Friday Spanish lessons are extra-curricular. Today we made eggs at in Sherrill’s apartment. I learned which brand of ready-made refried beans not to buy next time. Tayde played music, from what I have come to imagine is the one playlist that all the world’s Spanish teachers have shared amongst themselves, including, by mandate, the Carlos Vives and Shakira’s 2016 hit La Bicicleta, which, to be fair, slaps.
Afterward, a four-hour nap made up for lost time.
Classes went well, but by the time I got back I could not find within me the motivation to work on lesson plans. That’ll be a tomorrow problem.
The cockroach has yet to return. Hopefully that means the roach killer is working. I may have sprayed poison gas into the very air I myself am breathing, but at least I took one large bug down with me.
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