"Can't talk, I'm busy"

The Working Week

My working week. 

Monday: Exhausted from a weekend well spent, or well wasted, the aim of the day is survival. Put off anything beyond immediate importance till tomorrow. Walk into rooms, hope for the best. You swear, you swear, that you will never put yourself in this position again. 

Tuesday: Quite a lot to do and a long week ahead. Beside, you don't want to relive the disaster that was yesterday. It turned out that if you're going to 'walk into the classroom and dazzle them with your personality', as you promised yourself on Sunday night in the pub, you're going to need a lot more personality.  

Productive enough, at least compared to yesterday. Hey, maybe even plan a lesson for tomorrow? 

Wednesday: For some reason always the busiest teaching day of my week. At every school I've taught, this has been the case. Monday and Tuesday's excess is squeezed in between lessons and meetings. But it's Wednesday, turnover day, week more over than begun. You think about promotion, inspiration, motivation. Tomorrow I will be on fire!

Thursday: So so nearly Friday you can almost taste it. Then in around 1998 some genius declared that Thursday was the new Friday, and the transition was complete. My good mood distracts me from Wednesday's well laid plans and it's lessons outside, the beloved Shrek DVD, and 'what are you doing this weekend?' time.  

Friday: FRIDAY! How long have I waited for this day? Bin whatever you planned, sit on your desk, tell stories and eat biscuits. It's Friday, for God's sake. Put it all off till next week.    

El Chaltén

El Calafate

From Ushuaia we took the hour flight to El Calafate, a touristy trekkers kinda place, with an alarming preference for the sound of the pan pipes. If you have to pipe: bag-.  

Bigger and grander than Ushuaia, the Patagonia of the postcards really, as video'd above. The gnome featured at the end of the clip is a common scourge of the Patagonia planes, although they were largely killed off by the gauchos. 

Remote, bleak, windy, enormous empty spaces the like of which one can imagine Butch and Sundance wandering over for days; even easier to imagine that boredom drove them back to bank robbing. I did consider hitting the BancoGalicia in El Cal, as an homage to the great men, but my trusty steed let me down. 

Perito Moreno: my kind of nature. Usually my prblem with the nature is that there is a lack of pace. But massive towers of ice falling from the glacier into the icey waters below, causing slashes and things, well, just, call me David Attenborough. You don't even have to whisper.

  

Ushuaia

The End of the World. 

Ushuaia does beg the question, why would anyone live here? It's so remote, it's so cold, it is simply so far from anything else, this little archipelago of islands.... Other than the islands, people often ask the same thing of Scotland when they arrive in Prestwick. Hark! Middle Earth! is so often heard at arrivals.   

So, to the National Park, about 30 minutes from Ushuaia, and about as far South as you can get on land. Above was our picnic spot. Beautiful, and a millions miles away from the noise and heat of the city that we'd hadn't left in almost 12 months. Man, it was good!

We drove out to Harberton, the legendary estancia of the Bridges and Goodalls, first settlers on Tierra del Feugo back in the day. Inspired by their intrepid expolits, we too felt that no distance was beyond our means, baby on my back or not. So, when the girl told us about the hike up to the viewpoint at the top of the hill, we didn't give it a second thought.  

How far can we go? we asked

Just as far as the Don't Pass sign, she replied.  It's a really great view from the top she added, as if to infer that it was worth the effort.  

Wondering if we were well enough prepared, we gathered our Bridge-like strength, faced the elements, and off we went. Here's a clip:

Those old Bridge's were more intrepid than the present lot, I think. And then we went in search of some penguin birds and check out some of the nature. 

Spanish School and Great Germans

Confidence is a fickle thing, be it when you're learning a language or playing sport. Having spent last week in intensive Spanish lessons at the wonderful Academia Buenos Aires, the importance of confidence when speaking a foreign tongue was brought to the fore. 

Fortunately, I have always found lying an excellent way to boost this fickle supply of self-esteem. Allow me to justify this ethically dubious position with the following examples, based on two conversations I had last week. 

Option A: Honest. 

- Oh, your Spanish is really good. How long have you been here?

- Nearly 2 years now.

- Oh. Wow... Oh... Your Spanish is... You know... Um... Do you know any Argentines?

Result: Devastation. 

Option B: Dishonest. Result: Esteem enhancing.  

I prefer this conversation.

- Oh, your Spanish is really good. How long have you been here?

- I just arrived from the airport. 

- Oh, wow. You should be famous. 

- Thank you. I agree. 

Result: Smugness. 

More tips if you need them, just let me know.

My Spanish classmates have generally been from a small range of countries, namely Germany. My conclusion is that Germans are some of the most underrated people in the world. Now, I admit that that statement is not without a racist inference, but I think many people from the UK assume that your average German will be nice if humourless, will be holding a map and be too honest about perfunctory and embarrassing things such as bowel movements. 

And whilst there was a little too much excitement about syntax (man, do they love the grammar. Systems, organisation, syntax, the opportunity to make jokes such as: Ah, so you do have a structure to your language! This must be the only structure in this country. Only today, I was waiting for a bus and... I digress, and regress) it is possible that being nice, interested, tri-lingual and thoughtful are actually more important qualities. 

And they DO mention the war. I mentioned it many times and didn't need to get away with it. We had a great discussion about the shadows of a countries past on their present populations. 

And they all love Scotland.

And they find Brits hilariously repressed with our inability to talk about anything that might refer to, you know, how can I put this, well, might refer to... it.  

So, Isabel, Katharina, Christiana, Yves, Stephanie and Fritz, I salute you. And not like John Cleese does. 

Snug

Middle of the city, middle of the day. Not massively like the Brits, the Brazilians...