Something in the Water....

Sometimes I feel like a celebrity when I walk through the halls of the school where I spend the most time as a substitute. On my way to whichever class I'm headed to in the morning, nearly every child greets me,

Hello children! 

"Hello Miss Barry!" 

A 6th grader noticed my new haircut the other day. The secretary loaned me a dollar once for a soda, and when I paid her back we became buddies.
The teachers know me and have my phone number, so I usually spend 2-3 days each week at this school.

And with so much time spent in one place, I've noticed something.

Twins.

The number of identical twins in this school is unlike any other place I've experienced. In preschool alone, there are three sets of twins. That means out of 16 children in one room, 6 look exactly like another one. And of course, every mother with identical 4-year-olds dresses them in identical outfits. Perhaps with different-colored shoelaces to remember who is who. By the end of a long-ish stint with them, I was almost to the point where I could look for other subtle differences in facial structure before checking the shoelaces. Which one are you?

Like this, but not evil. Usually.

4th grade has two sets of identicals split up between two classes. So when my homeroom 4th grade walks out and the one next door walks in, it looks to me like two of my students left and came right back in to sit down.

5th grade has a set.

So does 6th.

All identical.

In such a small school, I can't get over how many classrooms get to enjoy watching Miss Barry call students by the wrong name--and not just because of my "accent."

Two weeks ago at this same elementary, I had the pleasure of teaching little 3rd grade Cody's class. Cody didn't like it when I couldn't pronounce his name the way he liked (still a puzzle, not tryin' to solve it). Yesterday I was responsible for the other 3rd grade class. There's always at least one troublemaker, but this time the child who consistently gave me the most sass all day long looked oddly familiar, but it didn't hit me until the end of the day.

"Hey Calvin*...do you have a brother?"

Calvin informed me that yes, he did have a brother, and yes--he was just one door away.

"His name's Cody. He's my twin."

Your mother has to deal with TWO of you?

There are two of them.


At least I can pronounce Calvin's name to southern standards.

*Names are changed. I'm not try'na get sued here.

Excessive Mischief

Kindergarten is a special age.

I spent two days with such a class this week, where I was reminded just what beautiful, blank slates we humans are when we begin life at school. Adorable, sweet, loving, germy and mischievous little slates. An age where everyone gets a sweet magnetic car with his or her name on it, and the placement of such a car on the classroom stoplight reflects their daily behavior.
Green, yellow, or red.
Where's your car gonna be today?

"I warned you three times to stop distracting your friends during Quiet Time, and you didn't listen. Nicholas, you have to move your car to the green light."

Instant hysterics.
"NO! Miss Barry! Give me another chance!"

Nicholas throws himself to his knees and clings to my skirt.

*I solemnly vow to never, ever never exaggerate or tell untruths when I write this blog. Everything I say here actually happened just the way my words describe it.*

"I be good now!"

This child is sobbing at my feet. His wet little cheeks are bright red, and I honestly don't believe I've seen a more pitiful sight in my life.

"I be good now Miss Barry. Another chance and I be good now!"

This is the same child who walked out of the principal's office with a different set of bright red cheeks just a few hours earlier.

That's because it's OK to paddle the students.

You guys.

IT'S OK TO PADDLE THE STUDENTS.

With parental permission, of course. Permission slip for a PG-13 movie, permission slip for field trips, permission slip for letting me use this piece of wood on your child.

The only way I knew little Nicholas had felt the wrath of the board was because he brought back an official note to tell me so.

Under the "reason" section, the bus driver had checked "excessive mischief."

Love it.

Flashback to two months ago at a different school, when I first started this subbing gig. The "after-school" kids had evidently been pretty bad the day before, because the After-School Boss Lady was not happy with them. Still unsure how I got lumped into after-school police duty, and becoming more sure by the minute that I had to escape--but how?--I watched her swing around an old-fashioned wooden paddle.

The kind we Greek kiddos (college days whoa, I'm old now) used to decorate real cute-like and give to our Big Bro/Big Sis. Like, as a joke. As in, "Ha-ha! People used to do this but now we don't because it's socially unacceptable and they'll sue your ass for using it! Ha-ha-ha!"

What I thought to be idle threats from Angry After-School Lady have turned out to be real, concrete punishments. And oh man, if you step outta line--you better hope your mama isn't cool with a stranger hitting you.

Back to kindergarten:

Nicholas is in such hysterics in front of his classmates that he finds himself incapable of getting up off the carpet. Had this been the first time I witnessed such a sight, I may have given him a fourth chance. But Nicholas was just as upset when I asked him to "move his car" the day before when a similar incident occurred.

And there are 20 other sets of wide eyes just waiting for Miss Barry to be weak so The Overthrow can commence.

After about a minute of wailing on the floor, I'm finally able to convince Nicholas to stand up. He stumbles tearfully over to the stoplight on the wall, picks up his magnetic car, and places it on the green magnet sticker.

You know what happens when you reach the green magnet sticker?

Nothing.

Nicholas returns to his desk. Until Quiet Time is over, the only sounds I hear are his despairing--but quiet--sobs.

To be clear, this is the same Nicholas who had absolutely no visible reaction to the whaling his little bottom had received that morning. None.

Man, if my mom called the school at 9:35 in the morning to tell my principal it was okay to paddle my bottom when I was any age at all, I certainly wouldn't email her a link to my blog.

Thanks, Mom and Dad. You guys have always been very nice when it comes to this kind of thing.

"Well, you didn't want to move your magnetic car..."

Now, with all my disbelief about corporal punishment still being legal here, I had to do my research. And Alabama isn't alone--she's among 19 states that allow it.

Idaho is included in those states. 

....But of course we are.

Looks like I need to peel off the cute little stickers my Greek Little put on my Big/Lil paddle before I get back to Idaho.

New Job, New Probs

Hello world!

After attempting to get a "real job" in elementary schools, I was informed that my elementary education degree doesn't really mean so much anywhere other than Idaho.

Because I don't plan on staying here forever, I opted to not spend hundreds of dollars on state exams. So, after passing a mandatory tuberculosis test and proof that I graduated high school (whew), I am a certified substitute teacher down here in The South.

And I look just like this.

People ask me if there could actually be enough teachers absent every day for people like me to make a living babysitting classrooms. The answer is yes, there are enough teachers absent every day. Making a living is a different story, but I am still here--living--so yes. I am making a living. Just a substantially lower living than substitute teachers in nearly every other state.

Thaaaaanks Alabama.

Each day begins with a prayer for patience, followed by a power struggle as I walk into a new room full of new faces and new names. My northern accent has grown-ups guessing I'm from Wisconsin or Canada. The kids think I'm from...well. I'll get to that.

Apparently, we Yankees (but am I a Yankee?) just cannot pronounce things correctly.

It is so awesome how ticked off some of these little country kids can get if I mispronounce their name.

Taking attendance: arguably the most challenging part of my day.

"Cody. Is there a Cody here?"

"No, my name is Cody."

"Coldy?"

Roll Tide!

"No! Cody. C-o-d-y. Not Coldy."

"I said Cody the first time."

"You said it wrong. It's Cody."

Something about the way the local accent (oh, and don't get me started on Sawyer. SAW-yur? Saw-YOUR? I'll never get it right here) enunciates some mysterious part of that name makes every student in the class call out, "No Miss Barry, that's not right!"



Whatever kid. I've got bigger fish to fry, like the child who has taken the sharp part off his ruler and is dueling with his unarmed neighbor's face.
His face.
Come. ON. Didn't kids stop doing that when I was in 3rd grade?

Anyway, Cody (CO-dy) loudly challenges me: "Miss Lady d'you go for Alabama or Auburn?"

The class is simply not prepared for my response.

"Actually, I don't care. I don't go for either."

I wish I had never exaggerated when story-telling, because I am telling the absolute gospel truth when I say that the entire class gasped collectively in absolute horror.

"What do you mean?" 

The concept is just not familiar to them. The culture here is all about Alabama and Auburn football. Being someone who doesn't care about football, or really any sport--I prefer things I'm good at, thank you--I'm not about to pretend to choose a rivalry team here.

"I'm from Idaho. I go for the Vandals."

My man Joe

This bit of news inspires a fresh round of questions from the room.

"Miss Barry do you have those things--those pointy things, they're not hills...um..."

"Mountains?"

"Do you speak Spanish?"

"Is it cold there?"

Yes. We have the mountains. And yes, I speak Spanish--though I don't know how that relates to the conversation. I draw a quick outline of Idaho on the board and explain a little more about the gem state.

I forget about the whole thing until lunchtime, when once again Cody and I are at battle with his name.

"Cody, straight line please."

"Miss Barry that ain't my name! It's CO-dee. Not Co-DEE!"

Another student pipes up in my defense. "Be nice to Miss Barry, she's from a different country!"

Wait.

They think Idaho is a different country. 

Throw in potatoes, and it's actually pretty accurate.

That's okay kids.

I guess American History isn't until 5th grade anyway. 

According to Plan

I have a degree.
This particular thought dashes across my mind at least 3-5 times a day. It's not because five months after walking across the prestigious stage of the University of Idaho graduation ceremony I am still euphoric that I joined the 6.7% of the world with a college degree.
This thought usually crosses my mind when I am changing urinal cakes.
Urinal cakes.
Or when dealing with a customer whom I would like to send to time-out.
Because I work in the fast food industry.

Though my sweet Little Grandma has passed on to heaven, thus shrinking any chance this blog will be read by real humans by about half, I am using this blog to come out to the world.
Hello world!
Not only do I hold a college degree, I also hold two minimum-wage jobs and a humbled sense of self.

The plan was this:
1. Graduate!
2. Move to Alabama *cue banjo music*
3. Develop sweet southern drawl and enjoy the hospitality
4. Get dat money

The plan has gone more like this:
1. Graduate!
2.Move to Alabama *cue banjo music*
3. Use "y'all" way more than could be considered appropriate
4. Scrape...dat....money

Hello world! I am a (fairly) fresh college graduate, whose immediate post-graduation professional life is not going quite according to plan. This blog started two years ago in Spain as an online journal for my family to read about my fabulous adventures. Now, I'm using it as a therapeutic outlet to drum up the drama and turn my southern happenin's into...fabulous adventures.

Nobody cared....

I have a degree. But nobody seems to care right now. So Blanquita is back, y'all.


....I'm pretty sure that's how you spell "y'all."

Mommy & Me

About halfway through May, just as my ISA program in Sevilla ended, my mom's own flight to Europe landed in Brussels, Belgium.  She had seen my pictures, read my blog (some of them, anyway), and decided that all that plus Skype was just not enough Courtney time for her.  Thus began the best mother-daughter duo to hit Europe since the time we visited Belgium when I was six.  As it turned out, Mom and I are so popular that we were able to spend our days hopping around Europe and our nights with friends and family.  

Because of The-Event-That-Should-Not-Be-Named, during which time my camera would never be seen by my eyes again (blog post: Don't Mention the War), Dad was nice enough to send his camera with Mom so I could continue to illustrate my memories abroad with words and photos.  

Forewarning: My mom is a babe, but taken.  Sorry, boyz.

First Stop: Brussels, Belgium

Housing: The De Michelis Fam!

Activities: Talking, walking, resting, and eating.

Aunt Carrie and me :)

Aunt Carrie and I greeted my mom at the Brussels (not Charleroi--Mom flew by way of a real airline) with an obnoxiously bright WELCOME sign and lots of hugs.  My mom had some jet lag to recover from, so our first few days were rather restful.  It was wonderful to see Carrie, Nicola, and Julie again (Hey Julie! Next time don't be sick, huh?), enjoy more bomb pasta, and walk around their beautiful neighborhood. Our time was unfortunately too short with family, but we did manage to talk plenty over some excellent red wine.

Second Stop: Sevilla, Spain

Housing: Mama Rosa

Activities: All the touristy stuff, which can mainly be summed up by the following pictures...

Atop "The Mushroom," enjoying the view. 

Some things we discovered whilst strolling throughout the beautiful streets of Sevilla:

Plaza de España--look familiar? Then you've seen Star Wars Episode II.

a. Mom's ultra-cute wedges are completely inappropriate when walking constantly for seven hours every day.
b. The betchy Spanish shoe store ladies thought my mother's shoe size was amusing.  Every time I asked for a larger size (damn those American-European shoe size conversions!), we were met with a round of snickers and smirks.  So she did not invest in a pair of more comfortable shoes.
c. We share the same style of travel: walk around, have a drink. Look at stuff, have another drink. And so on.
d. Because Mom's feet hurt so much, this eventually turned into sitting, looking at stuff, and having several drinks at a time.

Cruzcampo with bendy straws in Matalascañas

The legendary heat of Sevilla really got cranking by our second day in Spain. This brought me back to the first few weeks in Sevilla, when Sarah and I nearly froze to death in Rosa's marble home. Then, I had thought that the heat-rejecting marble would keep out the heat in the hotter months.

No such luck.



Thankfully, Rosa handed us the A/C remote to our room (with very specific instructions for when and how to use it), so we were able to survive the 100°F nights.

Even so, after sweating profusely for three days, we were more than ready to board a Vueling flight to Gent and fall into the comforting arms of Nathalie.

Everyone's gotta see the cathedral.

Third (and final) stop: Gent, Belgium
Housing: Nathalie's house!
Activities: Copious amounts of catching up, eating, and touring the cities of Gent and Brugge.

Look at how attractive my international family is.

Nathalie and my neefs.

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of knowing who Nathalie is, she stayed with my family as a Rotary exchange student when she was 18 years old.  Now, she lives in Gent with her two wonderful children Berend and Lowie, my neefs (cousins).  Now that I'm not two years old anymore, and my mom is no longer her mother figure, we are all besties.

Yeah, that's a medium.

Brugge is beautiful!  But, not as good as Gent.

Of course, all good things must come to an end sometime.  So at 5am we said a tired but very sad "See ya later," to Nathalie, hauled my mother and all her things off to the airport, and played Gin Rummy with Idaho potato cards until it was her time to go back to America.

Happy Mother's Day to the best mom I know!

Crash landing

I've been back in the United States of America for 23 days, and have yet to wrap up my End of Europe Extravaganza. That's because June has been even more eventful than my semester abroad.

It's funny, my parents worried about me constantly from January 10th all the way to the 8th of June, when I returned to my hometown in Idaho. Then they stopped. Who needs to worry about their kids when they're right in front of you? Well, that's when the real drama began.

First Day Back in My Real World

- Work out (oh, so this is what a gym looks like...riiiight.)
- Earn money ("Welcome to Napa!")
- Have some after-hours fun cruising around on the boat
- Be launched from boat (no but really, launched.)
- Be rescued by brother Nick
- Experience helicopter ride to St. Alphonsus Regional Medical Center

Nautique parking.

After Europe, I no longer have any shame.

It must have been all the leftover prayers from my time in Europe that saved us, because somehow we were all okay. I was the worst off, but five staples, two days, one fractured skull, a lacerated liver, and countless colorful bruises later, I was released from the hospital to take on the world again. With the aid of lots of painkillers. Which were nice.

Today was staple-remover day, and in two weeks I will once more be free to run, jump, roll down hills, and generally frolic around like I'm used to doing.

This is my excuse post.

Now that I'm back in the game of life, prescription drug-free, and with loads of time on my hands as I have few friends and fewer things I'm allowed to do (doctor's orders: no fun), I shall blog about the last weeks of my EuroTrip.

So stay tuned, Grandma...I mean, folks.

Now that these are out, I can wear sunglasses again!

Don't Mention the War

It's been over a month since my trip to Munich and Prague, and zero pictures, stories, or references have been made to the countries of Germany and the Czech Republic on Facebook, Blogger, Twitter, and whatever other forms of media the kids are using these days.

I wanted it that way. 

However, now that I have had appropriate time to process, heal, learn, and (somewhat) move on from the events that occurred between the dates of April 26th and May 3rd, I finally feel that I can open up to the blog.

You see, things happened on that trip.

Munich & Prague Plan

Thursday, 4/26: Fly RyanAir from Faro --> Munich (No, it's actually Memmingen) 

Friday, 4/27: Morning bus to Prague (by recommendation from Joe Di Lucca, "Dude, Prague is so sick.")

Saturday, 4/28: Play in Prague

Sunday, 4/29: Evening return bus to Munich

Monday, 4/30: Frolic around the May Day poles in Munich  

Tuesday, 5/1: See famous Neuschwanstein Castle in Munich

                      Fly Memmingen--> Faro

                      Bus to Sevilla

                      Finish homework and prepare for next day's classes

It all went fine until disaster struck.

I dearly wish I could post our pictures in order to prove that one of the most fun weekends of my life did indeed occur.  But because of the events that were to come, all I have to show for it is a postcard and one picture taken by Monica's lomo.  So I've improvised.

We'd practiced the May pole dance for weeks.

Prague is one of the most beautiful cities I've seen.  We drank Pilsner-Urquell and played cards while the sun set behind the city of Prague, had a fun night with Sarah, Matt and the crew, checked Bar Crawl in Prague off our bucket list, had another Local Night, and paddle boated the Vltava River in a swan.

To top it off, we stayed in such a nice hostel that I never once had fear of bed bugs, and breakfast was delicious.  If you stop by Mosaic House on your travels one day, ask for David at the bar and namedrop Idaho.  

Look at how much fun we're having!

Munich had the potential to be even better.

Monica and I explored the beer gardens of the city, which are basically giant grassy knolls with an area where you can buy massive liters of beer, play cards, and eat sausage, pretzels, and cheese sauce. In short, Munich was made for us.  We met my friend Hilary (Thetas around the world!) for drinks at the May Day festival and fell in love with all the beautiful men in lederhosen.  From there, we took a couple metros to meet Hilary's boyfriend and roommates in yet another beer garden.  We had a lovely traditional meal and nice conversation.

Around 1am, we parted ways at a big hill that bears such an uncanny resemblance to the one on Halo I's Blood Gulch (all the way to the side of the map, where those little cliff paths are, just before the blue base) that Monica and I had to check it out.

The following took place between 1:00am and 4:00am:

Just a map reference for my gamer friends.

"Bye friends! We're going to roll down the hill, so..."

"Hello, gaggle of 15-year-olds in lederhosen and pigtails--why yes, I'd love to be your best friend!"

"Where are my shoes?"

"The teenagers will help us find them!"

"Hey...where is my purse?  

...Where's your purse?"

"I'm staying here until it's light out and we can find them!"

"You can't sleep here."

"Hello, um, officer? So, we're in the middle of a park and our wallets, money, credit cards, and passports were stolen...no, I don't know where we are...can you pick us up?"

Look, a wild hedgehog!

"Hey random stranger, have you seen two purses?  No?  Um, thanks for the €1.30..."

"The police say they're not a taxi service."

"Look! A hedgehog!  Let's pet it!!"

"I shall name you Sonic, little hedgehog."

"So that guy over there has been pacing and watching us...he's now making a phone call...let's get out of the dark and deserted park, eh?"

"He's following us."

"Hey again police, so we're on the corner of Ausgang and Heigenslooten and there's a guy following us.  Can you pick us up?"

"Get in the taxi!"

"Really, you'll take us back to the hostel for free?!"

I have to recommend our hostel in Munich as well.  Although not quite up to par as far as cleanliness goes (eh, what's a little mold in the shower?), the staff is wonderful.  Specifically, my best friend Frenec at the front desk.  He's a Sim because he is always at the front desk, working.  Since he so kindly let me use hours and hours of the hostel phone and internet for free, I was able to make some necessary contact with my homeland.

The hours of 4:00am - 7:00am were spent on the phone with the U.S. embassy (guess what--it's a holiday) and my parents, cancelling passports and credit cards.

You know, I never thought I'd make a police report at a German police station.  Checking that one off the bucket list, because at 7:30am that's exactly what we did.  

I bet you don't have a picture like this.

Reported as Stolen

-Passport
-Camera (hence the illustrative creativity present in this post)

-Cash

-Credit cards

-Identification

-Czech pebbles

-Dignity

The rest of the day consisted of...

-Feeling terrible

-Kicking selves

-Finding access to money at the only Western Union open on a holiday

-Retracing steps

-Feeling worse

-Missing flight

-Detailing possible options for getting home at the internet café

-Returning to hostel, where Frenec tells us...

"Hey, I heard the good news.  Your stuff has been turned in!"

 What.

Not daring to believe him, we followed Frenec's printed-out instructions to a new police station.  We got to tour a new part of the city and meet the nice police officers near Hierschgarten (so that's where we were!), where our passports, credit cards, café discount cards, €0.05 stamp, wallet, and plastic H&M bag are all returned to us.

Two separate joggers found two separate piles of our items, by two separate trash cans.

Cameras, cash, the actual purses, and Monica's shoes and journal are still reported as missing.  So if you see a worn-out grey purse and beat-up black flats, call me or the Munich police immediately.  Our case is listed as Top Priority, I'm sure of it.

Neuschwanstein Castle: We didn't see this.

Eventually, we made it home to Sevilla.  But not without the extensive cooperation of John and Veronica Martens, Andy and Susan Barry, Little Grandma, Aunt Carrie, Frenec, our kind taxi driver, and the internet café guy.  The only reasoning I can come up with for our incredible good fortune is that over the past five months, grandparents, family friends, and church pals have ended every correspondence with me with a, "praying for you!"  

So thank you all very, very much.

For visitors to Germany, it's common knowledge that you do not mention World War II.  For obvious reasons, you just "Don't mention the war."  Well, now that this story is out on the interwebs for anyone's viewing pleasure, it is the responsibility of those now "In the Know" to be kind citizens and not exploit that knowledge.  I've said it.  The story is out there.  Don't talk to me about it, ever.

All's well that ends well, especially with the unbelievable amount of good fortune we had.  But for heaven's sakes--whatever you do...

Just don't mention the war.

Photo credits: Photoshop and other people's pictures. Except the police report.  That one's a CBarry original.