Blessed

“Blessed are those that can give without remembering and receive without forgetting.” - Unknown

There are times that I feel so incredibly selfish for not just being in Spain, but LIVING in Spain and getting to experience the opportunities that have been presented before me. I have meant many sleepless hours, especially in the first few days here when I was in Madrid, pondering why I have been selected to partake in this opportunity versus the hundreds upon thousands of others that applied for this grant. I’m positive that they are just as qualified, if not more qualified than I am, and would relish this opportunity and love it just as much, if not more. 

So why me?

To be honest, I will never know for sure. Maybe I will never understand the reasons why I am here and am completely floored and honored that I was selected. I am so humbled by this opportunity and feel so undeserving. I cannot put into words or even come close to expressing the unending gratitude that I have for all of my mentors, friends, family, and supporters that made all of this possible. I am truly and unequivocally humbled.  

I don’t understand why, but it has never been easy for me to accept compliments or that I am good at something. In fact, I was talking to my friend Abhishek in Pittsburgh earlier today and he put it best: “Fish, you SUCK at taking compliments.” Please understand it is not that I don’t appreciate the sentiments; it is that I don’t see them in myself. And, thankfully, as I’m living here and starting to gain more confidence in myself, I am starting to see the talents with which I have been blessed. It is a trying process and I will always remain humble, but it’s about time I started accepting myself for who I am.

So maybe that’s why I am here. Maybe this was supposed to be more self-exploratory than academic. Maybe I needed to be thrown completely out of my comfort zone in order to prove to myself that I can survive. Or maybe, for what feels like the first time ever, I’ve started actually living my life as it was meant to be. I don’t know and this early blog post perhaps isn’t the time to have all of the answers...and for once, I am content not having an immediate answer. 

The point of this blog is based on the title and comes truly and completely out of my humility. I am very blessed and have been blessed in infinite and what feels like undeserving ways throughout my life. Part of what opened my eyes to how blessed I truly am is my student teaching cooperating teacher, Mrs. F.  Mrs. F was one of the most incredible people I have ever met in my life. She and my mother would be best friends. They have the same outlook on everything. Mrs. F would constantly tell her students how blessed they were- whether someone brought them a treat, gave them new dictionaries, or just for having the chance to go to a a great Philadelphia public school. Her actions showed me, and taught me, that the simplest of things in life are blessings and that just waking up in the morning is a blessing. I keep that in mind every day, especially now.

Being blessed has also helped some of my craziest dreams come true- even some that I never thought existed. I went to my first European soccer game yesterday and while I would have been content to see a simple game that didn’t really count for anything, my friends and I were able to snag some tickets to a UEFA Champions League game- Valencia vs. Chelsea. Now, those of you who know anything about my family know that we are huge soccer fans and always will be. We are such big fans, we probably reside on the wrong continent. To be able to experience a real European game, let alone one of this magnitude between two of the best teams in the world, is mind-blowing to me. I made sure to take lots of pictures and video for my friends and family and have posted some below. I even got to fulfill one of my sister’s dreams and saw Fernando Torres (her favorite) in person. (By the way, it was a GREAT game- Valencia and Chelsea tied 1-1.) 

Furthermore, my roommates and I just booked out flights for a long weekend in Munich, Germany at the end of October. As I’m writing this and thinking about it, I can’t even imagine that it is real and actually happening. Everything is so surreal right now, it’s ridiculous. 

And even more, I ABSOLUTELY LOVE MY JOB. I love it to the point where I will probably get certified as an ESL teacher in the States upon returning, whenever that may be.

I am making new friends, enjoying the language, work with incredible and pleasant people. Who could ask for more?

Blessed. 

I do feel a bit guilty that these opportunities have been presented to me, but I feel as though I would be disrespecting my friends and family, if I didn’t take full advantage of them, especially my good friend Angel who has been so influential in my life despite only knowing her for a year. Angel recently joined the Sisters of Life convent in the Bronx and, despite the fact that the convent has severely restricted her internet usage (to practically none) and does not allow her to email or use a cell phone and only send three to five letters a month, she was kind enough to purchase some airmail stamps so we can be pen pals. She wanted this for me almost as much as my mother wanted this for me and I know she would want me to take full advantage. I know everyone would. And just thinking about it overwhelms and humbles me- because my parents raised me right.

Who knows? Maybe all these blessings, which even show up through the times of tribulation, are all part of a bigger scheme to help me prove my worth to myself so that I can finally reach a point of being comfortable in my own skin and give to others in return.

And I wish the same for all of you.

Assimilation and Immersion.

“Times change. We need to change as well.” - Matt Damon, as Francois Peinaar in Invictus

It’s a funny thing, living in a land where you know you don’t belong. Well, let me revise that last statement to where you technically don’t belong as per immigration laws, travel restrictions, etc. Every day is merely a tactic in attempting to survive: waking up on time, navigating intricate metro systems, successfully navigating the metro system and having a brief moment of clarity to only realize you now have to navigate the even more complex street patterns, going to work where, even though everyone is so welcoming and nice, you feel ridiculous because you can barely communicate with them, go home, find things to do in your spare time, go to bed, and do it all over again the next day.

Monotony.

And it was in a moment of that monotony, where my roommates and I were sitting and watching some more good ol’ American cinema (Zoolander, to be precise), that it dawned on us: We don’t want to survive here. We want to live here. The times, locations, and virtually everything about our lives have changed. Therefore, like Matt Damon so eloquently stated in my favorite movie (see quote above), we need to get out there and stop resisting the change. 

So now we’ve switched it up a bit.

With our jobs underway, our side jobs sort of underway, and our plans fresh in our minds, we set out by foot and meandered all the way across the Puente (Bridge) de Aragon, which is literally right around the corner from our house, made a left, made another left, and ended up at our shining beacon of light: Portland.

We were on a mission to do something we have found somewhat difficult here thus far: make friends. Granted, we’ve only been here for two and a half weeks, but we want to live here, not survive here, remember? And much to our surprise, something strange happened: we were greeted like heroes there. An employee I will refer to as Jason greeted us and said, “Americans? Alright!!!” as though he had won the lottery (it turns out he is from California and his Spanish uncle is a co-owner of the place). Then he proceeded to introduce us to the main owner Matt*, and his friends, Stacey* and Tom*, all Americans. Matt, Stacey, and Tom were the most hospitable and pleasant people I have met in Valencia yet, with the exception of my co-workers. They immediately began asking us questions about how we were doing, where we were shopping, and told us that we were now part of the Portland family and if we need anything to go to them. Then, they did the best thing that anyone in Spain has done for us thus far: they helped us make friends.

You see, our intentions for going to Portland were not that innocent: in addition to making friends, we want to practice our Spanish so that we can become better to get past the whole survival state of mind. Portland offers something called an inter-cambio, which is essentially a language exchange. Basically, you show up, hang out, and talk to people that the owners so kindly set you up with all night. It’s like speed-dating without being remotely interested in anyone to whom you are talking. But there’s a catch: on Tuesdays, you can only speak in English and on Thursdays, you can only speak in Spanish. 

Being that there are not many native English speakers in Valencia, my roommates, our friend, and I were hot commodities. We were swarmed by people just like Fernando Torres was earlier that day as he was walking into Mestalla for training. So many Spanish people wanted to talk to us about the United States IN ENGLISH, which was funny because we wanted to talk about Spain IN SPANISH (unfortunately, we didn’t realize it was Tuesday until we got there and will be making a return trip tomorrow). And, to put the cherry on the sundae, because we are native English speakers, we get a free meal for hosting a group. Free food, new friends, and practicing speaking? Not to shabby, considering what we could have been doing that night. 

But as always, despite the good times, a little old friend called Reality hit us over the head: These people are GOOD at English. Really good. They say they come to practice, but they must come a lot. In turn, that makes me so nervous for tomorrow when it is all Spanish.....will we be able to keep up?

According to my new friends Chris* and Alfred*, yes. Very much so. We spoke a little bit of Spanish just for giggles last night and they helped me out a lot. Then they offered some real advice: You feel like you’re not good at Spanish? You’re better than you think. You just need to practice more. So, you’re nervous people will think you’re a blabbering idiot when talking Spanish? Don’t worry about it. That’s why you’re here. That’s why they’re here. This is how it goes. No, we may not have parents who were bilingual, we may not have lived in a completely Spanish-speaking country before, and we may really miss American peanut butter, but that doesn’t make us stupid when it comes to speaking Spanish. It makes us human, and that being said, humans from America who were never taught the vosotros tense extensively in school and learned more Mexican and Venezuelan dialect vocabulary than proper Spanish.

And it’s going to be okay, because we have your back. 

We’re going to live here just fine.

Now that I feel better about myself, let’s have “Sara in Spain” time. (Do you hear me @zannybato and @abhishek? This is the part where I tell stories.) Here’s a few of this week’s adventures:

• Spain may be it’s own place with it’s own people, customs, and things to do, but it never dawned on me that there is only one Hollywood. I’m teaching fifth and sixth grade independently now and in a moment of spare time, we were talking about futbol. Then the students started asking me if I knew of anyone celebrities “from movies and stuff.” Thinking they meant Spanish celebrities, I meagerly mentioned Antonion Banderas. I was quickly shown up by my sixth graders: “Oh, Antonio Banderas? So you don’t know who Andy Samberg from SNL is?” Whoa...hold it right there compadres. If there will be anyone talking about Andy Samberg, it will be this girl and ONLY this girl (points at self). Besides, you don’t even get SNL in Spain.

• Andy Samberg aside, I also made the mistake of thinking all Starbucks were created equal. Boy, was I wrong. I was so looking forward to a nice Pumpkin Spice Lattes at one of Valencia’s three (yes, I know, ONLY three) Starbucks locations. (Crazy since there are three in a block in New York....but, as usual, I digress.) I walk in and don’t see it on the menu exactly but there was a sign that advertised the “sabores de otono (flavors of Fall).” Intrigued, I asked the man “tienes lattes de calabaza?” Oh, lo siento, peru, no. Then, according to my friend Lisa, I apparently made the saddest face ever, prompting the employee to giggle. Nevertheless, my caramel macchiato was decent. 

• I teach four year olds who only speak Valenciano. They don’t speak Spanish. They ONLY speak Valenciano. That’s a time and a half every Tuesday morning. Good thing we sing songs about the weather the whole time because I doubt “Bon dia,” “Com voste?” and “Mol bet” are enough to get me by. Perhaps I should start looking for a Valenciano inter-cambio too...

• I went to the largest aquarium in Europe, L’Oceanografic, on Saturday. I remember watching a show about it maybe seven years ago and then, on my mom’s birthday, I went there. #blessed. But if you want a true analysis, the dolphin show at Sea World is better, which is saying something because the dolphin show at Sea World should really be “the bird show with dolphins and a random whale thrown in.” However, the very, very, very, VERY large shark tank was pretty nice. 

• One of my roommates works in a lab right next to the “Thank you for visiting Valencia! We hope you enjoyed your stay!” sign near the Northern edge of the city. I should reiterate again that we live right next to Mestalla, the stadium, and it is unavoidable to walk by there when getting from point A to point B. As he was walking home, he took the usual route and noticed a large group of people congregating around the entrance of the stadium. Well, curiosity killed the cat, and he joined the masses. Then John Terry walked off a bus. Then Didier Drogba. Then Juan Mata. Okay, so by this point he realized it was Chelsea FC’s bus. Then Fernando Torres walks off. Anyone who knows anything about my sister knows that she is enamored with Mr. Torres, so naturally, he snapped a picture. He then comes barging into our apartment to tell me he had a gift for Lauren. That gift was the picture posted below, which has been circulating all internet circuits for almost twenty-four hours now. Lauren, you better send a nice Thank You note. Moreover, the Chelsea-Valencia game is tonight. We have tickets. One thing to cross off the bucket list. Maybe I should email pictures from this game to the Temple University press so that they can document what they dubbed as my “pilgrimage of the stadiums of Spain’s iconic clubs.” Sorry, Temple, but this is so much better than that. #sosososoveryblessed.

As I sit here writing this, I’m looking across the street, where the man who lives in the apartment directly across from us is yet again staring into our apartment as he sits on his couch, shirtless, watching television. He does this all day, every day, If you come visit, be prepared.

In the meantime, check out these pictures!

The World is Your School.

"I have never let schooling interfere with my education." - Mark Twain


The timeless question that everyone has been asked once has resurrected itself over a liter of Amstel while surrounded by 90,000 screaming Valencianos at La Cerveceria Deportiva last night during halftime of the Valencia-Barcelona game: "If you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be?" 


My answer is easy, simple, and never changes: Mark Twain is my man.


I cannot remember specifically when my, shall we say, strong affection for Samuel L. Clemens began, but I'm sure it sprung up sometime around when my eighth grade English teacher fought us tooth and nail to take part in the embarrassment that was "Tom Sawyer Day" after culminating the author's most famous novel. Tom Sawyer persuaded me to read Huck Finn, which persuaded me to read more and more until now when I am reading some biography of Mr. Twain that I found for free on the iTunes along with the unabridged version of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables and Charles Dickens's The Tale of Two Cities. Mr. Twain writes in a way that no other American author has written and encouraged us to face realities that are sometimes difficult to accept in life. He's snarky, sassy, and I hope that if I ever publish anything I can model my work based on his example. But then again, I doubt I could come up with story lines that are nearly half as original as his. My affinity for Mr. Twain is so, to use one of his words, mighty, that every time my family goes to Disney World, I force them to sit through The American Adventure! attraction at Epcot just because it is "narrated" by my hero. (Yet, by the time of day that we actually go see the show, we need to be in air-conditioning anyway...but, as usual, I digress.)


"So," you may be thinking, "what exactly does this tangent about Mark Twain have to do with anything that you're doing now?" Trust me, it's part of my point. 


I recently read an article in The New York Times that greatly summarizes everything that I have felt on a personal and professional level over the past three weeks. The article, written by Clifford J. Levy, a writer for the Times, focuses on the education that his children received upon relocating to Russia in 2007. I won't get into the reasons why Mr. Levy and his family were in Russia- that is better explained in his own words and I don't want to steal any of his thunder, but I will concentrate on the underlying themes that popped into my mind while reading this article. 


First of all, all people need to learn how to adjust to the frustration of being thrown out of their comfort zone. Welcome to my life right now. I used to think being redirected to thirteen different people on the phone when I need an answer to one simple question was frustrating. I used to think doing math homework was frustrating. And I used to think that people who don't do their dishes, claim that none of the dishes were theirs, wait until someone else does them, and then dirty the kitchen again, were really frustrating (and disgusting). But then I moved to Spain and I learned what real frustration is- the inability to communicate exactly what you want to say with people all the time. Granted, I am getting along well since I have had years of Spanish education and am continuing to learn. Yet, my heart still goes out to and completely understands and sympathizes with the feelings of hopelessness and desperation that these kids must have felt at the beginning of their stay. Adapting to a new town in the US can be difficult, but adapting to a whole new culture that speaks a language you don't know or were only taught in limited amounts? That's flat out tough, but the experience educates you to no end and, at least I think, you will be smarter and better for it in the long run.


Mr. Levy's words also made me realize that I am both the student and the teacher in this situation and I need to teach as much as I learn. I want to learn Spanish, about Spain and living in another culture just as much as these Spanish kids want to learn English and about living in America. We can use each other. They can speak in Spanish at a rapid pace and ask me all kinds of ridiculous questions that will help me learn their language if I, in return, play some Mumford and Sons and Gaga off my iPod for them. I want to know what happens on Las Fallas and they want to understand the cultural significance of carving a jack-o-lantern. It's priceless and I wouldn't trade a thing in the world for it. Never before in my life have I actually been able to say that I love my job, but now I can. Likewise, according to my co-teacher, never before have the students been able to say that they like going to English class, but that I'm here they do. It may be the best and most meaningful compliment I have ever received. It totally beats the one where people say I look like Rachel McAdams (not a bad thing, but then again, I don't see it). 


The quote at the beginning of this post, penned by Mr. Twain of course (who else? duh!), is so reminiscent of what I am experiencing now, what that article has brought to my mind, and what I expect for all children in the future. It is helping me to understand the true purposes of an inter-cambio program and increasing my yearning to promote them in the United States. Moreover, if I so choose to ever adopt or have children, which I guarantee you will not happen for a very, very, VERY long time, I want them to have what Mr. Levy gave to his. 


It's funny actually- not long before I came to Spain my Mom was telling me about how a former teacher, and now friend, of mine went on a trip to Italy and Greece over the summer with some students, came back for a day or so, and then hopped on a flight to South Africa. I told her I was jealous. That's when she looked at me and said, "Why? That's probably going to be you." 


You're damn right, Mother Dear. After the education I'm getting and giving here, it totally is. 
___________________________________________________________________________


So here is the link to the aforementioned article and supplemental video. Please take the time to read it and watch it. I implore you to think about it and send it along to others.




My Family's Experiment in Extreme Schooling- Clifford J. Levy, The New York Times


http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/18/magazine/my-familys-experiment-in-extreme-schooling.html?_r=3&pagewanted=all&src=ISMR_HP_LO_MST_FB

GTL.

For those of you out there who may have (or may have not) at one point or another watched this one TV show about a certain group of people who may or may not be Italian and may or may not spend a lot of time in a beach house in a certain East Coast state, you’ll know that they have a certain acronym for something they do A LOT of the time: GTL.

GTL, as you may or may not know, involves the cast of this particular show spending a lot of time at the Gym, Tanning, and doing Laundry at, well, the Jersey Shore (or Italy, depending on what season you may or may not be watching.) That being said, I’m not trying to compare my life to that of Pauly D or JWoww, but GTL should certainly be a term used when living in Valencia, Spain as well. But, some days, it feels like all I do (besides teach 130 children) is go to the gym, tan, and do laundry. 

However, it’s so much better than any GTL they partake in on the Jersey Shore.

Gym memberships in Spain are expensive and not many people use them. Therefore, being on my limited, but nonetheless gracious, government funding, I have found a gym in the place of the former Turia River, which was transformed into a park after some severe flooding in the 1960’s. It contains some pretty incredible paths, fountains, gardens, playgrounds, and a few sports fields. Oh, and an elusive metro station it took me a week to find since Google maps led me astray. There is nothing better after a long day (well, “long day” is a relative term when comparing days in Spain and the United States) than walking the two blocks from my flat to the park and running down to and around the City of Arts and Sciences and back. A few weeks ago I was really hung up about how much I would miss my long runs in the Parkway and, even more so, Wissahickon Valley Creek, but this is something completely different. And I really, really love it.

Tanning is another given when living in Valencia, especially for those of us who have complexions of alabaster. People don’t need to go tanning here per say. Why pay when you have the Mediterranean? You end up four shades darker in the first week living here since the sun ALWAYS shines. No, seriously, we looked it up: it is sunny approximately 300 days a year. That’s 82% of the year. This past Sunday, September 18, was the first day we even saw clouds in the sky. The only time we thought it was raining was at night- but it turned out to merely be the misfortune of standing on a street under a leaky air-conditioning unit. Long story made shorter: Valencia is sunny and sun makes you tan, no matter what you do.

Laundry, likewise, has not become the ordeal we originally thought it was going to be and that is mainly due to sheer dumb luck. You see, while washers are prevalent throughout Europe, dryers are not. In fact, while visiting one apartment, Diego, a twenty-something realtor showing us the place laughed at us when we asked if there was a dryer and said, “Silly Americans. I lived in Maryland for five years and that was a luxury for us. Dryers don’t exist here.” Then he proceeded to point to a nice long line where  we would have to hang our goods for the next year if we took the flat. The next day, we looked at two flats (one we considered living in and one we are actually living in) and BOTH had dryers. Therefore, Diego, I’m sorry to inform you of this, but not only are you incorrect in your statement, but your apartment is no longer an interest of ours. You can feel free to hang out with us at our new place a few blocks away. So we have a dryer. It isn’t the greatest in the world, but it will do for this year and I m a very happy camper. And after generating a few loads of dirty clothing from Madrid and the first few days in Valencia, you better believe that all we have been doing for the past few days is laundry.

Now that all of the boring information is out of the way, let’s go on to some more humorous things I have seen go down in Spain that would never, or rarely, happen in the United States. Enjoy.

• A mother and her three year old son are on the metro one morning. I know the little boy is three because I heard the mother say he was three. The boy starts to fuss and fussing turns into a tantrum. People are starting to stare. So what does mom do? She whips her boob out full force while on the metro so people can see everything and starts feeding her son. Now, while public breastfeeding is not uncommon in America, she was breastfeeding a three year old. Interesting, to say the least. I’m pretty sure Freud would have some snarky remark for that one.

• On the first day of school, my co-teacher had a picture of an American flag that she wanted me to color. I explained the history of the American flag what felt like 6028 times that day. I gave detailed and amazing descriptions of the flag and its history in perfect English and Spanish. Then after this amazing story, which they all thought was fascinating, the only questions and clarifications they had were, “Do you have a boyfriend?” and “If you have a boyfriend, do you have children together?” (HANDSLAPTOTHEFACE)

• The Spanish are completely dedicated to their break time. In September at school, they only go from 9:00 am to 1:00 pm. That’s only four hours. At 11:00, they need a break. We’re all hanging out in the teachers’ lounge and one teacher, a special education teacher, pulled out her lunch. Part of her lunch included a San Miguel. San Miguel is a Spanish beer. All I could do was laugh at the humor of this situation because that totally cannot happen in America. However...if the day...gets really bad here in Spain.....just kidding. Maybe.

There are so many more exciting and hilarious things that happen here, but I cannot think them now. So instead of thinking of them now, I’ll go to the Valencia-Barcelona futbol match instead. 

Let's get down to business!

"Differences in habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open." -J.K. Rowling

I should start this post by making one item particularly clear: While my time in Spain will be self-exploratory, broaden my cultural horizons, help me achieve Spanish fluency, and just be a good ol’ time in general, I was, for lack of a better term, hired to teach English at CEIP Villar Palasi, a primary school in the village of Quart de Poblet, about ten minutes outside of Valencia, accessible by the lovely metroValencia. Moreover, I am also engaging in a side project: a comparative assessment of educational systems, specifically special education systems, in the United States and Spain.

On September 13, last Tuesday, I made the commute for the first time, unsure of what to expect. Knowing that it was a town outside of the city, I assumed it would be small and somewhat rural. In retrospect, I was partly correct: the Faitanar station is directly next to a large, barren field of weeds. Quart de Poblet, according to my cooperating teacher who for the purposes of this blog will be referred to as Sayna, is a lower class neighborhood. Unfortunately, that sentiment was evident based on my initial observation of the surrounding area. Luckily, I’ve worked in worse and with worse but the language barrier may still be a little shaky. 

That being said, everyone at the school was waiting for me to arrive and welcomed me with open arms and “dos besos.” As I walked into the classroom that will be mine for the next year, the students all immediately started pointing and saying, “Sara Fischer! It’s Sara Fischer!” as though I was some form of celebrity. It was overwhelming and hilarious at the same time. According to Sayna, they had been waiting for me since she told them of my impending arrival at the end of last school year. 

My schedule is Monday through Thursday (en espanol: lunes a jueves; y en valenciano: dilluns-dijous). I’m teaching four year olds through sixth grade so there is quite a curriculum range to plan. However, I welcome the opportunity with open arms. 

As one can probably imagine, the Spanish system of education is quite different from the American system. The following table describes some of the differences:

USA	CATEGORY	SPAIN
Students usually begin formal schooling at age 5 in Kindergarten.	Age of Entry	Students are not required to begin school until age 6; however, most start at 3 because the three years before first grade are free of cost.
Compulsory for Kindergarten through Grade 9; most go through Grade 12.	Grades	Compulsory for Grade 1 through Grade 10; most begin at age 3.
Yes. Public Head Start programs are available in some places but many children to to private pre-kindergarten programs	Pre-School Programs	Yes. “Pre-School” which is referred to as 3 Infantil, 4 Infantil, and 5 Infantil is offered by all public primary schools free of cost.
College/Technical School: Graduate from high school or hold an equivalent degree.	Post-Secondary Requirements	University: Graduate from Secondary School at 16, go to school for two more years to receive your bachillerato, attend university for four years. Technical School: Graduate from Secondary School. Music and Dance School: Attend a performing arts academy after Grade 8 until graduation from post-secondary school OR go to a post-secondary institution after Grade 10.
Roughly 7:30 to 3:00 Monday through Friday, late August/early September through mid-June.	School Day	In September and June: 9:00 to 1:00 In October through May: 9:00-1:00 followed by siesta with school resuming at 3:00 and ending at 4:30.
Generally, major religious and national holidays are observed with minimal days off throughout the school year.	Holidays	ALL Catholic holidays as well as Holy Days of Obligation are observed, as well as town, regional, and national holidays.

American schools obviously use English as the primary language. Schools in Valencia have plurilingual systems because the two main languages in the region are Spanish (Castellano) and Valenciano. There are multiple approaches to teaching languages in the schools:

• Programa de Ensenanza en Valenciano (PEV): This is aimed to children whose mother tongue is Valencian and all instruction is in Valencian. Spanish is introduced from the start of school, but is only implemented gradually throughout primary school. 

• Programa de Inmersion Linguistica (PIL): This program is aimed to children who do not speak Valencian, however, Valencian is introduced in lower levels of school. Spanish as a subject is introduced in first grade.

• Programa de Incorporacion Progresiva (PIP): The main language is Spanish with Valencian being spoken in earlier stages. Valencian is introduced as a subject in the first year and it is used to teach other subjects starting in the third year. 

• Programa de Educacion Plurilingue (PEP): Allows schools to introduce English in 3-5 of Infantil.

• Programa de Ensenanza Bilingue Enriquecido (PEBE): A foreign language (mainly English) is introduced at the beginning of schooling. 

Being that it is outside of the main city, CEIP Villar Palasi mainly uses PEV and PEP with an English class thrown in everyday. 

On a more personal note, CEIP Villar Palasi has one class per grade with no more than twenty students in each class. One class only has ten students. There is a large number of students with disabilities, both mental and physical, in the school. There are at least two students in wheel chairs, a student with Down Syndrome, a student with William’s Syndrome, and student with Cerebral Palsy, four with ADD/ADHD, seven with Learning Disabilities, and five with speech and language disorders. Because of the large numbers of students with disabilities in my school, I am curious to know whether the Generalitat Valenciana took our backgrounds into consideration in correlation with the school demographic or if it was random selection and luck of the draw. The large number of students with disabilities in my school will help me complete my research well and although I have not done enough research or observed enough anecdotes in my time at school to speak in an educated manner on the similarities and differences of the special education systems, I can say that there are laws in place that are reminiscent of IDEA, ADA, and NCLB, but I am unsure to the extent that they are implemented. 

I know this is a lot of information for now and I know this post was probably boring for some, but this is my life now and I plan to make my glorious return to the United States with research based evidence and anecdotes that I can hopefully publish one day as I intend to pursue careers in Bilingual Special Education or Bilingual School Psychology. 

But for now, I am just looking forward to the rest of this year and learning as much as I hopefully teach. 

Change.

"Nobody said it was easy. It's such a shame for us to part. Nobody said it was easy. No one ever said it would be this hard. Oh, take me back to the start." - Coldplay, The Scientist

My roommate was the one who put it most eloquently: they served us dessert first. Because that's how the past few days have felt. 


I don't know what I originally anticipated Valencia would look like, but it certainly wasn't like it was. Don't get me wrong- it's a gorgeous city full of fun times and awaiting adventure. But still, as I got off my Renfe high speed train at Joaquin Sorrolla station in the heart of Valencia, stepping into the ridiculous heat that almost immediately had my hair mopping my already sweat-covered face, I had no clue that the hardest few days I would have experienced in my life were about to commence. You know, the days that would mark that I was indeed now an adult. 


Just six days earlier, I had arrived (somewhat, due to jet lag) bright-eyed and bushy tailed in Madrid, and quite frankly, I fell even more in love with the city than a kid standing on Main Street USA staring at Cinderella's castle for the first time. Madrid was everything I expected it to be: beautiful, antique, modern, fun, lucrative, and international. The time I spent there consisted of some of the purest happiness I have ever had in my life. But, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end, and Friday, September 9, I left Atocha on a Renfe AVE not knowing when I was coming back again.


And so that brought on Valencia. 


I'll admit that I am not the biggest fan of obnoxious heat and humidity that can affect the way I feel about things rather negatively. And, yep, you better believe Valencia has both heat and humidity. I'll also admit that upon learning I would be placed in Valencia I was a tad bit disappointed since I figured, like the majority of people, I would be put in Madrid. And, yep, you better believe that, despite the grandeur of the downtown location, that disappointed feeling resumed shortly after arriving in city and realizing that it was just, well, not Madrid. Ten minutes later, I was dragging 100 pounds of my life up six flights of stairs at the glorious Pension Universal, fending off more heat, bright green walls, and, at this point, increasing hunger and sweat. Clearly, my first impression of Valencia was not that I would have the best time ever, but more like, "How many months until this nightmare is over?" 

But, why sulk when there is plenty to do? Moments after arriving it was yet again time to leave, this time to "be an adult" and look at some apartments. The first, a seven bedroom flat, was very disappointing and discouraging. It looked like Temple Towers before its massive renovation. Even more down in the dumps, we decided to walk to the beach where, despite the highlight of seeing and feeling the Mediterranean for the first time, I realized just how much I missed home. The realization crashed upon me: I can't do this. Trying to stifle the tears from my roommates, we stopped at a plaza for some sangria and went home to the "comfort" of our bright-walled, very loud hostel. The next day luckily went better, and on Sunday we were able to spend the day at the beach and move to a new apartment style hotel type thing which was infinitely more comfortable, not to mention right across from the gorgeous City of Arts and Sciences. But despite the moments of happiness, adjusting still was not necessarily the easiest thing, especially with the apartment hunt.


Oh, but the fun doesn't stop there. We had bank accounts to open, legalization documents to handle, rent to pay, internet to find, and a whole new language to learn. But, to make an already long story somewhat shorter, it all got done. And it all got done well. And we became more comfortable. And, quite frankly, I'm better for this.


It took me a few days, but I finally realized that it wasn't Valencia that was the problem, it was simply ME that had a problem. Americans want everything to be completely instantaneous. We are not, by definition, a patient culture. But Europeans, particularly Spaniards, are. They are nice and kind and willing to help a brother out. But that didn't mean that it was any less frustrating for us to understand every word they said or handle their legalization procedures (especially when you were never taught the Spanish vocal for "how to legally enter a country" situations"). Moreover, I still miss home and it will be hard adjusting to everything that I am not going to have for the next few months. I can imagine it will be incredibly difficult around Thanksgiving and Christmas as well. But, after that, it is a new year and soon, I won't be here anymore, so I might as well buck it up and enjoy it while it lasts. 


"Quitting is not an option" were the exact words my Dad used when I skyped my parents during a moment of weakness. And he was right. I know that if I took the easy way out and went home, I would regret it for the rest of my life. Moreover, I am in a position that so many people applied for and so many people, probably unfairly, possibly wanted more than I did. But I was chosen, and if everything really does happen for a reason, this is how it was meant to be and this is what I was meant to do. I just need to be a bit more patient and everything will fall into place. I have amazing supports and even though I have no idea when I will see my family again or if I will even have friends when I get back to the US, I will have so much life experience and be so much more independent than I would ever be without this. I know that I can handle anything in the US if I can handle it here. And for that I am very grateful.


Looking back, no one ever said this was going to be easy. They only said it was going to be a really good time. 


And deep down, I know it will be.