A Star is Born in Valdelavilla - Part III

"I LOVE blondes!!!", screamed Greg, as he turned around after zipping across the room like a madman, his arms raised to the skies for dramatic effect. "Blondes with long hair and boots and short skirts and a big chest...". Then, using his normal voice, "That's how you should do it. You're being too normal".

I glared at him through the black-rimmed glasses straight out of Harry Potter that he made me wear ("it's funnier"), and wished this would all end soon, before physical and mental fatigue overcame me.

We were in the third hour of rehearsals for the Valdelavilla Players' most ambitious production yet, a fifteen-minute collage of scenes from Woody Allen's "Play It Again, Sam", with yours truly cast in the title role of Allan, a whiny neurotic whose wife recently left him. (Woody himself played the role in the movie, those were the days).

Showtime was but two hours away, and the cast hadn't gotten down their parts yet. As the lead star, I bore the brunt of Greg's criticism, and his caustic mood was made worse by an abscessed tooth. Every little mistake that David, Rebecca, Laura or myself made irritated him. Moreover, being a former professional theater director, Greg was used to working with real actors, not "normal" language volunteers who shirked from the spotlight - heck, I never even gave Powerpoint presentations at work, and now I was tasked to play a character who alternated among three different moods - neurosis, whining, and dream-like fantasy.

I admit that I was flattered when Greg approached me on the second day, and broached the idea of having me play Allan. "You can do it, I'm sure of it", were his exact words. He continued, "Besides, you're the only option I have - the only other male Anglo is too old to play a 29-year old character". I consented to do it, in the spirit of camaraderie with every volunteer and program participant in Valdelavilla, despite the absence of any acting experience whatsoever.

But now, as he barked at me to run onstage from the sofa to the chair at the corner, to give "MORE, MORE, MORE" in acting hyper, full of pent-up energy, I had second thoughts. However, it was too late to cancel now, and I would let everyone down, so I resisted the urge to scream back at him, told myself to calm down, and just soldiered on.

eagerly awaiting our production of "Play it Again, Sam"

So, we rehearsed, over and over. And got better, step by step. At some points I could even hear Greg laugh out loud as we ran through the scene. I made a few more boo-boos, mostly due to overeagerness (maybe I was turning into Allan!) in reciting my lines without waiting for my co-stars' prompts, but laughed them off.

Finally, we were ready for the big show. Or as ready as could be. I took the stage and sat on the right hand side of the sofa, agitated and fumbling nervously, waiting for my friends' knock on the door.

The rest was a blur - pacing around the stage, reciting my lines (which I had mostly memorized, though we were allowed to read from the script), screaming at the top of my voice to drown out Linda's phone conversation as she tried to set me up, trying to remember Greg's litany of advice (e.g. wait for laughter to stop before proceeding with next line, run from one spot to another WHILE saying your lines), and just acting like the crazed person my character was supposed to be, and then switching to the deflated whiner mode when reminded of my failures.At various key points, I heard Greg's distinctive laugh rising above the other audience members', and smiled a little in self-satisfaction.

Then just like that, it was over. The cast joined hands for the traditional bow to uproarious applause. At dinner time, the other participants took their turns to shake my hand and offer their congratulations. Clearly, my laid-back demeanor did not inspire much confidence in delivering an incredible performance.  No, I repeated over and over, I had never acted before. "Get out of here", I responded with a big smile to those who suggested that I should consider exploring community theater as a career option, adding, "all that red wine must be clouding your judgement".

The kudos flowed even during the after-dinner scene. Several barflies, including B., a drama teacher, pronounced myself as having rendered the Best Performance in a Lead Role in a Musical/Comedy among the three nights of entertainment at Valdelavilla, and even my tormentor Greg took me aside, and said "We did it. I had my doubts after the first thirty minutes of rehearsal, but you improved so much. Now you're the talk of the (tiny) town".

Don't bother looking for Youtube videos. Sadly, there is no video nor photographic evidence that documents this epic event. I still don't know how I pulled through without any nerves, staying as cool as a cucumber*, nor why I bothered to stay up till 2am memorizing the dialogue. Perhaps if career opportunities in the Informatics field dry up, a niche playing Woody Allen characters onstage might not such be a bad idea.

*"fresco como una lechuga" in Spanish, literally "cool as a lettuce", since cucumber is pepino. Not sure how this came about.


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A Day in the Life at Valdelavilla - Part II

"Do you really have to talk for ten hours a day, to a non-native English speaker no less?" is probably the top FAQ when informed of my Vaughan Town week-long volunteer program at Valdelavilla, usually expressed in a tone of incredulity.

The answer is YES. Much more than ten hours, actually. The day starts with the 9am buffet breakfast (including churros), and then the next 4 hours are devoted to one-on-one conversation sessions with a Spaniard. So what do we talk about? For each hour, phrasal verbs (e.g. "to back up") or idioms (e.g. "to sleep on it") are assigned for discussion - these can be challenging and a bit nonsensical, I thought, so in some cases I preferred to let the conversation flow instead of talking about them.

Vaughan Town also recommends bringing some conversation starters or aids - playing cards, games, and the like. While I did print photos from previous travels, they were only used as a last resort. The key is to be creative and tailor the conversation around relevant topics given the person's background - for example, having heard Javier mention that he had been on business trips to Japan, I dug up photos of ryokans (traditional Japanese-style inns) and recounted my experience staying at a capsule hotel in Tokyo. Or if financial markets are your forte, then a lively discussion with Jose Luis (the most talkative Spaniard) to dissect Ben Bernanke, interest rates, the EU debt crisis and other weighty topics. And every chance I'd get,  I'd talk about the Roger vs. Rafa rivalry, and the ongoing Roland Garros (French Open to you non-tennis enthusiasts) tournament. I bet none of the other Anglos went within a mile of these topics.

After these grueling sessions, the meals come as a welcome relief. I shouldn't complain, since given the imbalance in numbers we Anglos get a free hour now and then while the Spaniards don't. Meal times can be complicated as well, since the program director ensures that there is a mix of Anglos and Spaniards at each table, so that they resist the temptation to lapse back to forbidden Spanish.

As advertised, the staff prepares a sumptuous three-course meal (appetizer, main course, and dessert) accompanied by wine, and the food was generally excellent and plentiful. (A very minor quibble: Perhaps the organizers might look into offering a rotating selection of riojas and ribera del Dueros instead of the same red all week long). However, the conversation never stops during meals, and after a few days some Anglos would exchange knowing grins upon overhearing this volunteer go on about her cruise ship experiences yet again, or avoid being stuck at the same table with this loud, whiskey-swilling woman from Manchester.

Ample time is given (1.5 hours) to recover, both from the heavy meals and conversation fatigue, during the siesta. I tended to sit in my room reading or taking a nap, especially after the "grind" got to me. We then reconvened at 5pm for a group activity, typically games or dance lessons, which are followed by more one-on-one sessions and/or mock teleconferences.

At 8pm, a nightly entertainment show is put on by the Valdelavilla Players, which consists of - who else? - the volunteers. Don't be surprised if Greg, a professional theater director who moonlights as the master of ceremonies for these sessions, pulls you aside during the day, explains the role he wants you to play, and before you know it you've committed to rehearsals,  enduring his constant caustic remarks and endless quest for perfection. Whatever notions of having a relaxing week should have disappeared by now.

Dinner follows at 9pm, another three courses and much more wine (now we REALLY need it). Although entirely optional, people whose energy levels show no signs of flagging hang out at the bar (there is only one in Valdelavilla), talking, talking, talking...until the clock strikes midnight when the staff kicks out everyone.

After the first day or two, the Spaniards start warming up to the Anglos, and more importantly, start understanding their accents, and become more comfortable expressing themselves in English. Though most were sent by their respective companies to attend this rigorous eighty-hour session, a few paid the hefty fees out of their own pockets (I also heard some got a last minute fifty percent discount), for which I admire and salute them. With the wheels eased by alcohol, the conversations become more animated whereas during the initial stages, they'd just nod and pretend to understand. Whether or not they're even remotely interested in cruises or politics or tennis is a different story though.

If you've been keeping count, that's a total of roughly 12 hours of continuously speaking English every day (not counting siesta time). Not sure what guarantees Vaughn Town gives to the Spanish participants as far as attaining conversational fluency in English, but gaining five pounds seems to be a sure-fire thing.


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Nonstop chitchat at Valdelavilla - Part I

I don't fancy myself as much of a talker; in fact I find most small talk exhausting and inane. Certainly not someone who has the inclination nor patience to engage in conversation for twelve hours a day, to non-native English speakers no less. 

Yet Sunday afternoon found myself and fourteen other "Anglos" in the tiny town of Valdelavilla in Soria province, which even most Spaniards have never heard of, after a three hour bus ride from Madrid. With us were eleven local Spanish people who had signed up for an intensive six-day course during which they will listen to the Anglos speak, try to figure out what in the world they are saying behind those indecipherable thick accents (yes, I'm referring to you Scots), and then respond in their best broken English. Repeat process until brain melts. Always having a drink in hand helps.

For the privilege of undergoing this torture, the Spaniards have shelled out megabucks (or their employers were snookered into doing so), while us Anglos were not exempt from being loco - we were here in Valdelavilla on a volunteer basis, and had paid for airfare and accommodations in Madrid out of our own pockets, and instead of spending precious vacation time laying on the peach sipping mojitos, giving our best efforts in explaining the intricacies of Shakespeare's language to the locals through one-on-one conversations, improvised conference calls, games, dance lessons, theater performances, and the like.

Obviously, non-stop talkers are preferred, especially altruistic ones. Doesn't quite sound like yours truly? Yes, I did think long and hard about joining the program offered by Vaughan Town, the leading player in the English language educational market in Spain, and wondered if I might become a misfit. However, the lure of free lodging and three-course meals with red wine (or white, if you insist) was irresistible, and I laughed off the fears and got onboard that bus pronto.

Valdelavilla was abandoned in the 1960s, and lay in ruins until its rehabilitation in the 1990s and is now a rural tourism complex. The town consists of about ten buildings similar to the one in the photo on the right, and it takes roughly five minutes to walk around Valdelavilla. This is about as small and idyllic a town in the entire country could be. Another claim to fame is that Valdelavilla has declared its official language as English, perhaps the only town in Spain to do so. Of course, it helps that no one actually lives here, and that most of their clientele are the busloads that Vaughn Town sends over for the English program.

It simply is quite a lovely town, the perfect escape from the hustle and bustle of Madrid, and a great place to talk non-stop for twelve hours a day, interrupted only by delicious meals and a siesta. If this sounds like your cup of tea (idiom alert!), or you're dying to recount the minutiae of your latest cruise, or you were born to explain phrases like "to put two and two together" and "to get a word in edgewise" to befuddled and bemused Spaniards, then joining the volunteer program is a no-brainer (¿qué? - Ignacio). 


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