So I feel a little like I've just hit the ground running. And the ground didn't even slow down with the impact. 10 hours in school on Monday for 2.5 hours of teaching, 11 hours on Tuesday, and I still ended up taking work home with me to plan for my classes on Wednesday. Friday was technically my day off - and that "technically" is placed there strategically so that you may know that "day off" is a theoretical term.
I have some lovely classes - two tiny 5-year-olds who babble at me in Portuguese about everything except the flashcard I'm holding up for them; three 8-year-olds who taught me how to say "maça" because I made it very clear that I didn't know what an apple was really called; a class of retired men who lived through the colonial wars (and the Portuguese colonial wars were devastating) and a revolution, but still listen politely to my thoughts on living in their country, and invite me out for coffee.
There's been a lot of coffee in my life. I need it. Really. There's a great, very simple cafe around the corner from the school where the waiter doesn't patiently listen to my painful Portuguese and then reply in English, but patiently listens to my Portuguese and then pretends he knows what I ordered. Usually he gets it right, but I think he's just got my favourites memorised.
I'm settling into my new place, which is a little flat (in the picture below it's in the middle of the big block, second from top, with an open balcony) just north of the city centre.
I share with Maria, who's a little younger than me but is doing very grown-up things that involve research labs and medical degrees and white coats, and Luisa, who is crazy. In her words. She's pretty awesome, lived in Angola before independence, came home, divorced her husband in Catholic Portugal, and lived to tell the tale sitting beside her well-adjusted daughter in a lounge littered with African statues and paintings. I also share the flat with Nala, who's crazier than Luisa, but can't natter away about it while chain-smoking, because she's a cat.
Once I get the hang of not spending 5 hours planning for an 80-minute class, I promise to tell you stories about Cascais. Just you wait till I get me a life...
There's been a lot of coffee in my life. I need it. Really. There's a great, very simple cafe around the corner from the school where the waiter doesn't patiently listen to my painful Portuguese and then reply in English, but patiently listens to my Portuguese and then pretends he knows what I ordered. Usually he gets it right, but I think he's just got my favourites memorised.
I'm settling into my new place, which is a little flat (in the picture below it's in the middle of the big block, second from top, with an open balcony) just north of the city centre.
I share with Maria, who's a little younger than me but is doing very grown-up things that involve research labs and medical degrees and white coats, and Luisa, who is crazy. In her words. She's pretty awesome, lived in Angola before independence, came home, divorced her husband in Catholic Portugal, and lived to tell the tale sitting beside her well-adjusted daughter in a lounge littered with African statues and paintings. I also share the flat with Nala, who's crazier than Luisa, but can't natter away about it while chain-smoking, because she's a cat.
Once I get the hang of not spending 5 hours planning for an 80-minute class, I promise to tell you stories about Cascais. Just you wait till I get me a life...
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