El Segundo
The port city of Marseille is a sweltering pit of despair compared to the relative comfort of Spain.
The last few days in Barcelona was an end. El Born, Parque de Guello and the extravagance of Gaudi. Just when I was becoming familiar with Spanish, and they go and change the lights on me while asleep, crawling through the muggy air. My dreams are no longer in English, and are ten times more visual then they were before.
The keyboard on a French keyboard is different. One has to shift and hit another key to get a period. The Q and the A are switched around, perhaps having to do linguistically with the alveolar sounds, or it could just be a convenient practice that fits in nicely with the language. Either way, keying on this thing is to cut fish with boxing gloves on.
The train ride was my last gasp of Spanish air, enjoying a bocadillo and a chilled can of Mahou beer. I spoke Spanish for perhaps the last time on this trip.
French for me is difficult, as my French is almost non- existent, yet vital for respect. It's funny; I’d get more respect as a slow Spaniard then as an American.
It's sweltering, and I am reminded of the heat present in Camus' the Stranger. Reminded even further when I think back to teaching it earlier in the school year. Discussing existentialism to 17 year-olds and they not understanding the overall theme of the work is kind of pointless. Without the key understanding of the Existential ideals presented in the work, apart from a somewhat consistent character study what else is there?
An American in Marseille who is tired, sweltering in her dirty ancient apartment. Too many rules to follow, so she stays inside most of the time practising her French by watching documentaries on Canal 5.
It's a great summer to be in Europe; and many things awaiting me when we return home. So many unanswered questions: Where will I teach, how will I do; will I still insist on too many words mashed into too many identities?
The last few days in Barcelona was an end. El Born, Parque de Guello and the extravagance of Gaudi. Just when I was becoming familiar with Spanish, and they go and change the lights on me while asleep, crawling through the muggy air. My dreams are no longer in English, and are ten times more visual then they were before.
The keyboard on a French keyboard is different. One has to shift and hit another key to get a period. The Q and the A are switched around, perhaps having to do linguistically with the alveolar sounds, or it could just be a convenient practice that fits in nicely with the language. Either way, keying on this thing is to cut fish with boxing gloves on.
The train ride was my last gasp of Spanish air, enjoying a bocadillo and a chilled can of Mahou beer. I spoke Spanish for perhaps the last time on this trip.
French for me is difficult, as my French is almost non- existent, yet vital for respect. It's funny; I’d get more respect as a slow Spaniard then as an American.
It's sweltering, and I am reminded of the heat present in Camus' the Stranger. Reminded even further when I think back to teaching it earlier in the school year. Discussing existentialism to 17 year-olds and they not understanding the overall theme of the work is kind of pointless. Without the key understanding of the Existential ideals presented in the work, apart from a somewhat consistent character study what else is there?
An American in Marseille who is tired, sweltering in her dirty ancient apartment. Too many rules to follow, so she stays inside most of the time practising her French by watching documentaries on Canal 5.
It's a great summer to be in Europe; and many things awaiting me when we return home. So many unanswered questions: Where will I teach, how will I do; will I still insist on too many words mashed into too many identities?
posted by Kronski | 2:13 AM
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