Update with Up Spirits

Today I write on paper! The library closed for siesta at a different time today, so I have an hour and a half to kill before I have power to run my computer again. I got emails done at least before my battery ran out, so now I just use the ol’ pen to write my thoughts.

This weekend I went to the coast, technically on the Mediterranean Sea, but pretty close to the Straights (Straits?) of Gibraltar. There I learned to dive. I’m now certified to dive down to 18 meters. Yeah, I learned to dive metrically, which means I logged everything in terms of Celsius, meters, and bars. Who knows what a bar is? I sure didn’t. Turns out I still don’t know because neither did my teacher. PSI is easy because it is pounds/square inch. It’s a mathematical equation. But a bar? He said he thinks maybe it’s a measurement of atmospheres. Like a full tank before diving is 200 bars of air… so 200 atmospheres? What the heck is an atmosphere? How do you measure that? I wish I knew.

This came from Simon, my instructor from England who sounds like a joke. I’m not being mean, because I literally intend to say that he just sounds like he must be joking when he opens his mouth. If he were to talk like that in the US, people would think he was putting on an act all the time. Like when he answers his phone, he’s mostly yelling in this overly happy, stereotypically British banter and I wanted to burst out laughing ever time. Turns out he might’ve just been a rarity, because Ria (Rhea?) who works in the shop (she’s getting her divemaster for free by working some in the shop and getting awesome internship experience) sounds a little calmer. Almost cynical.

Then there was Jake too. He was Scottish and about to start his divemaster (you can’t technically do divemaster until you’re 18 and Jake is only 17 for another couple of weeks). And Duncan, the older short diver who took me out for my first two open water dives. He didn’t have as much patience as Simon, which doesn’t surprise me any since Simon is one of those interminably happy people (hance the super-dorky, super-eager telephone voice) off of whom mean jokes and criticisms bounce. I’m not sure where Duncan is from, but he seemed to be getting upset at me quite a bit when I had trouble with the compass. What can I say? I was never allowed in Boy Scouts!

My lungs are back to normal. I think I have a tendency towards hypochondria, but I’m really good at keeping it in check. Anyway, the top 20 % of my lung capacity (as in the bit just before being completely full of air) hurt to fill. I could breathe shallowly without a problem, but if I sighed or breathed deeply there was a pain in my chest that had me worried. Plus, if I expelled most of my air and used the last bit to cough, that hurt too. So I researched all of the symptoms of lung over-expansion just to be safe and then waited it out a little, I feel fine now, but it did make me nervous because I don’t really know how to go to the doctor here yet. Sounds silly, but it is a concern. Health care is different and I have some sort of insurance, but I’m not sure how to use it just yet.

I was diving with some sort of sinus trouble, which I worried would prevent me from finishing, but I did okay. My nose would get stuffy at night, but it would be mostly clear during the day, although my first couple dives I came out of the water, took off my mask and I’m pretty sure I had snot all over my face, which I’m sure was just lovely. Duncan didn’t tell me about it, which is fine because I didn’te say anything about the smears of white snot on his face either. But I kept discovering stuff on my face, which was a real pleasure.

While in Torremolinos (the gay capitol of Spain) I had internet in my hostel, which made me happy. I got to Skype with loved ones some, which is proving to be difficult here in Castuera because of time difference. Also, I was invited to go out on the town with 13 intoxicated English (and one or two Scottish) chaps for a “Stag do.” This is the equivalent of our bachelor parties. But they were going to Benalmadena by taxi (a town ½ hour away) and I didn’t feel like spending the money to get stranded with 13 drunk and horny dudes when I had to dive early the next morning (call me crazy!). They seemed nice enough though. But I didn’t go, despite the drunken pleading! :)

I went out for breakfast with the dive crew on the last day. They took me to an English place and I ordered a typical English breakfast, which consisted of toast, egg, bacon (not like our bacon, it was more just like fried ham), baked beans, fried mushrooms and black pudding (oats, fat and blood). I drank coffee, which was not very British of me, but I couldn’t resist. Tea doesn’t usually make me as happy in the morning as coffee does.

I got stranded in the way home in Córdoba. I got a train from Torremolinos to Málaga and another super-smooth, super-cool train from Málaga to Córdoba. Then I found that the bus from Córdoba to Castuera only runs once a day, which means I was stuck there until 7AM the next morning. That wasn’t so bad though. I got internet for the night again, as well as Disney Channel mostly in English, beautiful clean white sheets, a clean towel, and a pristinely clean bathroom. They seem like simple things, but they really were amazing. I was certainly tired of hiking my backpack around in the rain looking for a cheap place to stay and when he said 30 euros and that was the best all the recommended hostels Lonely Planet could give me, I went for it.

But I did have to miss classes, which I felt pretty bad about. The headmaster of the school had a bad weekend when his mother fell and broke her arm, meaning that when I got into town at 10:30AM, the classes I would have actually made it to were cancelled or moved to another day, so that was a bummer.

And a bummer too for what my boss is going through. He’s so good with his parents. His father is old and crotchety and his mother has pretty severe Alzheimer’s, plus some depression as a result. At night when they come home from their daycare type arrangement, Gregorio (headmaster/boss) gets down on his knees in front of his mother, who has a hard time focusing her eyes on him, and he asks her basic questions to exercise her mind (what is your name, what is my name, how much do I love you). She doesn’t get these right usually, but he’s patient and gives her hints, sounding out the first letters of his name and waiting for her to guess.

I can’t imagine that. He kisses her forehead and hugs her and babys her, but I can’t imagine it’s easy for him. She sits on the couch staring at the TV with unseeing eyes and cries. Tears streak her face as she mumbles something unintelligible about life. It makes me want to cry and I am just filled with so much respect for Gregorio because he deals with that every day.

My own grandma is beginning to be forgetful. At first she was just asking the same question multiple times in one visit, then she was mixing up my brothers and couldn’t remember which of her sons they belonged to. Then she started to forget them entirely, which makes visiting hard. She has just started forgetting me, which makes me pretty sad. And repeating something 12 times during a half-hour visit is not uncommon. And no, 12 is not an exaggeration.

Everything in Spain is just a little different. Windows and doors are different. Shopping carts are different. Even the English is different. At first I thought they sounded funny because they were being taught English by non-native speakers, but now I am realizing that they have just been learning British English. They say things like “Hello” when seeing someone (yeah, you think that’s not so weird, but try saying “hello” and not “hi” or “hey” when it’s not answering the telephone or meeting someone new in a professional situation… trust me, it feels weird, it sounds so long and hard to get out) and “I’ve got two brothers” (Dave-bo, perhaps You’ve Got Mail sounds so wrong because it is British English and not American English).

They use the metric system, which means that when someone tells me the weather or how far something is, I still have no freaking clue. It means nothing to me. I think we ought to teach that stuff a little better in school.

Everything is tiled. The sidewalks are tile. The house is tiled. The backyard is tiled. It makes everything feel cleaner. There are no places for dirt to just lurk, unless someone really doesn’t clean ever.

And now I must spend the next month or so not spending a dime. I have about 10 euros in my pocket and I don't want to spend anything more than that until I get paid and I can stop getting slaughtered by exchange fees. I woulda had 30 more euros if not for that hotel in Cordoba, but oh well, it was unavoidable. I think I'll be eating little for a while. Fun.

I don’t really know that I can write much more right now. Another time, perhaps. And so I guess now is a good time to publish my CURRENT mailing address. I don’t know how long I will be at this address, so check in if you intend to send someone in more than a week. Put it in the following format and it SHOULD work, but I don’t really know. I’m hoping.

Emily Kuhl
C/ Pedro de Valdivia N° 6
Castuera (Badajoz) 06420
España

Thanks for the good thoughts and love you’re sending me. It’s getting me through. Chao!

Emily