Expatiperro

Well, it seems that my last year-long adventure abroad wasn't enough to satisfy my wanderlust. I'm setting off tomorrow on a four month trip through Asia, Eastern Europe, and the Middle East, crossing off about half of the items on my list of "Places I Need to See Before I Die" and covering nearly 20,000 miles of land. In lieu of writing out the ridiculously long list of where we're going (you'll get a complete rundown of our destinations as they unfold), here's something a little easier on the eyes:


I'm starting off in Bangkok on the 1st, making my way solo around Southeast Asia for 10 days before meeting up with my travel buddy, Kyle, in Beijing. Then it's onto the Trans-Siberian Railroad, which we'll take across the steppes of Mongolia, the forests of Siberia, and the Urals to Moscow and St. Petersburg. We'll cross over into Finland, hop on a ferry to Estonia, and buy (yes, BUY) a car. With said car, we'll meander across Eastern Europe for 6 weeks, catch a plane from Greece to Cairo, lead Beduins in an uprising against the Turks (oops, got carried away, sorry), and finally end up in Dubai befre heading back to London.

Kyle's introduction should also say that he is the mastermind behind this expedition- if it weren't for his invitation, extended only 5 weeks ago, for me to join him, I'd probably be spending the fall trolling Craigslist (for jobs!), sitting on my butt, and feeling listless and unfulfilled. As it happens, I'll probably be spending my winter doing just that, but if there's any reason to put off that fate, this trip would be it.

My expectations for this trip are none. All I know for sure is that whatever happens, I'll have amazing stories to tell, great photos and videos to share, and memories to last me more than this lifetime. Keep checking in- I'll be posting pictures regularly, and I'll also be making short videos of each of the different places we visit, for more of a intimate view of the sights and the joys (and surely the frustrations) of traveling.

Bags are packed, tickets are in hand, and the plane is warming up its engines. It's go time. Enjoy the stories.

-Matt

First off, apologies again for my lackluster blogging habits, and for leaving you all hanging about my time in Istanbul. I could write several posts about just my last few days there, but given that I'm short on time (for reasons that you'll discover soon), I'll just say that it was a wonderful break from my life in Barcelona, which put my teaching life behind me and gave me some perspective on my previous 9 months there. In my two weeks of travels, I met a lot of great people, drew up some future travel plans based on their advice, and had a fantastic time exploring Istanbul, one of the most fascinating places I've ever visited.

And now I'm back in Barcelona, soaking up my last full day as a resident of the city. My bags are 95% packed; my furniture is nearly all sold or pawned off; and I'm putting off taking down the posters on my wall until he last possible moment, as seeing bare walls would really make my impending departure that much more real.

The most frequent question I get asked when people know I'm going home is whether I'm sad to be leaving Barcelona. I really hate this question, not because it isn't valid (I would certainly be curious as well), but because any straight-forward answer would be too simplistic and leave out most of my real feelings. So the result is a rambling, convoluted mess of an answer that reflects my own unsettled thoughts about my feelings. Of course I'm sad to leave Barcelona- my time here has been one extended adventure since I arrived in September, and I'm just getting to the point where I feel like I know- really KNOW- the city and could almost call myself a local. My job here was engaging and interesting, with the added benefit of allowing my to support myself on 20 hours a week of work. The friends that I've made here are some of the closest people in my life, people from whom I've learned an immense amount. In short, I wouldn't trade my experience living in Barcelona for anything in the world.

So am I sad to leave the city? Yes. But I'm also excited to go back home. One aspect of living abroad is that when faced with a different culture and set of habits from the ones that you're used to from home, you end up reflecting a lot on your old way or life, and and you challenge your preconceptions on how the world, and by extension you, should work. Through this process, you realize one of three things- I really like things in this new country; I really like things in my old country; or I like things from both countries. Not to sound like Uncle Sam, but after nearly a year in Spain, I've come out feeling more American than before. I miss BBQ ribs, weekday afternoon baseball games, and the undeniable convenience of American shopping. I miss friendly, positive attitudes, a sense of destiny, and the belief that tomorrow will undoubtedly be better than today. And most of all, I miss my family, my friends, and my home.

This year has been an incredible learning experience. Among other things, I've learned how to talk constructively to children, and the related fact that kids are not dogs; how to manage my own finances; and how to live independently, and in a foreign language to boot. I've developed a new-found appreciation for European style; expanded my pork-related cooking repertoire by 800%; and come to enjoy shopping in open-air produce markets. I've conquered the manual transmission (in a medieval Italian city!); discovered my inner interior designer; and realized that the best way to learn a new language is to make a continuous fool of yourself for almost a full year.

There's a lot more that I can write now, but I'm off to prepare for my last Barcelona experience. And this one's a doozy- the first concert on U2's new worldwide tour. Sure, the new album kinda blows, and we'll be sitting too far away to see or hear much of anything, but at least I can take solace in the fact that when Bono closes the show with "Beautiful Day" (which he just HAS to do), he'll be singing it just for me. And what an end to my Barcelona year that will be.

I'm back on the roof of the hostel after my third full day in Istanbul, and it's about time I write down all of the incredible things I've seen here before they all blend together and it's too late.

The Hagia Sophia, on the other hand, is no letdown at all. Yes, from the outside it looks like a pile of bricks and butresses (built to keep the dome from falling in for the 4th time) and I was expecting the inside to disappoint, but what it lacks in outside appearances it more than makes up for with its interior. Simply and crudely put, its GIRNORMOUS- which is especially impressive considering that half of it is taken up by floor to ceiling scaffolding due to restoration work. If Istanbul is a place where East meets West, then the Hagia Sophia is the collision point- built in 540 AD under a Christian Roman Emperor, you can still see 1000 year old mosaics on the walls and ceilings; turned into a mosque after the Muslim conquest in 1450, there are huge panels with Arabic script hanging from the walls. I could keep writing forever about how breathtaking it is, and pictures don't really do it justice- the only way to get the full picture is to see it yourself.


My last big stop on the first day was the Bascilica Cisterns, which outdate the other two but are a new addition to the tourist route, having recent been discovered and restored only 20 years ago. Basically, what is it is a huge underground water storage room, but built with way more craftmanship than it really deserves. Columns pillaged from Roman temples; column bases made out of Medusa faces; beautifully vaulted ceilings; dim lighting to make it all seem even more mysterious; and best of all on a hot day, 65 degree temps. Props to Alex and Andrea for giving me the heads up on this- the Bascilica Cisterns definitely rival the other two destiniations on the day.


On the way back to my hostel for the day, I made one last stop- the little Hagia Sophia, a church-turned-mosque built at the same time at its big brother. But unlike the real Hagia Sophia, this one was free of the tourist hoards- or really any tourists, for that matter. It had also just been restored, so the inside as perfectly preserved, with painted Muslim designs on the ceiling above columns still displaying the monogram of the Byzantine emperor who built it. In addition to being quiet and clean, it's also an active mosque, which led to a really cool moment: taking pictures of the interior of the mosque while someone was praying (which sounded vaguely like a Jewish prayer), putting the amazing acoustics on full display. Sadly, the moment was interrupted when the caretaker decided that that it would be a perfect time to vacuum the floor. Oh well, it was cool while it lasted.

Day two and three, next up...

Why hello there. It's been a while, hasn't it? I feel that I owe you all an apology, but instead of that, I'll jump right into whats been going on in my life the past month (and flesh out the title of this post a bit).

Springtime in Barcelona has been fab. The weather's turned from intermittently sunny and warm/overcast and cold to a steady partly cloudy and 75 degrees, to the extent that I don't even need to look at the weather forecast to know what I'll need to wear. I've been taking advantage of the weather to do the things I've neglected to do up until- tan at the beach, play ping pong on the outdoor tables scattered around the city, lunch on sidewalk cafes. The company on these activities hasn't been bad, either. I've made a handful of new friends, including David, an American who's here on a research fellowship to study linguistic nationalist movements, but he seems to spend most of his time wandering the city and tempting me with new adventures. My super-cool friend Elena also stopped by for a week on her way back from a semester spend doing research in rural Senegal. I can't even begin to imagine the culture shock that she must have experience on her return to civilization, but part of what makes her super-cool is her cheery disposition and positive attitude, and it was great to catch up over tapas, the riots on Las Ramblas after Barça won the European Club Soccer Championships, and day trips to the countryside.

On the job front, I'm happy to report that I no longer have one. I gave my boss three weeks notice in mid-May, and I was let go at the end of that month after he found my replacement. I expected that I'd be a little more upset about this than I actually was, but at the same time, I haven't found ti that liberating, either. I suppose that just living in Barcelona and working 20 hours a week is liberating enough; additionally, with my clock ticking down on my time in Europe (just three more weeks left), it was a matter of time before my employment had to come to an end.

Now that I am uncommitted and independent, I'm backpacking around Europe for the first time since I've moved over here. I spent three days in Oxford, England, visiting my close friend Jason, who's there doing a Ph.D. in politics. I was taken aback at how much I liked Oxford- it's the prototypical university town, a mix of Yale and Hogwarts, and about the only place where college students can live in a real castle. Jason showed me a fantatic time, taking us punting (think Venetian gondoliers, but without the uniforms or class), allowing me to peek my heads into all the Gothic colleges around town, and introducing me to such Oxfordian pursuits as formal college dinners and pints at The Truf (the pub where Bill Clinton didn't inhale).

And after a 12 hour trip, I now find myself in Istanbul, looking out at sunset onto Asia across the Bosphorus, listening to the evening call to prayer being sung from the minarets of the Blue Mosque. I can't really give too detailed of a description, since I haven't wandered far from my hostel yet, but so far, the striking things about the city have been its minarets, flags, and water. Flying into the city and driving into it, you can see hundreds of slender and elegant minarets piercing the sky above the city, and the mosques that they're attached to are made of overlapping, seemingly floating domes. Turkish flags are everywhere- this country is as nationalist as it's made out to be- and from the roof of my hostel I can make out four GIANT one about 5 miles away. And water- it's hard to say strongly enough just how much the Bosphorus shapes the city, both in its layout, and in its character. Orhan Pamuk, in his memoirs of growing up here, writes that the Bosphorus is the oul of the city, and from my 6 hours here it's hard to disporve that claim. Once I walk around tomorrow, though, I'll be sure to check it out in more depth.

I'm in a great state of mind now, refreshed by my time in England (being surrounded by English was such a treat), and ready to dive into another culture. If you have any tips on what I can do here, don't hesitate to let me know.

Apologies for not posting more frequent and timely updates. I would make the excuse that my life here is uneventful, normal, and boring, but the truth of the matter is that I've just been too lazy and unmotivated to post. Let's fix that...

Two weekends ago, I went with my Sardinia companion and general travel buddy Grant to Malta. A little geographical background- Malta is a country just south of Sicily made up of three islands, but whose total land area is only about 300 square miles (about the size of Queens). It's a little difficult to conceptualize just how small a 300 square mile country is without seeing it for yourself, but as a rough idea, from Malta's highest point, you can see over half of the country. On a map, the lone airport's runway seems to run half the length of the main island. And traveling from one end of the country to the other by a public bus and ferry takes about 2 hours. On bad roads. With traffic. Get the picture?


The inspiration for this trip was Grant's desire to visit North Africa or someplace near it to practice his Arabic, but the motivation for the trip came from the €10 roundtrip tickets we found on Ryanair's website. (How they make money selling tickets that cheap is beyond me, but I only wish they could do that in the States, too.) Between the time when we bought the tickets and actually got on the plane, I did some reading on Malta, which gave me the impression that Malta was like England, but with more sun and religion- it's an Anglophone country, is famous for its beaches and nightlife, and is incredibly Catholic. Reading these description, I convinced myself that going to Malta would be a good preview of what I would be like to return home and deal with the culture shock. People speaking English all the time, food that doesn't all contain ham, American meal schedules- I was psyched about visiting a US-lite.

But oh boy, was I ever wrong. Malta is by far the most unique, eccentric place that I've ever visited, and my expectations could not have been more wrong. Some general impressions:

• Malta is technically an Anglophone country, thanks to being an English colony up to its independence in 1964. But the language that we heard most often was Maltese, which sounds like Arabic, but with an Italian accent. If you're trying to imagine how that sounds, just think of someone speaking a slurred Hebrew and randomly accenting various syllables while gesticulating wildly. And if that sounds strange, the way Maltese is written is even stranger. Total gibberish to an outsider. The langauge is a result of Malta's history- because of its strategic location, it's been fought over for thousands of years, and at various points has been ruled by the Phonecians, Romans, Arabs, Italians, French (for two months), British, and anyone else who wanted to control the Mediterranean.
• SO CATHOLIC. I was expecting this before coming, since Malta was ruled for a few centuries by the Knights of Malta, a super Catholic order whose members were European nobility. It's said that Malta has one church for every 1,000 people (or 400 churches for a population of 400,000), but the reality never hit me until we arrived and saw that the skyline was composed almost entirely of steeples and crosses, literally one per city block (we counted 13 just from our hotel window). And these were not small churches; on the contrary, they were all substantial buildings, especially one on the island of Gozo which supposedly is one of the biggest domes in the entire world- you could literally see it from half of Malta.
• SO OLD. In addition to all of the countries that have ruled Malta in recorded history, there are also megalithic ruins from an unknown civilization that date from before Stonehenge. And these aren't just piles of stones- they are entire buildings (including the world's oldest free standing ones), catacombs, and temples which were all intricately carved and painted, and whose designs you can still see today. These ruins are everywhere- some were found when farmers stuck shovels in the ground- and just incredible to see. The most impressive one was the Hypogeum at Hal-Saflieni, a three story temple/burial chamber carved entirely underground, and designed to look similar to the above ground temples of the time, 4,000 years ago. You can't help after seeing these sites, especailly the Hypogeum, rethinking your conception of the ancient world, and wondering what other things that they were capable of doing, which didn't survive the years.
• SO CHEAP. As unexpected as everything else was in Malta, nothing could have prepared me for the ridiculously cheap prices on just about everything in the country. Our deluxe hotel room with views of the Grand Harbour? €50. A delicious, filling lunch with drinks? €7. Bus fare from the capital, Valletta, to any point in the country? Less than 80¢. And while admissions to historical sites and museums wasn't dirt cheap, they did give 50% student discounts. After me playing Grant's sugardaddy in Sardinia, it was nice that neither of us had to worry about money the entire trip.

So now back to the travelogue. Grant and I arrived in Malta bright and early on Saturday morning, took a bus to Valletta and checked into our hotel, and immediately set out to explore the city. Three hours later, with the city throroughly explored, we caught a bus (admittedly one of the most exciting parts of the day- Malta's buses are from the 1960, lack doors, are covered in handpainted designs, and have amazing names the the Duple Dominator, Tiger Cub, and Rocky) to the twin cities of Mdina and Rabat, where we checked out some Roman catacombs, ate some delicious Maltese pastries, and looked inside a couple of grossly oversized churches. A full day in the books, we caught the bus back to Valletta, napped and supped, and then caught an amazing stroke of luck. The annual fireworks was supposed to end of the day before Grant and I arrived, much to our disappointment. But due to "tehcnical difficulties" (i.e. prematurely exploding fireworks), the final night of the festival was pushed back to our first night in Malta- which, in a double stroke of luck, we got to enjoy from our hotel room window, which overlooked the Harbour. Note to my readers: You have not lived until you have seen 30 minute fireworks show choreographed to the Star Wars soundtrack.

The next day began with a 6:30am wake-up call to claim tickets to see the Hypogeum. Because of its fragile state, the government only allows 70 people per day in, which means that tickets sell out at least two weeks in advance. But being the sympathetic people that they are, the authorities leave open one tour a day for procrastinators like us. The catch? Having to get up a an ungodly hour the day before to claim the tickets, and having to pay €20 per person. But still, it was well worth it, and also a great opportunity to make friends with the other die-hard tourists. Tickets in hand, we decided to spend the day visiting the island of Gozo, the supposed home on Calypso's cave, and a bucolic escape from the only-slightly-less bucolic main island. This trip, however, required us to cross the entire country, a feat we accomplished on public buses in two hours for 80¢. Gozo proved to be a little too bucolic for our tastes, perhaps because it was Sunday and NOTHING was open, but it was a nice place to chill for a day.

On our last day in Malta was dedicated to seeing neolithic temples, walking around Valletta, and poking our heads in chuches to see what was inside (highlights included a Caravaggio painting, St. John's wristbone, and the column on which he was decapitated). Up to this point, nothing in the trip has done anything to make me feel like I was an an American-type country, or at least make me remember what it's like to be at home. So to solve this problem, we went to the Hard Rock Cafe. Trashy? Yes. The best BBQ I've had since leaving the US? Definitely. Any regrets? None whatsoever.

Our trip ended the next day with a mad dash to the airport, and a reminder of how cheap our airfare really was- the 15 minute taxi ride to the airport cost double what we paid for the 2 hour flight. We landed in Girona, said our goodbyes (until our next trip, anyone have exotic suggestions?), and I booked it back to Barcelona for a full day of teaching. All in all, it was an exhausting trip, but in the best possible way. I feel so lucky to have seen a culture and country so different than any I'd experienced before, and one that challenged my assumptions on history, human progress, Catholic ferverency, and general afforability. Now if only the rest of the world could be so cheap...

A lazy Saturday morning found me browsing the internet absentmindedly. Stumbling on this site, I saw a postcard confessional which had me kicking myself for not having thought of it earlier:


Granted, the vocabulary that my students learn does have a decidedly West-coast slant. Particular teaching highlights include "hella" and "hecka" as amplifiers, "chillin'" as a synonym for "hanging out", and "royally POed" to describe intense frustration. But I wish that I had been fiendish enough to intentionally mess with my students' vocabulary. I mean, how funny would it be to hear Spaniards talk about how "whack" a situation is?

So I'm sitting in the living room, reading some political blogs after having finished dinner. The radio's on in the background: it's tuned to the Champion's League soccer semifinal match between Barça and Chelsea, and Barça's losing 1-0. The result of this game will decide who will go on to the finals and have a chance to win the European soccer club title. Due to the vagaries of the competition rules, all Barça has to do to advance is tie; Chelsea needs to win. It's not too much of a stretch to say that nearly the entire city is tuned in to the match; there's nothing more dear to Barcelonans than their blaugrana.

Anyways, I'm sitting at my computer, when from out of nowhere and simultaneously, my flatmate starts screaming, car horns go off, and a cheer from what sounds like thousands of people erupts from outside. Barça had just scored the tying goal in the FINAL minute, and when the match was whistled over shortly thereafter, the pandemonium only intensified. Right now, just a minute after Barça officially moved onto the finals, I can still hear annoucers jabbering away excitedly on the radio, cheering from outside, fireworks, and car horns. If I didn't know the origin of these noises, I would fear for my safety.

As my stunned flatmate said, "Que fort." Que fort, indeed. I imagine I'll be hearing about this match for days, and I'll definitely be hearing its aftermath all tonight. I'm just glad that I don't have early classes tomorrow...

I normally don't post news articles on this blog, but something caught my eye today while I was browsing the New York Times:

Spain's top investigative magistrate opened an investigation into the Bush administration Wednesday over alleged torture of terror suspects at Guantanamo Bay.

Judge Baltasar Garzon said documents declassified by the new U.S. government suggest the practice was systematic.

Garzon said he was acting under Spain's observance of the principle of universal justice, which allows crimes allegedly committed in other countries to be prosecuted in Spain. [...]

In a 10-page writ, he said documents on Bush-era treatment of prisoners, recently declassified by the Obama administration, "reveal what had been just an intuition: an authorized and systematic plan of torture and mistreatment of person denied freedom without any charge whatsoever and without the rights enjoyed by any detainee."

There's a lot that I can (and probably should, but won't now) write about this, like whether the torture memos were justifiable, or whether Obama's decision to release them was wise. But since this blog focuses on Spain, I'll hold off on a US-centric angle and write instead from an across-the-pond perspective.

Judge Garzon might be the closest thing that Spain has to a government celebrity. He is Spain's preeminent jurist, and everyone that I've talked to not only knows who he is, but also seems to have a good opinion of him. You might have heard of Garzon before- he was the one who ordered the arrest of Augusto Pinochet, the former military dictator of Chile, on human rights abuses charges, which eventually lead to Pinochet's five-year detention in London.

I'm still not 100% clear on what legal authority he has to order the arrest of non-Spaniards who commit crimes outside of Spain, but he's known as a crusader for justice and for impartiality. That the Bush administration is in his crosshairs doesn't mean that it's a given that anyone will be brought to trail (even Pinochet returned to Chile, and the US would surely resist any extradition attempt); nevertheless, it can't be a good sign fo anyone, not the least the US' image in Europe and around the world.

Yoo, Bybee, and the other torture memo authors better not have any European vacations planned in the future. At least not any that don't have a Spanish jail on the itinerary.

It's a bit embarrassing that even after seven months here, I haven't written about Catalunya's number one obsession- el futbol. But over the past week, there have been two major matches which have given me a good look at the depth of this obsession, and I'm starting to grasp exactly why soccer is such a powerful force in this little corner of the world.

Bigger than ham, mushrooms, and pooping peasants, soccer is what Catalan life revolves around, and the most important team in its universe is FC Barcelona, or Barça for short. Barça plays in the top Spanish league, and this year it's sat atop the rankings since the season began in the fall. From what my flatmates tell me, this year has been an exceptional year- Barça routinely destroys its opponents, no small feat in La Liga, which is widely considered to be one of the top leagues in the world. Even to the untrained eye, you can't help but be impressed by the way that Barça plays. Its passes are crisp; the ball moves across the field with ease; the players look like they're toying with their opponents; and goals can only be described as spectacular. As an inexperienced soccer fan, there's no better way to become passionate for the game. Still, I wonder if I'm just setting myself up for disappointment. It's like learning to appreciate classical music by listening to Mozart play his own concertos: there's no better education, but afterwards nothing else can compare.

(As an aside, I'm surprised that soccer hasn't caught on in the US. It's not difficult to draw parallels between it and other American sports. Like baseball, it's a relatively static game punctuated by rapid spurts of action, and points/goals are few and far between. Like football, it's a physical sport with a rabid, involved fan base. And like basketball, there is consistent movement, with little stoppages of play. [Note: last comparison not valid in the 4th quarter of most NBA games.] )

Barça's success this year is not just of interest to those who are rabid soccer fans. Instead, the entire city is following the team's exploits, reading about the previous game on the Metro, talking about it at cafés, and watching every game on television. Tonight's game was demonstrative: a semifinals match in the Champoins Leage (a competition of the best club teams in Europe), and the city streets were deserted, stores closed early, and bars were packed with people watching the hometown team take on Chelsea, a top British club. Even the kids that I teach follow the team. The first thing my 8 year old asked me today was if I was watching the game. (Another student, a 6 year-old, can name Barça's entire roster.) If there is such a thing as a non-soccer fan in Catalunya, I'd love to see it.

The key to understanding Barça's appeal to Catalunyans can be found in its slogan, "Més que un Club." While many teams claim to represent more than just its owners desire to make money by overcharging on tickets and consessions, to people here, Barça is more than just a club. It's a symbol of Catalan sovereignty and pride, dating back to the Franco years when Catalan culture was severly repressed and nearly stamped out. Deprived of the ability to openly speak their language and celebrate their traditions, Catalans of all types gravitated towards the Barça football club to project their nationalist feelings and protest against the Dictadura. That's why today, the most heated rivalry in all of Spanish soccer is between Catalan Barça and the formerly Francoist RC Madrid, which was heavily supported (and even today still is) by the military and conservative types. When these teams play, life in Barcelona comes to a stand-still; the glow of TVs can be seen out of nearly every apartment window, and tensions run so high that normal conversation is impossible in the days leading up to a game.

If it's possible to read more into soccer than what's presented on the field, then the Barça football club reflects not only the Catalan identity as we see it today, but also it's development and self-definition over the past 75 years. It's not only a club, but a point of difference between Catalans and other Spaniards, who might never have had to experience the suffocating repression and subsequent rebirth of their culture. But enough about this; despite these deeper meanings, to Barça fans, only one thing matters: the final score of the last match.

No, this post does not refer to confusion regarding racism or the KKK (though these costumes found in Holy Week processions could lead to that uncertainty). But what does have me wondering if I have been transported to the South is some bizarre weather that's struck Barcelona this past week- namely, thunderstorms and hail.

In normal years, Barcelona doesn't get much in the way of rain. The large amount of rain that the city's received this year has been an anomaly, surprising the locals, though it's pretty normal by San Francisco standards. But things have gotten weird since I've been back from Sardinia. Last Friday night, there was a huge thunderstorm that hit the city for a few hours. For someone who hasn't heard thunder for almost a year, it was a shock for me, but oddly enough also made me feel less homesick, like I was visiting my relatives in Louisiana and not 5,000 miles away. Anyways, this storms caused some massive beach erosion, lots of fallen trees, and the papers even dropped a few mentions of the "G-W" phrase as a possible cause (if you're having difficulty, think Al Gore, not George W.).

This was followed up on Thursday by something even weirder: a hail-storm. In a span of five minutes, the day went from sunny and warm, to cool and end-of-days-ish. Pellet-sized bits of hail fell for about 5 minutes, completely interrupting a class I was holding, though no one really cared. And just as soon as it started, the hail stopped, the sun came out, and everyone acted as if nothing had happened (which might have been even more surprising than the weather in the first place).

At the least, the wild weather has made me feel a little more at home, and has made my days a little more unpredictable. It's also giving me a great excuse to plan some weather-themed lessons, which for an idea-starved teacher is the greatest gift of all. So it's time for my students to put their wellies on and go outside- though sadly there's no Southern BBQ as a reward for getting through class.