, I switched to sandals, and I’ve been walking around in a dress shirt, nice pants, and a pair of Birkenstocks, which I’m sure is quite a sight for Madrid. Or anywhere, for that matter. I went to a pharmacy, though, showed the guy there my blisters (apparently the word is ampolla), and he sold me bandaids (apósitos) and special dressings for my heels designed for blisters. Which were worth every penny. Still, I think I’ll wear sandles tomorrow.
My last flatmate has moved in. He’s an Italian, whose name is Russel. Which brings us to the final number of six: Izayana, Guillaume, Juliette, Chloé, Russel, and me. Four French kids, an Italian, and an American. Pshaw.
I will admit that I like the fact that they say either norteamericano or estadounidense rather than americano, which is really more fair to the rest of the continent. Although norte does kind of include lots of other countries.
I’ve gone on for long enough, at this point. Justin out.