"A Postcard From...Mallorca"

My adorable imp writing a
postcard to mom
and dad

Over the last year the English teachers of my preschool were involved in a project we called the “Postcard Project.”  Essentially, it was a seven week course of lessons devoted to the study of seven countries, one week for each country.  Spread out throughout the school year, these Postcard weeks were a break from our standard lessons—a holiday of sorts, in which we “traveled” to a foreign country to learn about its language, culture, and peoples.  Each day of the week was dedicated to a particular element unique to the country, like art, history, music, etc.  At the end of each set of lessons, the children would create their own postcard to sum up their experience of the latest country.  The idea was a friend’s, and after she retired from the project, I took the reins.  To switch metaphors for one more accurate,

 I adopted the project and made it my own baby, choosing countries to study and searching for fun and innovative ways to learn about a foreign culture.  The project was overall a success.  My children loved the opportunity to learn about a new country, even requesting to return to popular subjects (like language and food) and eagerly anticipating the next installation of the project.  After a year of thinking in terms of preschool planning and “A Postcard From…” lessons, my brain can’t help but revert when thinking of how to describe my time in Mallorca.  So why fight it? 

Learning about Indonesian spices
by engaging their senses

Trying to pick up felt food using
chopsticks as we study about China

Day One: “An Introduction”

One of the great tourist draws in Palma, the
Gothic Cathedral of Santa Maria of Palma is
a vast and dramatic cathedral that sits on a
hilltop in Palma, overlooking the city and
adding majesty to its skyline

Mallorca is an island set in the Mediterranean and Balearic seas.  Although it is a part of Spain, the common language is not Spanish but Catalan.  The residents can speak Spanish (or Castellano) but largely prefer Catalan, which, to my ears, is a blend of Spanish, French, and Italian.  The island itself is charming, dotted with hills and valleys, flat fields and hearty trees and an abundance of sheep.  The island is comprised primarily of villages and towns, with only one real city, the major city of Palma.  Although it is a small island (only --- square miles) and most of the villages are only a 10-15 minute drive from one another, each village exists as its own entity, even developing their own accents and manners of speaking.  A true Mallorcan local can  distinguish a speaker from Son Serverá or from Manacor based on accent in the way that an American can spot a New York or Boston accent.

I live in the Mallorcan countryside, surrounded by wooded hills and fields of sparse grass and many sheep.  Each sheep on the island has a collar with a bell, so that when it moves, the bell rings and tinkles.  During the daytime the sheep sleep under trees and are docile in the heat, but at night the air is full of the sound of bells and a chorus of bleating and bahhhhing.  The days are hot, but breezes move through the trees to cool the midday heat, and from our position on a hill, we can see the sea sparkling in the distance.  It's perfection.

The Cuevas del Drach, or the Dragon Caves, in Porto Cristo
are stunning and vast caves with stalactites, stalagmites,
and underground lakes galore.  The tour includes a classical
concert on this lake.  It is magical.

Coming in from the countryside, Mallorca hosts a multitude of summertime festivities to celebrate its many saints and patrons.  Each village has its own saint to celebrate, and the festivities include all-night parties and music and, in some cases, fire-wielding demons who dance to drums and scale lampposts to set off sparklers and small fireworks.   Many of the villages also host a weekly market where vendors come to sell their wares.  The market of Artá is quite vast and very popular with tourists.  By 11 a.m. one can hardly walk the streets, they are so packed with shoppers browsing the selections of jewelry, leather purses and wallets, and homemade Mallorcan soaps.  Even better are the smells from the freshly baked Mallorcan pizzas and pastries as they tempt shoppers and locals alike.

A glimpse of the sea from a countryside hilltop

The real draw for tourists, though, is the plethora of beaches Mallorca offers.  In the three weeks I have been here, I have been to more than ten beaches, and only returned to one more than once.  Some of the beaches are small, an inlet between two outcroppings of rock and land, while other beaches span large distances and offer spectacular views.  On all beaches, though, the water is warm and gentle and that impossibly clear blue-green color the Mediterranean is famous for.  There aren’t words for how beautiful and picturesque the beaches are, how majestic the sea, and how enchanting the views.  The muted tones of the houses—white, cream, and soft hues of pink and yellow—contrast beautifully with the blues and greens of the sea, enhancing and complementing both perfectly.  Every time we approach a new beach, my breath catches and I resolve anew to always live near the sea.  And I am not the only one with this thought; the island is teeming with tourists, primarily from Germany and from England, though my ear has caught snippets of French and Italian and once (I think) Russian.  Many of the restaurant signs I see in villages are trilingual—Spanish, German, and English.  A tour I took of the Cuevas del Drach (the Dragon Caves) included information in Spanish, German, English, French, and Italian.  And, to my absolute delight, I have even encountered some Polish—a farm building between the villages of Artá and Son Serverá has been tagged with “Dzisiaj też cię kocham” (Today I love you too). 

Well, random graffiti artist, you nailed it.  Dla ciebie też. 

Mallorca, ja bardzo bardzo BARDZO lubię cię!

...

In my role as "Ciocia," or "Auntie"

For the past two years my job has been to talk.  During my formal lessons I had to teach my children the day’s vocabulary and phrase structures, to give them instructions, guidance, and (often) reprimand.  After my lessons finished, though, the talking did not cease.  I maintained a constant flow of words around my children: narrating my activities, asking them questions about their day, talking to them about their work, their toys, etc., and answering their constant little questions of, “Ciocia, what you are doing?” and “Ciocia, what this is? What this is for?” Formally I was an English teacher, but my English lessons lasted for only 45 minutes; the rest of the time I was a preschool teacher, teaching the children how to eat properly, how to play nicely, and how to go about their daily activities.  In essence, my job was to teach my children how to be functioning human beings, all the while speaking to them/with them/at them in English.  And every day was filled with, “Don’t touch that!” “Chairs stay on the floor.” “Who hit you?” “We don’t say that word!” and “It’s okay, mama will be here later.”

It’s not surprising, really, that after eight hours of words each day with my children, I lost my voice.  Not literally, of course, my actual voice remained somewhat intact (if not a bit hoarse after a particularly grueling day), but my writer’s voice.  I spent all my words in forming and shaping my children, and at the end of the day, I would sit down to write, to update my adventures, but the words would not come. 

I tried more than once to remedy this situation.  I read travel writing blogs for inspiration and came away impressed and with a renewed sense of purpose.  I would write, I would become a writer…tomorrow.  Most days found me too tired to try to write, and on the days where I had the energy, I still couldn’t find the words.  I couldn’t find the right start.  So I read tips for “Finding Your Voice,” and experimented with the various suggestions—write in a crowded café, free write, write it in a letter to a friend, etc.  But I just couldn’t start.  Or I would start, write a few paragraphs, and hate everything I came up with.  The words just weren’t right.

So I gave up.  I stopped trying to be a writer to focus on the present.  I refocused my energy on my children, my work, and my friends.  The result is that, while this blog suffered from neglect, my life did not.  I left Warsaw a very different person than the one who arrived; indeed, I am much different from the girl who wrote this last post almost a year ago.  My Polish is better (I can order food without the server making the “pity switch” to English and I can almost carry on a conversation about certain topics), my photo album is fuller, and my heart is full to bursting with love for the city and the people I found in Warsaw.  And my children, oh my children!  They now say “yes, please” and “no thank you” and most of them speak English with much more confidence and ease than when I began.  And (best of all) they stopped viewing me as the English teacher and (I think) came to regard me with real affection and warmth.  And for my part, I showered them with attention, love, and far too many hugs.

When I wasn't "Ciocia" or "Miss Jerica," I was just Jerica, relaxing
in the park with my friends, or drinking too much piwo, and
probably laughing way too hard

I regret that I wasn’t able to update this blog with stories of my adventures—my parents’ visit this autumn, my second Christmas in Worcester, Easter in Prague, spring in the park with new and old friends—but in retrospect, I would not have sacrificed a moment of it to struggle over the right words.  I am on holiday now, where much of my day is spent in quiet thought and memory; I have my voice again, and I will try to recount some of what has passed.