So, I’m yet to really say much about things here. In between bouts of New-York related lexical diahorrea (and some bouts of the more real kind) I’ve been too busy to write much about what I’m actually doing here. Over the next thousand words or so I’ll try to put that right.
I’ve now been here for about two and a half weeks, though it feels quite a lot longer than that. My weeks have taken shape now and its clear that I’m going to be very, very busy over the next year. I did point out to people before I left that I wasn’t going on holiday, but to have to be up before 7am six mornings a week was rather unexpected. I’m up to teaching about 21 hours per week, to a mixture of young and old, Korean and Guatemalteco at the school and at two local companies. Once you factor in lesson planning as well as six hours of Spanish per week, then you can see I have a pretty packed schedule. The good news is that I do really enjoy it. Most of my classes are a joy to teach and we have a great deal of fun. It also means that I’m going to have more disposable income than I’ve ever had, and absolutely no time to spend it. I’m beginning to think that some traveling after this may well be in order.
The school itself is great. A large, cool building set in a tropical looking garden. We get hummingbirds feeding on the flowers just outside the windows I’m looking out of, which was tremendously exciting when I first noticed it. The people here are lovely and we are well looked after. The Spanish speaking receptionists also make sympathetic conversation partners for learners like me.
Similarly, our house is a joy. I live with three other teachers in a terracotta brick house with marble floors. It’s so huge that we don’t use half of downstairs, though this is also partly due to the current lack of furniture. We have a lovely back patio with built in barbeque, ideal for parties for the half of the year when it’s not raining (see photo in previous post). The house is set in a ‘residencia’, a gated community which is staffed by shotgun wielding guards. They are terribly efficient at stopping anyone unless they are ogling a pretty ‘chapina’ walking past, in which case all and sundry are allowed to enter. While I feel slightly guilty about locking myself away from the city, it is a relief when I pass through the gates. Everyone here lives behind some form of security – I’m afraid that it is a necessary evil. Anyway, we do walk to school through the local neighbourhood, which is more than most of our neighbours do.
In terms of going out and doing stuff, I’ve done fairly little here so far. The truth is it’s not very safe to go out after dark, and most of us are too tired after school anyway. We have had one epic night out around ‘Las cien puertas’ (The hundred doors) in Zona 1 but we were chauffered there and back. Our plans to escape the city at weekends have been scuppered by the fact that either myself or one of my housemate’s has been ill almost continuously. I think it’s due to adjusting to the food, and the recent cold snap that saw temperatures fall as low as 13C! I am plotting escapes at the weekends, though having just given most of my cash to Banco America Central only to be told I can’t access it for 8 working days, I may have to put those plans on hold. The good/bad news is there’s no such thing as ‘going to the pub’ here really – the closest we get is strolling to our local taco stand and buying a couple of litres of ‘Gallo’ from the shop next door to drink with our meal. Last time the owner sent his infant son to get our beer for us - I don’t think there’s much in the way of licensing laws here. The food is great here. We buy fresh vegetables on our way home and eat an awful lot of salad (I know, how the carnivorous have fallen) and it’s heartening to know that anything you eat has been picked within a few miles, rather than flown across several oceans and then polished to within an inch of its life. Local comedors (eateries) provide most of our meals out, often eating there is cheaper than cooking yourself - a meal and a drink will set you back no more than 20Q (about $3).
So that’s really it, in a nutshell. I get up at about 5:50am, usually get back about 8pm and go to bed soon after that. I’ve not been shot or stabbed as of yet. As I’ve said before, I think I’m more likely to get run over. Expect news on any adventures soon, hasta pronto!
Showing posts with label Traffic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Traffic. Show all posts
Monday, February 9, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
New York, New York Pt. 1
This is the first installment of my New York adventures, a hugely bloated and not very entertaining account of my one and a half days in New York. I'll post this as I type it up from my journal. I'm also hoping this weekend I'll find time to write a bit more about Guatemala City. As it is, I'm still safe, still well, still having fun...
JFK Airport: 14:00 NY Time
I take the subway to my hotel instead of a taxi, despite lugging two enormous bags with me. I have a bit of a phobia about being on public transport with bags, especially systems that are completely alien to me. This comes of having used the London tube on a regular basis. I have given withering looks to German tourists getting on at Bank, in the rush hour, with three suitcases each and have received the same withering looks coming back from festivals muddied and smelly with huge backpack on and tent in hand. As a luggee in these kinds of situations, my normal response is to panic, sweat profusely and pray to painlessly cease to exist. It's too expensive to get a taxi from the airport though, so on to the subway go me and my possessions.
The subway, to my surprise, is a joy to use. The trains are well-worn with uncomfortable plastic seats but this seems to have the effect of keeping most of New York from using it. It's airy and spacious enough for me and my stuff, and at $2 a ride, very reasonable too. I do have one complaint though. Mr. Bloomberg, I am personally inviting you to come to England so you can observe how we get in and out of most of (Covent Garden excepted) our underground stations. Then we'll give you the designs and you can build escalators at all of your subway stations. I wonder if this is some sort of initiative to combat America's obesity problem. What I'm sure of is it's bloody hard work carrying suitcases up stairs, and so I at least get the sweats, if not the panic to accompany them.
The sweat immediately begins to freeze as I emerge into the New York snow. Thanks to some excellent street signage (almost making up for the escalators) I quickly work out the way to my hotel and set off. Before too long I come to my first ever intersection, and look up expecting to see “walk/don’t walk’ signs. Instead, I’m greeted with an orange hand pointing its palm at me. Who removed the don’t walk signs I wonder, and when? I certainly didn’t get the memo. Anyway, I’d been warned about the driving in New York so when the hand said stop, I did. A bunch of locals walk around me and my suitcase and tut – did they not see the orange hand? Turns out I clearly have a lot to learn about crossing the street in NY. It seems to me that it’s every man woman and child for themselves here, and pedestrians have all the power. The populace is colour blind to the orange hand: if the roads clear, we’re going; if the cars are coming slowly, they’ll probably stop. Only if someone’s coming really fast will people stay on the safety of the pavement. Even when the green man is lit, taxis can still turn into the street you’re crossing, and don’t always cede the right of way. Basically, it’s a mixed up crazy road-crossing system*.
Bowery’s Whitehouse Hotel was described to me as being “scruffy and a bit noisy and your bed is a shelf and there are mournful semi-homeless men in reception, but if you can deal with that it's perfect.” I push the door and encounter two down-at-heel Rastafarians playing guitar and discussing the role of the artist, check one. I shuffle to the counter; the latino girl sat behind it glances up at me, then proceeds to studiously ignore me for the next five minutes while she talks in Spanish on the phone. Eventually she puts it down and wearily comes to the counter. “I have a reservation here for two nights,” I announce. She rolls her eyes, “Passport. Credit card.” I hand over the requested articles so she can make an “imprint”. As she does so I notice a sign on the counter bearing the legend: “Price may change according to customer attitude.” Hmph.
* I’m typing this up in Guatemala City, and suddenly the roads in New York seem a doddle. The “calle” the school is on is a roaring, belching dragon comprised of three lanes, the middle of which either lane can use. There are no traffic lights or crossings for several miles either side. If I don’t get shot here, I fully expect to be run over instead.
More next time...
JFK Airport: 14:00 NY Time
I take the subway to my hotel instead of a taxi, despite lugging two enormous bags with me. I have a bit of a phobia about being on public transport with bags, especially systems that are completely alien to me. This comes of having used the London tube on a regular basis. I have given withering looks to German tourists getting on at Bank, in the rush hour, with three suitcases each and have received the same withering looks coming back from festivals muddied and smelly with huge backpack on and tent in hand. As a luggee in these kinds of situations, my normal response is to panic, sweat profusely and pray to painlessly cease to exist. It's too expensive to get a taxi from the airport though, so on to the subway go me and my possessions.
The subway, to my surprise, is a joy to use. The trains are well-worn with uncomfortable plastic seats but this seems to have the effect of keeping most of New York from using it. It's airy and spacious enough for me and my stuff, and at $2 a ride, very reasonable too. I do have one complaint though. Mr. Bloomberg, I am personally inviting you to come to England so you can observe how we get in and out of most of (Covent Garden excepted) our underground stations. Then we'll give you the designs and you can build escalators at all of your subway stations. I wonder if this is some sort of initiative to combat America's obesity problem. What I'm sure of is it's bloody hard work carrying suitcases up stairs, and so I at least get the sweats, if not the panic to accompany them.
The sweat immediately begins to freeze as I emerge into the New York snow. Thanks to some excellent street signage (almost making up for the escalators) I quickly work out the way to my hotel and set off. Before too long I come to my first ever intersection, and look up expecting to see “walk/don’t walk’ signs. Instead, I’m greeted with an orange hand pointing its palm at me. Who removed the don’t walk signs I wonder, and when? I certainly didn’t get the memo. Anyway, I’d been warned about the driving in New York so when the hand said stop, I did. A bunch of locals walk around me and my suitcase and tut – did they not see the orange hand? Turns out I clearly have a lot to learn about crossing the street in NY. It seems to me that it’s every man woman and child for themselves here, and pedestrians have all the power. The populace is colour blind to the orange hand: if the roads clear, we’re going; if the cars are coming slowly, they’ll probably stop. Only if someone’s coming really fast will people stay on the safety of the pavement. Even when the green man is lit, taxis can still turn into the street you’re crossing, and don’t always cede the right of way. Basically, it’s a mixed up crazy road-crossing system*.
Bowery’s Whitehouse Hotel was described to me as being “scruffy and a bit noisy and your bed is a shelf and there are mournful semi-homeless men in reception, but if you can deal with that it's perfect.” I push the door and encounter two down-at-heel Rastafarians playing guitar and discussing the role of the artist, check one. I shuffle to the counter; the latino girl sat behind it glances up at me, then proceeds to studiously ignore me for the next five minutes while she talks in Spanish on the phone. Eventually she puts it down and wearily comes to the counter. “I have a reservation here for two nights,” I announce. She rolls her eyes, “Passport. Credit card.” I hand over the requested articles so she can make an “imprint”. As she does so I notice a sign on the counter bearing the legend: “Price may change according to customer attitude.” Hmph.
* I’m typing this up in Guatemala City, and suddenly the roads in New York seem a doddle. The “calle” the school is on is a roaring, belching dragon comprised of three lanes, the middle of which either lane can use. There are no traffic lights or crossings for several miles either side. If I don’t get shot here, I fully expect to be run over instead.
More next time...
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