abi goes abroad

4. tetuán day!

2010-11-06T09:47:00.000-07:00

To be clear, Tetuán Day isn't a real day. It's something I made up. There is an actually day for the neighborhood, but it coincided with Gay Pride Week and the World Cup, and who knows what else. I was busy, or asleep. That being said, for a day that I made up, it was awesome. Adventure! Food! Free midday shots! The participants included myself and Sarah, also known as the usual suspects. It was a sunny day that started off with a soccer game in (you guessed it) the Tetuán league. After everyone asked declined to participate in the festivities, Sarah and I wandered off in search of a famed horchatería called la Fábrica Antigua. However, it was already closed for the season, but instead of this minor setback putting a damper on our civic spirit, we strolled toward a bakery near my house to preempt lunch with some pastries. I mean, really, it was still a little too early and we hadn't missed breakfast by that much. We settled for a pestaña, a fried dough creation covered in honey, and something golden and croissant-like that was filled with raspberry and ricotta. Surprising only to us, they were incredibly delicious, as things fried and covered with honey or stuffed with ricotta usually are. After a quick stop by my apartment for a shower, we headed to a chicken place that I have passed on my street for two years and not once entered. It's not as if it didn't smell enticing, but it's a bit intimidating to walk into somewhere that has no menu and serves an exclusively Dominican clientele. I already stick out like a sore thumb, and most of the time, I would like to not be stared at. That being said, this day was no ordinary day. This day was Tetuán Day, and on Tetuán Day, you can go anywhere shamelessly, head held high, proud to live in a barrio that no one wants to go to and makes people feel bad for you. So I have proclaimed. In we walked, and who did I see? The neighborhood barber who makes me feel super uncomfortable because whenever I walk by, he sticks his head out of his shop and makes comments that include: "You're going to give me a stroke," "You're precious," and "Come here," in addition to whistling. Did I mention the staring? Before I lost my nerve and told Sarah that we needed to run away, we were already seated and had ordered the only thing they had...Chicken! And, although I was stared at the entire meal, I totally enjoyed the chicken, yucca, avocado plate that was before me. We raved, I licked my fingers, and then we were invited to free shots. It was a true fiesta. Alas, for those unaccustomed to Tetuán, it was a little rough on the stomach. After early enthusiasm, Sarah was ready to crash, and she barely made it back to my apartment before collapsing from exhaustion. So much awesomeness in one day can really take its toll.

12. La Mucca, not just for drinks

2010-11-03T07:36:00.000-07:00

Confession: It started with just drinks, but food was served and eaten, so it still counts. I mean, I very nearly licked the plate. Delicious. But I'm getting ahead of myself. It started with a meeting on the metro. Tara, coming from far, far away, flagged me down and we headed to the Malasaña neighborhood (it's too cool for school, trust me). La Mucca is right there in the heart of it, next to el Palentino, the legendary dive bar, on Calle Pez (I have yet to

see a fish). Since it was early, we grabbed a table outside and enjoyed one of the last days of warmth (although as I write this, it's bright and sunny outside and you could easily walk around in short sleeves). We breezed past the school gossip over our first round, a mojito and a "dirty" martini.Side note: If you are going to put "Dry Martini" as a drink option, do your research. The drink is a martini. Dry is one way of serving it. Dirty is another way of serving it. If i want a dirty martini instead of dry, do not look at me like I'm a crazy person. It's a real thing. Look it up, and stop giving me something different every time I order one. Immense, dramatic sigh. Anyway. After this round, another followed, and then we started to get a little hungry. And also, there's the "always eat dinner" rule to contend with (it's very inflexible). We decided on nachos and a salad, and shockingly, both were delicious. There was no weird surprises on the nachos (green mayonnaise, tomate frito, etc.) and the salad had ham and cheese and a bright dressing, and it was amazing. Then our friend Brian showed up, and we headed out, then Darwin called, I got a text from Sarah and Nuria...needless to say, I got home around five, smelling of smoke, exhausted, and nearly penniless, but with a full stomach.

bonus: salamanca!

2010-10-24T11:54:00.001-07:00

It's not on the list, but I didn't make any rules excluding activities. And honestly, this should have been on my list. Who wrote that, anyway?? Anyway, Salamanca is a small city, famous for its university, and it's only two and a half hours from Madrid. And after almost three years, I had never been, which borders on embarassing, to be frank. So, I did the responsible thing and I bought a bus ticket, booked a hotel, and woke up early to catch the 8 AM bus to Salamanca. This was another solo trip, but I needed some time outside the city on my own to wander aimlessly. I groggily left the bus station, left my bag at the hotel, and grabbed some toast and a coffee on my way to the Plaza Mayor. One of the most beautiful central squares in Spain, it was covered in red and gold and blaring techno music upon my arrival. Why? Because the Spanish National Team had come to Salamanca to play and the entire city was lining up in the plaza, chanting and playing games in inflatable bouncey houses. I can't say I was surprised. The arrival of la selección nacional is rivaled only by the second coming of Christ, and one could argue that not even that could top seeing Iniesta in the flesh. But after passing through the main square with the giant teletron, I started looking for the frog sitting on the skull. They say that if you see it, you'll have good luck in your studies. It's hidden on a the face of the university, which is filled with carvings. And of course, I left feeling lucky. I continued wandering, visiting the cathedral, the public library, and several university buildings, and after all that walking, I ate. Peas cooked with ham, pork chops, wine, chorizo, ham, and plenty of coffee...It was overall pretty delicious. Did I get a bit lonely? Let's just say I was ready to be back in Madrid, refueled and refreshed.

13. eat a menú del día

2010-10-14T14:14:00.000-07:00

This is the third thing off the list! And all of them involve eating (I've taken up running in the morning to balance this out). So here we are, at Menú del día, my most favorite of madrileño traditions (tapas are right up there as well). To explain, a Menú del día is a special weekday event offered by almost all the restaurants in Spain. It's typically composed of a first plate, a second plate, dessert or coffee, bread, and wine or beer (or water, I guess), all for the extremely economic price of 8 to 13 euros. Sadly, this is only during the week, but I guess for my waistline, it could be a blessing in disguise. My partner in crime for this meal was Tara, who took a break from her work-a-holic schedule (only here can 25 hours seem overwhelming) and headed to the center to get some lunch. Side note: I only have friends with names that rhyme with "-ara." Sarah, Tara...I'm missing Kara and Lara to have a complete set. We wandered through La Latina, veto-ing restaurants left and right. After a ranking of the offerings, we settled down at La Musa in Plaza de la Paja, which is next to Delic (the cake place, as it is known among homesick Americans). Instantly we veered off in different directions, Tara going with salad and fish, and me choosing squash tortelini and beef cheek stew. They could have been pig cheeks; our waiter wasn't sure. And of course, some midday wine never hurts. Unfortunately, this wasn't one of the places that leaves the bottle at the table, but we made do. The pesto salad was incredible, and the squash ravioli was well worth the five mile run (I was preparing for Menú del día!!). Our second courses were nothing to sneeze at, either. Tara's fish was good, but a little plain for me, but the beef or pork stew was so tender and filling. Wow. We finished up with some espresso and split a dessert, which was the right move. There are only so many buttons I can pop without being cited for indecent exposure.

2. chicken and cider

2010-10-04T13:34:00.000-07:00

When asked what I wanted to do for my birthday, the only thing I could think of was chicken and cider. Mostly because of the deliciousness of both chicken and cider on their own merits, and then together! Qué emoción! So, following the picnic, two coffees, and a quick costume change (it's my birthday and I will dirty as many clothes as I wish), I headed to Casa Mingo, a very traditional madrileño tavern featuring, you guessed it, roast chicken and cider. Casa Mingo is on the list because it's a classic and also, I may have mentioned this before, delicious. It's located near the Manzanares river (that's what they call the stream that runs through Madrid) and the San Antonio de la Florida Hermitage, home of a beautiful Goya fresco. Now that we're situated, let's eat some chicken. Sarah, Tara, Brian, Nuria, and Darwin all came to join in the festivities, and they were all pretty game. Although it's a traditional madrileño tavern, it's got an Asturian influence, so there wasplenty of sausage, cabrales (a typical cheese from the north of Spain), and meat on the menu. We had a good laugh about the translations, and then ordered some hard pork (sausage) and cheese, among other things (namely, chicken). As we munched and laughed between English and Spanish, I opened a couple presents (Bitelchus!!), we paid, and headed out, mainly to have some gin-tonics. Overall, an excellent way to turn 24.

9. picnic in the retiro

2010-10-01T01:19:00.001-07:00

Here it is, the first thing off the list! A positively historic occasion! One down, 19 more to go. I'm glad this was the first thing to cross off my list. The Retiro is a special place in Madrid. It's always a stop on the tour around the city, whether it's freezing cold or blazingly hot. I have shown people to the Crystal Palace, rowed people around the pond, strolled through the African drum circle, and flopped down in the grass for a picnic. Goya would be proud to see me participating in the age-old tradition of spreading my blanket and munching away on some bread and wine. Of all of these activities, the picnic is my absolute favorite. It combines being outside and eating. Who doesn't like that? (Kacie, and I quote: "But then you have the tupperware, and you have to take it with you, and blah, blah, blah.") So, for a birthday picnic, I took a trip to the market, and rounded up salad fixings, some bread, and of course, the ever-present ham. Add in a whirlwind of activity, and off I go, picnic bag in hand. The day was perfect, and since it was a Tuesday, the park was calm (not too many Spanish teenagers playing bad techno from their cell phones or drinking calimotxos). And then Sarah and I arrived. We spread our blanket on the ground, opened the wine, and started to eat. And I don't want to brag about my salad-making skills, but you can never go wrong with roasted squash, caramelized onions, beets, walnuts, and goat cheese (I work part-time. I've got a lot of time to think). The wine, even out of a plastic water bottle, was delicious. And don't forget the ham. Following all that, we had rasperries and macaroons...incredible. I could have laid in that park for hours. But alas, I had a class and one more thing to cross off my To-Do Madrid list.

so this is it, then

2010-09-12T09:49:00.000-07:00

Well. Here I am, back in Madrid. I have received a lot of questions, such as, What? Why? What are you doing? It's a valid question, since I myself am not entirely sure. I'm figuring things out, and how better to get a grip on life than with the help of ham? And while I am fully committed to the planning of life, I can't spend all day, everyday doing just that. I'll go crazy! So, I've made a list of things that I want to accomplish before I leave this city. You may notice that almost all of them are food-drink related. It's not really a surprise.

1. Sunday in La Latina

2. Chicken and cider!

3. A night at Charada, finishing with breakfast (preferably churros)

4. Tetuán Day!

5. Go to a game in Santiago Bernebeu

6. La Chata for their pimientos rellenos

7. One more time on the tapa route

8. Melo's en Lavapies for their million calorie sandwich and their croquetas.

9. Picnic in the Retiro and perhaps row a boat

10. Go to Amsterdam to see Leo (ok...so that's not in Madrid. It's close)

11. Go to Naples with Sarah to eat pizza

12. La Mucca, not just for drinks.

13. Eat a Menú del Día

14. Eat cochinillo (suckling pig), maybe even in Segovia

15. Casa Lucío, for their huevos estrellados

16. Dance the night away at Zombie (yes, I do pronounce it with a th).

17. Of course, go to the Big Three: El Prado, El Thyssen, y La Reina Sofía (not to be confused with the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa María).

18. A night in Malasaña

19. Go to Morocco

20. Ham tour.

Any suggestions? I'm going to be a busy girl.

la guatita

2010-08-07T06:53:00.001-07:00

So, it's around 6 am, you've been dancing like a madperson all night. There aren't any restuarants open because it's too early to eat breakfast and Madrid doesn't have any American-style diners (no burgers and fries). And...you still don't want to go home. Because where's the fun in that? So you head to a street north of the center, full of people leaving clubs. Well, stumbling in their six-inch heels out of the club. You go up to an older woman standing to the side of entrance. She keeps glancing back to a white van parked on the side of the street. Everyone looks sneakily, glancing around for the police. You hand her money, she reaches into a backpack and passes you...drugs? alcohol? No. A tupperware full of rice and who knows what. Una guatita. It's an Ecuadorean dish, made with rice, a peanuty sauce, hard-boiled egg, a plantain, and of course, let's not forget the tripe. Yes. The intenstines. According to my friend, they've been soaked and cooked and doused with lemon for hours, so their texture isn't so rubbery and hard like Spanish-style callos, and the sauce and lemon makes them totally palatable. I do miss America and late-night pizza, but buying illicit rice on the side of the street just gives me such a rush.

iniestaaaa, iniestaaaaaa

2010-07-25T10:34:00.000-07:00

My Spain experience couldn't be complete without an overwhelming display of Spanish patriotism, and since facism is thankfully a thing of the past, the World Cup provided a perfect opportunity to display the red and gold. Each stage of the tournament that Spain miraculously passed was greeted with progressively larger parties and growing excitement. Block parties, cars blaring their horns, the reaction was unreal. And that was before the final, and really, there are no words. I know this is a blog, and writing (i.e. WORDS) are key, but...there's no way to explain. Luckily for me, although my memory of the World Cup win has no transcript, I do have several blurry photographs and also a movie! Way to go, past Abi. I’m not calling it ground-breaking journalism, but I will say that I did an ok job of documenting a singular moment in my life (yes, it WAS that big) and in the history of Spain (because we all know…never gonna happen again). The pictures and video are from the bar where we anxiously watched the game, and there are several from Cibeles, a central plaza where there were big screen TVs set up. The sheer quantity of people was incredible, and while I thought that was a one-time deal, it was only amplified the next day, when the Spanish team rolled through in a make-shift parade. I saw that from my living room and the television because the government begged people to stay home after a certain hour. There was no room for people. It was like a giant amoeba with a hundred thousand heads. Or maybe...a giant prophetic octopus with a hundred thousand little sucker things? No, because everybody knows that prophetic octopus don't exist (Cue X-Files music).

between

2010-07-04T15:40:00.001-07:00

To say that you're unemployed, you say you're between jobs. When you graduate college, you're between school and work. Sometimes, you're just between. I realize that to use the word "between," to make grammatical sense, you need to have two nouns. However, I have decided that grammar is overrated, because I just feel between. Am I between jobs? Maybe. Between school and a job? I guess. Between places? Countries? Continents? Languages? All of those things could be true. So, instead of trying to explain my situation, I'm just going to say that I'm between. I'm not sure where I'm going, or what I'll be doing, but it'll be a change. Between describes my state perfectly, and quite honestly, it sounds better than lost, confused, or even dazed. Transitioning just sounds silly. So I'm sticking with between. Abi, what are you doing? What are your plans? I'm between. Between what? Everything.
Clear, concise, and perfect.

la copa mundial!

2010-06-17T10:08:00.000-07:00

It's happening in South Africa, the world's best athletes are there right now, and so are a swarm of angry bees...it's the World Cup! And in Spain, it may as well be a national holiday, because no one is really paying attention to anything else (like the painfully slow collapse of the economy). When there's a game that involves Spain, this city shuts down. It's 4 pm, do you know where your Spaniards are? In a bar, at home, wherever there's a TV. In banks, they bring in televisions so that they can watch the game, if they fall during work hours. And somehow, in this soccer/football crazed nation, Spain has yet to earn its first point (USA=2 points. Go figure). I wouldn't say the mood is dour, but there is a certain nervousness in the air. After all, Spain is one of the favorites. You can't be a favorite and lose to the Swiss. Puh-lease. So today, when Spain plays Honduras, I plan to be right there cheering on El Rojo. Why? Because the US isn't going to win (unless all the other teams suddenly come down with a short-lived but debilitating stomach virus), and if Spain wins, there will be a party. Not just any party. A party to end all parties. A let's jump in the fountain and run around like small children party. And that sounds like something I want to see. And if they don't win, everyone will start paying attention to the economy, and no one wants that.

sundays in la latina

2010-06-13T13:45:00.000-07:00

Drinking all day is not socially acceptable...in America. Unless you're at barbecue, spending all day in the sun hanging out and kicking back copas would be considered an unhealthy relationship with alcohol. It's not a normal Sunday. However. This blog is about Spain, and as I am American, this is my perspective on all things Spanish, including the Sunday tradition of peeling yourself out of bed on Sunday morning (let's be honest, afternoon) and plopping yourself down on a terrace to drown your hangover with an ice-cold beverage. Many of us don't make it to La Latina, which is the place to be, since it's far and we're lazy. For those who do, as I did today, it is truly wonderful. After starting the morning off at the Reina Sofia Museum at the Photo España exhibition (a photography festival that takes over the city's museums and galleries the month of June), we headed south to La Latina, hoping for a spot in the sun. After a little bit of wandering down Calle Cava Baja (where there aren't any terraces, but a lot of fantastic tapas bars), we scaled the stairs of El Viajero and scored a spot on the roof. After all the stairs, we were clearly hungry, so we proceeded to eat sepia a la plancha (grilled octopus) and drink tintos de verano (red wine mixed with lemon Fanta) for the majority of the day. I've got the sunburn to prove it. Exhausted after so much exertion, we, along with all the other madrileños crawl our way back to our apartments, curling into bed and falling asleep, full, tan, and slightly buzzed. Oh, Sunday.

end of an era

2010-06-03T10:05:00.000-07:00

It's now June, the last month of my contract for this year and the end of my stay in a Spanish school. And no, I do not have anything planned for next year. But this isn't about next year, it's about my school. Stay with the subject. So anyway. This is the moment I have been looking forward to and dreading all year. Looking forward to it because it's the beginning of summer, and dreading it because it's the beginning of unemployment. Yikes. And while I imagined I would have a lot of feelings, I didn't think I would miss working in preschool, i.e. the children. That may be a terrible thing to say, but at least I'm being honest. Working with children is exhausting. "Abi, can I go to the bathroom? I have boogers! Look at my shoes! I HAVE TO PEEEEEEE!!" And so on. So I was surprised to find that I feel a little sad leaving those buggers. I will miss the little ones singing Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" to themselves, and telling me that "Me duele la tummy!" They are adorable despite themselves. And they are quite a self-esteem booster. Everyday, I'm told how pretty I am. And then hugged. I feel that doesn't happen in the workplace. I'm not ready to leave preschool!!

speaking the spanglish

2010-05-25T14:16:00.000-07:00

Hanging out with Americans here in Madrid feels like cheating, since the real reason we all came to Madrid was to learn Spanish. And of course, when put together, we all speak in English. Well, to a careless bystander, it may sound like English. But, all of us know that we have infused our English with little Spanish ticks or slips into Spanish grammar. It's not something we do knowingly, but rather, with so much switching between the two systems, our mouths and brains slip into familiar patterns...in the wrong moments. The speaker of these ticks has no idea, however, until someone points out, "Do you know what you just said?" For example, Give me a lost call ("una llamada perdida"= a missed call). What's your direction? ("tu dirección"= your address). Yesternight, I didn't sleeped. ("anoche"= last night; and sleeped...I hadn't had coffee that day). For where do you go out in Madrid? (¿Por dónde sales en Madrid?=Where do you go out in Madrid?). These are the ones that come to recent memory, but I'm sure there are plenty more, both intentional and accidental. We'll go tapaearing, maybe grab some cañas and bocadillos if we still have hunger, y a ver, does anyone have the hour?

fun with arabic

2010-05-17T02:24:00.000-07:00

If you've ever tried to learn a language, you're probably familiar with language podcasts. Who hasn't thought, I have a long commute in the subway/car/bus, and I can use this time in a productive way to better myself as a human being? So, you download some free podcasts, put them on your iPod, and begin to speak to yourself on the public transportation system. Depending on what language, this almost always guarantees you a certain amount of space (Arabic=the MOST space and the most nervous looks). Having a fair amount of experience with Spanish and French podcasts, I thought I knew what to expect when I downloaded some in Arabic. In varying levels of difficulty, the speakers would discuss daily situations like going to a restaurant or to the gym, and perhaps some current events that reflected a certain cultural aspect. I asked a friend who listens to a German podcast what the set up was like, and she told me there is always someone ordering beer. Work situation? Someone orders a beer. Discussion with a family member? That probably involves a beer, at least in German. You've gotta know your priorities. Well. I've been listening to these Arabic podcasts for some time, and I've gotta say, the situations are getting progressively more bizarre. It started out with a conversation about how one of the speakers was a fast eater and one was a slow eater. The next one was about a child asking for a piece (...of something) from his mother. The next one (and final one, that I have patience for), blows them all out of the water. Here is the transcript, no exagerations:
Title: Please Don't Praise Me

A: You are generous, good, and intelligent.
B: Please don't praise me, because I think that the devil will get inside my head and make me think that I'm better than other people.
A: Modest!

I understand that with Arabic, the different dialects make it a difficult language to teach, and it is inseparable, really, from political and emotional charged discussions/diatribes relating to Islam and relations between the Near East and West. I get that. However. How is that a beginner Arabic conversation?? What happened to counting? Can a girl get a podcast about ordering some food in a restaurant?

mom and dad and lisbon...and sarah??

2010-04-16T01:18:00.000-07:00

So...the family vacation, part deux. I've already written about Lisbon. And vacation with the parents. So really, what more is there to talk about? The double-date parental vacation! What in the world is that, you ask? Only when you and one of your closest friends go on vacation to the same place, at the same time, and stay at the same hotel...and each of you is with your parents. Hurrah! So, with my parents, I did all the Lisbon-y things that you do: Go to Sintra to see the fairytale castles, go to Bélem to see the Monastery and the Tower and to eat the awesome pastries, walk around Lisbon and check out the fabulous food. Then, with Sarah, the plan was that we would go out, which we would have, had she not had pneumonia and had I not been a disaster with legs. Life happens. Anyway. We DID have one big group dinner, which was fun and bizarre simaltaneously. After living by yourself, without your friends knowing your parents or family structure, it's almost overwhelming for everyone to meet each other. It helps, for my parents at least, to put a face on this Sarah character, who bakes muffins and engages in bakery eating contests in far-off Italy. And it was great to meet Sarah's dad and step-mom, since I feel like I know so much about them. And of course, the food was awesome. Awesomely gigantic. My mom got some kind of pork loin, and it could have fed all of us. That's not an exageration. After eating as much as she could and giving away slices to everyone, she still had five slice on her plate. Five, thick, saucy slices. After rolling back to our hotel (Lisbon is very hilly), we awoke early the next morning, and said a bittersweet goodbye. It's great to see my parents, but it's always hard to say good-bye. Big BESOS!

mom and dad and porto

2010-04-03T02:55:00.000-07:00

It's becoming a yearly event, the (almost) family vacation (just missing the bro!). We're making up for lost time, for the vacation-less saving for college years. Last year, it was London and Edinborough, this year, it was Lisbon and Porto, for a little southern Mediterranean flair. My parents spent a day in Lisbon before I arrived, checking out Sao Jorge's castle and wandering around the capital, something I had already done on my visit last July. When I arrived on Sunday, we caught a train and went north to the city of Porto, famous for its bridges and delicious port wine. Anxious to get out and about, we ventured from our hotel to get something to eat. I decided to follow the advice of my Lonely Planet guidebook, and we headed to Café Embaixador, a restaurant near the main square. Touristy, but we trusted Lonely Planet, and quite honestly, it wasn't bad and we got to experience Portuguese junk food. America and McDonald's always get blamed for the growing obesity epidemic spreading through Europe, but if you're eating a francesinha (the local sandwich) with any regularity, just start buying bigger pants. It's filled with cured ham, two different kinds of sausage and melted cheese, and then drowned with a tomato and beer sauce, only to be topped with...a fried egg. I believe the fried egg is optional, but since we were on vacation, we splurged. We split it between the three of us, and still couldn't eat it all. Then, we walked, to counteract the cholesterol. Up the hills, down the hills, we ended up next to the river with the setting sun hitting the old colorful buildings. Sigh. For dinner, after consulting both the New York Times travel section and guide books (sometimes, it's good to improvise, and sometimes, you need some advice), we headed to a place that quite litereally, resembled a cave. I felt quite at home eating some jamón "pata negra" (the good stuff), cured cheeses, and blood sausage (Dad: "Why is this so dark?" Me: "You don't really want to know."), which disgusted my mom a little bit. Personally, my goal on every trip/day. The next day, we awoke and after elbowing the Germans out of the way at breakfast, we headed across the bridge to drink some port. Luckily, alcohol consumption before noon is perfectly acceptable, so we went at it. Another day gone in a sweet-alcohol induced haze, we hopped on a train to Lisbon the next day. Not after enjoying a lovely seafood stew next to the Duoro river though. Vacation with the parents is the life.

walaa

2010-03-27T02:44:00.000-07:00

This week has been really hard for me. I've tried to write a happy-go-lucky post, since that's what this blog is. But this week, I just can't. Walaa, a close friend of mine, committed suicide last Friday, on March 19. I found out on Sunday, from a message from his girlfriend. It came as a shock to me, since I had seen and talked to him everyday the week before. His funeral was in Cairo yesterday. I really don't know what to say, but writing has been helping me, so that's what I'm going to do. I want to share a story about him.

Walaa was really smart. A very intellectual guy. He spoke Arabic (both standard and Egyptian dialect), Spanish, English, and Italian. He had gone to college in Egypt, got a Masters in Information Technology to learn English, and was pursuing doctoral studies in the Universidad Complutense here in Madrid. He was also my Arabic teacher, but more importantly, we had become friends, since we had friends in common. But as I was saying, he was very intelligent, a great guy for serious conversations about life, religion, politics, anything you wanted to talk about. But what I really loved about Walaa was the fact that in spite of the serious studies, the serious job, the difficulty of being an immigrant away from your family and friends, he had such a silly side. He let me talk about Orientalism and gender theory in one moment, and in the next, would pretend to be an Arabic ganster rapper with me. When we learning body parts, I showed him the song "Head, shoulders, knees and toes," and not only did he not think I was completely crazy, he taught first me the words in Arabic (our version was "Head, shoulder, knee, foot"), and then our entire class. Granted, he could never get the rhythm completely right, and his rendition was much more serious than mine, but he felt no shame whatsoever singing a song meant for three-year-olds to a class of serious adults. That was not our only joint musical production. We shared a goal of becoming Arabic gansta rappers, and we practiced on the metro. And yes, had it just been Walaa, people would have been scared. But as he said, life's always easier when you've got a blonde next to you. My part went like this: "Ana fee al-bite!" (I am in the house!) And then he would say "Rookab, rookab!" (Knees, knees!) People had every right to be afraid, because we were clearly insane. Further verses include "Ana lastoo fee al bite!" (I am not in the house!) and "Hal antee fee al bite?" (Are you in the house?), with a constant refrain of "Rookab, rookab" with the occasional "Ayn odun femm amph." (Eye, ear, nose, mouth) Ay, qué risa me dabas, Walaa. Siempre te llevaré conmigo.
مع السالمة صديقي

the guiri gourmet

2010-03-10T04:44:00.000-08:00

Over my two years here, I would like to think that I've created a niche for myself. I have an identity, you could say. And that identity revolves around baked goods. I'm, depending on the person, "la chica de las tartas," "esa, quien hace galletas," and "la chica del pastel." (translation: the girl with the pies; that one, who makes cookies; the girl with the cake) My identity depends not a bright smile or a quick wit, but rather, solely on the things that I make with my hands and put in the oven. Which in Spain, is no small feat. No only do you have to find the ingredients, but dessert, although it clearly exists, isn't really that big of a deal here. A typical dessert is a piece of fruit or a yogurt, so you can imagine the first impression a brownie makes. It's like a chocolate explosion in your mouth. Delicious. There are imitations of American baked goods, of course, but being modest, mine are better. One, I use butter, not olive oil. One bakery, Happy Day, sells overpriced plastic looking cupcakes and frisbee-like cookies. And VIPS, the popular chain with American-style food, has a brownie on the menu. Two, I know what I'm doing. I can make chocolate chip cookies in my sleep. I even made them with my third grade afterschool English class. We learned words like mix, stir in and bake. Incredibly useful in my world.

el poeta en nueva york

2010-02-27T07:38:00.001-08:00

When I read (and reread and analyzed and translated) Poeta en Nueva York in my last semester as a college student, not once did I have the thought, I bet this would translate really well to modern dance! Maybe I just didn't see it in that moment. Maybe I'm just not a visionary. In my defense, I was very stressed out at this time in my life. However, although I didn't see the potential of this surrealist book of poetry to become a choreographed modern dance-flamenco performance, Blanca Li did. And she made a go of it in the Teatro Canal about ten minutes from my house (in Chamberí, not Tetuán). My reaction upon seeing the poster was one of disbelief, followed by, "That's gonna be the craziest thing ever." Which of course I had to see. And I'm glad I did. Like a true nerd, I reread my copy of Poeta en Nueva York the week prior to seeing the show, so that when I sat and watched the truly amazing recital, I was prepared. While my initial certainty of insanity seemed right on as the set opened with a giant glowing egg and a male dancer wearing a silver suit, the performance of the first poem was truly remarkable. A woman belted out the words in flamenco style (the PAIN! the SUFFERING! the DUENDE!). Following this, the dance sequence seemed pulled from the lyrical poems, dream-like and fluid. The flamenco style mixed beautiful with the more modern dance, and there was even a part with water! I don't want to give the impression that I know anything about dance. But I know about Poeta en Nueva York. And the incredible performances expressed the book in a way that made me want to eat ham and fight bulls, which is, I'm sure, what Lorca intended. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1U3QuO3qo8

el mercado de maravillas

2010-02-19T10:49:00.000-08:00

I used to get all my food at the supermarket. It's easy, efficient, and to be honest, how America does food shopping. From suburbia to dowtown Manhattan, the large majority of people roam aisles searching for cereal and stuff shiny fruit into plastic bags. I won't go so far as to say it's the American way, but as a nation, we don't have time to go to the butcher, the baker, or the candlestick maker. We're modern. For the past year, however, I've been getting increasingly old school and getting my groceries from el Mercado de Maravillas (the Market of Miracles). Lucky for me, I live in Tetuán (some of my friends refer to it as the ghetto, but it's because they're jealous), only a few blocks from this famous market. El Mercado is one of the biggest in Europe, and there's an old madrileño saying, "Si buscas algo, vete a Maravillas. Si no lo encuentras, es que no hay." (If you're looking for something, go to Maravillas. If you don't find it, it's because it doesn't exist.) In the building (you know which building because there's a strong smell of fish and gangs of old ladies outside), there's innumerable stands, each specializing in fruit, vegetables, embutidos (cured and deli meats), nuts and olives, beef and pork, and chicken. I have my favorites. My frutero (fruit monger? fruit guy) sells me delicious fruit while simaltaneous making increasing lewd comments, which would usually bother me. But it's so ridiculous, I find it hilarious. My vegetables come from a nearby stand, where they continually ask, "¿Qué más, guapa? ¿Qué más, joven?" (What else, beautiful? What else, young person?) I've recently found a nut guy, who's filled my supply of toasted hazelnuts, macadamia nuts, and even sells cranberries, a rarity here. But the most intimidating stand has to be the meat stands. I was a vegetarian for seven years. I don't know what the different cuts of meat are, not in English, not in Spanish. And I definitely don't have the confidence to go toe-to-toe with some Spanish abuela, nervously pointing and shakily describing what I want. I did manage to buy a chicken for a small dinner party, no small feat for me. But when I went with a friend, we somehow managed to find a great pork stand with a drag queen out front (this is Madrid, people). The butchers behind the counter not only answered our questions but patiently explained where each cut of meat comes from, and how to cook each one. The man even took us across the aisle to their sister stand, which sold less desirable cuts, like liver, brain, trotters, ears, and oh yeah, a bag of pig's blood. What you do with a bag of pig's blood if you aren't planning to reenact Carrie I'm still not sure, but it was awfully nice of him to show us around. A small miracle, perhaps.

new traditions, old habits

2010-02-14T12:40:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows me knows that I love baking. I love the measuring and the mixing, the warm smell of rising dough, and of course, eating whatever comes out of the oven. From start to finish, it gives me a warm feeling (most likely from the oven) and reminds me of home. All in all, very enjoyable. Baking in Spain, however, is a little complicated. You have to translate all the ingredients, improvise the preparation methods (springform pan, schmingform pan), and then there's the oven. My oven likes to play games, the most popular being I'm getting really really hot! Now I'm coooooling down, guess what I'm doing now! I usually win, but it keeps you on your toes. Lately, however, with my vow/crazy cleanse ridiculousness, I can't eat sugar or white flour. There have been times in my life (my mom's coconut cream pie, a cupcake from Sugar Sweet Sunshine) that I have thought life might not be worth living without sugary, indulgent creations. That's how serious I am about dessert. You can imagine the internal struggle that is taking place at this very moment, and it's for this reason that my friend Sarah and I have spent the past two Sundays baking muffins. Not just any muffins. Sugarless muffins, sweetened with fruit and applesauce, and made with spelt/quinoa/barley/who knows what else flour. It sounds like desperation, but it smells like delicious. Last week, our apple/carrot/hazelnut power muffins made my week, and this week, our mix of pumpkin, coconut, dates, and macadamia nuts is pretty awesome. Nothing can compare, however, to the cake we made for Valentine's Day. So sweet, without sugar! So moist, without any fat! And so delicious, yet made with crazy health ingredients! It's a date-walnut-banana cake, and we found the recipe on the Internet (where else?). For those of you who think my tastebuds have died, I give you a second opinion: my roommates. That cake is gone, and so are all the crumbs. As for me, I hope next week brings more muffins.

a canarian adventure

2010-02-08T14:06:00.001-08:00

Last weekend, I journeyed to Africa. That is, Africa according to Lonely Planet, Rough Guides, and other travel books. For all other authorities, I was in Spain in the Canary Islands, specifically Gran Canaria. These islands, unlike Mallorca, Menorca, and Ibiza which are located in the Mediterranean, are located in off the coast of Africa, near Western Sahara. It's a two and a half hour plane ride to this part of Spain (although Germany is trying to colonize through a force of drunken, sunburned, socks-and-sandals wearing tourists) and quite honestly, everything changes. The accent is different (closer to the Cuban accent, and the buses are called the guaguas, like in Puerto Rico), and it was beautiful, sunny, and warm, while in Madrid, it was snowing. (OK, it was flurrying. But still. It was chilly and grey and bleh). I arrived with three girlfriends, Sarah, Kacie, and Meghan, all of us English teachers and all of us taking advantage of el Día del Professor (the day of St. Thomas Aquinas...don't you just love Catholicism and all those saints' days???) Our plan was to rent a car and drive across the island, through the mountains (discribed as Himalayan-esque) to the dunes and tourist-covered beaches in the south, where we wanted to see Mogán, a smaller town (the Venice of the Canaries, apparently). Again, this was the plan. The key part of the plan was that Kacie and I knew how to drive a stick. Through mountains. When I say that we knew, please put that in air quotes, and preface it with, "Well, I mean, I learned how to drive a stick..." Needless to say, the first twenty minutes were nearly disastrous. Sarah and Meghan in the back started eating cake to cope with the nerves, and well, the smell of burning clutch. We stalled going up the ramp in the parking garage, leading to a lot of nervous shaking (this was after taking five minutes to start the car, only later realizing that the parking brake was on. I am SHOCKED that they let us leave the parking lot. SHOCKED). This was nothing, however, as we then stalled on the ramp leaving the airport going on to the highway. However! All was not lost, and we somehow managed to get out of the airport and on our way, with our map (which had no current road names..."OK, up here, take the small yellow road."). After an hour, we made it Tejeda, which is in the center of the island, and the goal of going through the interior. We walked around the small town, absorbing the insanely gorgeous mountains and trash-talking tourists that only went to the beaches. At lunch, I got some baby goat (and it was as delicious as I'm sure it was adorable), and we continued on our way, stopping for some more mountain views. When we arrived in the south, in Maspalomas, we headed out for dinner. Although we hoped to find something not super touristy, the impossibility of that task coupled with our hunger led us to...the Hard Rock Café. I am not proud of this moment. But we were exhausted. The next day, we played on the beautiful dunes, and then headed to Puerta de Mogán, which did have canals. I wouldn't say Venice-like, but that's a personal aside. We wore bathing suits and sat on the beach, although it was honestly not that warm. We did not care. To top off our trip, we headed out in Maspalomas, tourist central, in search of nightlife...and we found the Kasbah. It was nothing like the Clash song (although we did rock it), and it was a lot like a mall. Think of Atlantic City, but more trashy. I'm torn that we don't have any good pictures of this mythical place. Pictures would help, but I don't really want to remember that terrible soulless black hole of dignity. Shudder. We sucked it up and danced, our life being so hard and all. The next day, we said good-bye to the Canaries, dropped off the rental car in one piece, and headed back to the Peninsula. That's what the cool locals call it. Which we clearly are not, but it helps to have dreams. (PHOTO CREDITS: KACIE DAUGHETY)

uncle sam DOESN'T want you

2010-02-01T06:46:00.000-08:00

So, as many of you know, I was studying for the Foreign Service Officer Test, which you have to pass to join the diplomatic corps of the United States and to work abroad in an embassy. That was in October, and I passed, although I don't really know the breakdown of my score. I then had to write six short essays describing and elaborating any experiences I had relating to the prompts they set out, focusing on leadership, communication, and other things people ask you on job interviews and the like. However, not only did I have to write, I also had to provide references...for each experience. Slightly intense. But I wrote them, rewrote them, had other people read them, edited, and fretted over them. An involved process. I was feeling confident about the whole thing, since I thought I was pretty qualified. But, last week I found that, in fact, Uncle Sam was doing just fine, thank you, no need to pitch in or help out. I wasn't granted an interview, which was the next step in a long, drawn-out process. My candidancy could not be continued at this time, but I shouldn't feel bad, because it's really competetive, and I could always take the test again in a year. Well, there goes that plan. I was gonna have so much health insurance and vacation time. What I will do until then...unknown. Will I take the test again in a year? Unknown. Am I a rudderless ship set out to sea? Not quite...but the metaphor isn't that far off. Am I drowning in angsty seas of broken dreams? ...I just got back from Gran Canaría, so...oh woe is me? Doesn't really go with a bikini.

east coast, west coast

2010-01-24T13:52:00.000-08:00

I may be becoming a West Coast hippie. I don't know how to explain it. But it's happening. I think the influence of my coworker Julie and my good friend Sarah are to blame. Both are West Coasters, and one might even say hippies. Or at least New Age-y. For instance, during our games period, we normally do stretches at the beginning, to practice names of the body parts. On Friday, Julie brought some in crazy mystic crap from her belly-dance class, and I just laughed and rolled my eyes. Because I am from the East Coast, and cynical. And yet, somehow, Sarah talked me into doing a crazy diet (not a New Year's resolution, not to lose weight, but to purify and balance everything out). Learning of the restrictions of the diet, I really thought I would last an hour. Maximum. 1. No sugar. 2. Nothing with yeast (bread and all its relatives) 3. Nothing fermented (alcohol, vinager, etc) 4. Nothing aged or that could have mold (cheese, peanuts) I just rounded the two week bend, and I've been eating a lot of beans and brown rice. And nuts. The goal is one month, and then to see how long I can actually go without having sugar-deprived delusions (I'm already having dreams in which I can't eat anything). I haven't even cheated, really. I've astounded myself. Being creative in the kitchen helps a lot. I made a great recipe with chicken and smoked paprika (Roast Chicken Breasts with Garbanzo Beans, Tomatoes, and Smoked Paprika). Surprisingly easy, since I really don't know what to do with chicken, former vegetarian and all (the first whiff of my counter coastal leanings). And on Friday, I found yeast-free, sugar-free spelt cookies (GASP!!). The excitement was nearly palpable in the health food store, where I was hanging out with Spanish hippies (a different breed althogether). But East Coasters, don't worry. I'm still showering, and I haven't shown any desire to do yoga. There's still hope.

looooong overdue...sicily

2010-01-14T22:53:00.000-08:00

What did you do in Sicily? Where did you go? Ah, questions. 1. Ate and be surrounded by beauty. 2. Trapani, Marsala, and Eriche. Where are those places? Ask RyanAir, which flies to Trapani. My friend Sarah called me about two months ago, saying, I found an amazing deal on a flight for the long weekend. Where to? Trapani...where is Trapani? It's located on the western coast of Sicily, about two hours west of Palermo. It's more of an industrial fishing town, rather than a tourist destination. Especially in the winter. We were turning heads, based only on the fact that we were not Italian and had somehow managed to get there. It was raining when we got there, so everything was cloudy. Did I mention it was dark, and we had the world's worst map? Luckily, a nice Italian man was willing to gesture us in the right direction, to another Italian who didn't speak English, but at least he was a police officer. After confusing us with Eastern European sex workers and witnessing some sketchy dealings (can you say Mafia?), he helped us find our way, and we got to our, ehem, very romantic hostal. Since we got there late and this is a small town, we went to a pretty touristy place, but of course had a lovely conversation and ended up getting some free fried pizza dough filled with ricotta. FOR FREE. Overall, great day. The next morning, we ate some pizza bread for breakfast (are you seeing the theme??), and headed to Marsala. As in, Marsala wine. And yes, we had some. And some incredible pasta, homemade, with sausage and deliciousness. Oh my. All this decadence called for a walk, all around the town and near the Mediterranean, which has never looked better. On our third day, we ended up going to Eriche, a touristy, but incredibly beautiful town in the mountains (or on top of a hill? It's difficult to say). We really just soaked up the beauty of place...and had a pastry war, between two rival shops. We were the winners, really. The prize was an upset stomach, and much moaning about being gluttons. A little forethought says that eating four (ok, six) pastries between two people is not a good idea. Clearly not a part of our vacation equation. After resting up, we ventured out for a light meal, and the next day, we went back to Madrid. But not before grabbing some gelato. Damn straight.

the new year.

2010-01-09T13:57:00.000-08:00

So...I took December off. There's no excuse for that kind of deliquence, especially when for half of the month I was on vacation. I had little to say, quite honestly. For about half of January as well. So much pressure, a blog! Anyway, I decided on a few things, as a new way to start the new year (like a week ago...I'm a little behind!). This is my ridiculous and completely unnecessary list of resolutions:
1. Use all the pages in my passport and have to get new ones, before it expires in six years.
2. Blog at least every three days (already broken, boo yah)
3. Read "Very Important Books"

I have not added anything stressful to my list, because no one wants to start the new year like that. You're asking for trouble, setting yourself up for defeat and disappointment and never being able to look your dog in the eye again. So. I started my year off light-heartedly. But also seriously (notice the "Very Important Books" one). I'm lacking a clear-cut definition of "Very Important Books," though (I hope that you're saying "Very Important Books" slowly, in deep voice, with a fake British accent...in your head. Or out loud. However you want to play that). So far, I've come up with Don Quixote, Cien Años de Soledad, Ulysses, the works of Shakespeare, and probably Twilight. If you have any suggestions to help me sort this out, I would greatly appreciate it. GOOD NIGHT!

the thanksgiving that was

2009-11-28T09:16:00.001-08:00

I was in the kitchen for seven hours straight. I used a kilo of flour and almost a kilo of butter. The calorie content of that room yesterday could've killed a full grown man. It was Thanksgiving (ok, the day after) and I went hardcore. It was serious. I got home from work, and the cooking started. It must have been because this was the third Thanksgiving that I haven't been at home. The first, both my parents and my brother came to Madrid. Last year, it was a small affair with a few friends. This year, it was a dinner with about 35 people, half Spanish and half American, truly crazy. So anyway. After a conference call with my mother and aunt and cousin about the troubling consistency of my pie dough, I was ready to go, game face on. First pie, pumpkin. No problems. My pie dough, a little crumbly. Rolling it out with a thermos instead of a rolling pin may have effected that. But I kept it going! Next up, the mixed nut tart with a cookie crust. The cookie crust nearly broke my blender (there was a funny smell), but I continued on. Chopped nuts, mixed corn syrup, pressed the crust into the tin foil pan, and into the oven. A note about tin foil pans. Una mierda! (Ehem. Bullshit) They don't hold anything. And they explode in your oven, leaving you a disaster to clean up. But whatever, so I had to scoop up some of the filling with a spatula. No worries. On to number 3! The crowning jewel, the maple pecan pie. My seventh pie crust turned out great, I finally figured out the butter to Crisco ratio. And after the pie, I whipped up some sweet potatoes. Marshmellows please! And finally, I had a friend help me transport all this baking. And then, we ate. And ate. And then, exhausted, stuffed, I went home to sleep. Thanksgiving, de verdad.

Thanksgiving-T Minus 3 Days

2009-11-24T14:49:00.000-08:00

Finding ingredients in Madrid is like a scavenger hunt. I've ruled out so many recipes because I know I won't be able to find the ingredients (Seeds of paradise?? Alton Brown, what even is that?). I've been to the grocery store, the market, the expensive grocery store, the American store, the other American store...And I'm still not done. Finding pumpkin proved to be a near disaster. The first American store was out of pumpkin. It's Thanksgiving, you're an American store, and you don't have pumpkin? Pardona? I believe the conversation went like this: "¿No tienes calabaza en latas? (You don't have canned pumpkin?) Answer: No, no nos queda. (No, we don't have any left). Me: ...¿en serio? (Seriously?)...They were quite serious. So, then I hauled ass to the other American store on the other side of Madrid, going over the nightmare scenario of a pumpkin-less Thanksgiving. Could I use regular squash? Luckily, the other American store was well stocked. And super expensive. (2.50 a can. Seriously). 12 euros for a bag of pecans?? Guess again. Pecans are very hard to find here. Not that popular. However. I believe I have spent much more than 12 euros on this pecan pie so far. First, I bought the wrong pecans (Salted. Damn). Then, I had to buy the shelled ones. And a nutcracker. And then I had to shell them. Luckily, Sarah was there to pitch in, so we both had bloody fingers...All that for a pecan pie. It better be good.

thanksgiving...T-One Week

2009-11-20T06:04:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is in one week...OK, so it's in six days. I will be celebrating it in a week, since I live in a country (aka outside of America) that does not recognize Turkey Day as a holiday. I'm mentally preparing for the insensitive turkey jokes, since Spaniards don't really understand that Thanksgiving is a holiday when you're with your family. Seeing that I'm here, I have a bit of a rough time going to work on Thursday like it's a normal day. I'm not saying, Woe is me, but a little sympathy wouldn't hurt. But really, this year I'm totally ready for this holiday. A true ex-pat affair. A friend and co-worker is having a dinner on Friday at her apartment...with about thirty people. I'm on pie duty, with a sweet potato bonus. Bring on the marshmellows! And I will be making the pie crust from scratch. Because I can do whatever I want, and my mother will love me, but if I buy those pie crusts...I shudder to think. I was raised better. But thank god I don't have to worry about a turkey, although there have been discussions. How a big a turkey do you order? How many kilos? How many pounds is that? How long do you leave it in the oven, especially if you're eating at Spanish dinner hours (which is LATE)? I'm assuming you just have to baste. There will be updates!

another solo trip? do you even have friends?

2009-11-15T03:25:00.001-08:00

Yes. I do have friends. However, another solo trip was in order, since my friends had already planned the puente (long weekend) and were going to Morocco or Istanbul (what LOSERS), or they had no money for traveling. Waiting to the last minute sometimes is not the best strategy, but for me, it works, kind of. Anyway, to escape from Madrid for a few days, I hopped on a bus and rode seven hours, through wind and rain, and arrived to a dark and gloomy San Sebastián. Dark, gloomy, and wonderfully mysterious. One note: In Madrid, it never rains. The wind doesn't gust so much as sandblast. And there is never, never water thrown in your face, unless you get hit by a bucketful from someone's window. San Sebastián is next to the Atlantic Ocean, about 30 miles from France. Weather-wise, it's everything Madrid is not, which is exactly what I needed. I arrived at around 10:30, and it was already dark and rainy. After checking into my hostel, which was surprisingly cozy and thankfully dry, I wandered into the street to get something to eat. Spaniards talk about the good eats in the Basque country (not officially a seperate country, but don't tell them that), and they can back it up. They've got some tapas (really, they're called pintxos) that are insane in the membrane. It needed to be said. I ate so much, yet I have no pictures of food (what was I thinking??). Foie gras, cod with cauliflower purée, ham croquettes, goat cheese toast, a perfectly cooked steak filet (Remember that time I was vegetarian for like seven years? What was that about?)...I can't even remember what else. Deliciousness. And I walked. Up the beach, down the beach, up a hill. I didn't mind the wind, the rain, the deliciously expensive food. It knocked some sense into my dried out brain. And on the last day, I saw the end of a marathon. You heard me. Spanish people. Running. Without the threat of being gored by a bull. The Basque country really is different.

eat the hamburger with your hands!

2009-11-02T07:15:00.000-08:00

In Madrid, American food is really trendy. It's bizarre, really, as an American. Because you would never call to make reservations for a real diner. That's ridiculous. But here, if you don't call ahead, you might as well just dream on, because there's no way you're getting a seat. Kiss that greasy burger and side of fries good-bye. There's a restaurant called Home Burger that if you don't make reservations (for a BURGER), they look at you in disgust, as if to say, Of course there isn't space. And then, once you do make reservations, they look at you like you're crazy once you're eating. It's a burger. You eat it with your hands. Put down the fork. Get messy, Europe! And the French fries? One: they aren't chips. This is American food. They're French fries. Two: Also a finger food. Dig in! And stop looking at me like I'm nutso. I'm American, you're eating at an American restaurant. Take notes. If you go to a Chinese restaurant, you'd use chopsticks. We have a culture! We have our own food! Really! Macaroni and cheese, meat loaf, casserole, pie, cake, all things deep freid, and yes, hamburgers. Sometimes, I get a little defensive when people try to belittle the culture of the United States. I'm no Glen Beck, but you tell me that I don't have a culture, and I'll take that hamburger out of your clean, fork-holding hand. Sorry now?

squeeze the minutes out of the day.

2009-10-16T11:08:00.000-07:00

I came to Spain to relax. To take it slow. To drink beer at lunch, and for that to be a socially acceptable choice, especially during the work week. Yet I find myself sprinting around Madrid like a some kind of electrified, self-propelled pinball. I use my Abono (metropass) like Paris Hilton uses her credit card. My days start at 9 and finish sometime around 9 or 10. What am I doing? Until 1 or 2, I work at a school, in Infantil. I teach preschool (Today, first thing, someone in my class vomitted. Not from being hungover). Then, I have some free time, followed by private classes, which leads to the sprint to the center of Madrid for language classes (French or Arabic, depending). I get home, and recently I started knitting. My roommates made me sit in the rocking chair, and wear my grandmother's sweater...because I'm an 80 year old woman. Back to the point. You can take the girl out of America, but you can't take America out of the girl. There has to be a reason for that cliché...a reason being the truth. Yes, I am in Spain, and I do take the time to slow down, but I still have some strange desire to run around in a tizzy for much of my day. Really, the downside is the unavailability of to-go coffee cups. Am I contributing less to global warming and trash heaps? Yes. Am I miming drinking coffee on the metro? Yes. Yes, I am.

reasons i shouldn't be a preschool teacher

2009-10-08T12:59:00.000-07:00

Today, I realized my job description reads like this: color, draw, sing, cut, paste, play duck duck goose. Hazards include debilitizing stomach viruses and the HI flu. I'm not sure if I'm in the right profession. One, I don't even really like kids that much. I like kids more than other things, including but not limited to: anchovies, stomach viruses, canned mushrooms, and passive aggressive behavior. Perhaps I'm exaggerating, because really, kids are not that bad. In large groups, they can be annoying, loud, and very silly, but they generally aren't mean-spirited or out to get you. Generally. Two: I don't think of myself as particularly animated, which is really important if you are a preschool teacher. I've seen YouTube videos, and I just cannot get that excited about the Five Little Pumpkins. It's madness. And the level of animation spikes when you have to speak to them in a language they don't understand. The Five Little Pumpkins are the best and most AMAZING thing in the entire world!!(The real deal: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b9r65lQUqMg ) Three: Working with children makes you act like a child. It's not proven, but childish behavior at inappropriate times can be linked to be surrounded by mountains of children day in and day out. Having to remind yourself that you are the adult in any given situation is disconcerting, to say the least. Well, now that I've finished writing about how ill-suited I am for my current position, I better get back to it. The children are waiting!

the big 2-3

2009-09-10T14:59:00.000-07:00

It's my birthday. The 28th of September. I'm turning 23 years old, which really means nothing, since I will continue to be "twenty-something." However, I do want to say some parting words to 22, because I'm glad I survived. At 21, I jumped off a cliff. Graduated from college early, moved to Spain, started from nothing with the enthusiasm of...a 21 year-old. If at 21 I jumped off a cliff, then 22 was the freefall. I ate too much, drank too much, stayed up too late, and probably wore too little clothing. While doing these inappropriate things, I also held down a respectable job (teaching preschoolers makes you adorable and responsible), and did my best not to think too hard about the future. 22 went by quickly, hazily, and not quite painlessly. There were the inevitable transitional growing pains, from the life of a student to the life of a struggling-to-be-financially independent ex-pat. Balancing my budget, putting a little money away, trying to make friends. This sounds like some kind of sitcom, and it's totally cliché. But it's a cliché for a reason. Everyone gets lost, no one's really sure what they're supposed to be doing. Does everyone type "what to do with life" into google? We all have our paths, and some of us chose to ask the internet for its sage advice (apparently going to India is a very popular life plan). But, 22 is gone now. And I chose to see it out the door in the only appropriate way: by going out for four days straight as a lead up to the big day. I now have a cold, which I passed to everyone in the English department. 22 was exhausting. But the freefall, I hope, is over. I'm not saying I'm where I want to be, or even close. I will say, however, that flailing and trying to grab onto anything that feels solid is no longer my best plan. Here's to taking a year to get some direction. It's up to you to use it, 23.

the readjustment.

2009-09-08T10:31:00.000-07:00

This trip to Madrid was supposed to be an easy one, free of any kind of culture shock. I've been living here for a year and a half total, so I thought I was more than well-adjusted. For goodness sake, I was eating a giant lunch at three everyday, and mixing pieces of ham into my peas (the unnecessary ham is the give-away in Spanish cuisine). After spending a month in the United States, however, I think some back-sliding into old habits snuck up on me. For example, I was pretty content to walk at a moderate, occasionally slow pace in the city. Even in New York, I wasn't racing like I used to when I lived there, which probably annoyed many New Yorkers. But one day back here, and I nearly punched some old lady in the back of the head for walking too slowly. In the past month, I've picked up a bad case of sidewalk rage. But sidewalk rage is only one example. I have a strange desire to walk in the street and drink a beverage at the same time. And I would like that beverage to be quite large, maybe even iced, but that's not a requirement. Of course, here, if you ask for a coffee to go, you get some strange looks. Looks that say: "Where are you going that's soooo important that you can't drink this coffee here?" As if there is nowhere that could be THAT important.
In all fairness, though, I had a little trouble adjusting to New York after being gone for more than a year. I forgot that no one has vacation. No one takes breaks, either. While trying to meet up with all of my friends, I asked if anybody could meet for lunch. "I don't take a lunch break" is the response I got from many of my friends. Suddenly, I remembered why I took a break from New York: I love lunch, and while I may like carrying my coffee with me, I definitely don't like eating my sandwich on the subway. Give me three hour lunches all day, every day.

studying for the fsot

2009-09-01T20:38:00.000-07:00

Looking at the title for this entry, most of you may think...what is the FSOT? I'm hoping some of you googled it, which would tell you that I'm studying for the Foreign Service Officer Test (I bolded the letters so that you can see that they match!). Follow up question: Is that a real thing, or is it something you are pretending to do to seem like you have a plan? Well, doubters/parents, it is a real thing. In fact, it's the test you have to pass to be able to work abroad representing the United States in an embassy. Apparently, it's very difficult (I know because Wikipedia told me so), so I've been reading some books off the Suggested Reading List, provided by the US Government. That's right, the government recommends that you read books. Surprisingly, A People's History of the United States didn't make the cut, but Postwar: A History of Europe Since 1945 did. So far, this is the book I have enjoyed the most (A Peace to End All Peace, about the fall of the Ottoman Empire was really boring...shocking, I know). If you are looking for a book that will develop your biceps and your brain, then look no further! At over 1000 pages, even in paperback this bad boy is a pain to carry around on the subway. But did you know the percentage of Italians who had fridges in 1954? 4%. And in 1977, just 23 years later? 94%. (I actually found this really, really interesting, in all seriousness). Why? You'll just have to read the book for the thrilling conclusion. I just can't wait to find out what happens!

at home, he's a tourist

2009-08-27T21:32:00.001-07:00

Being home, in the United States, for an entire month, has been...difficult to describe. I mean, it feels like home. But I don't live here. I haven't seen most of my friends for an entire year. A lot of things happen in a year. People graduate from college, get jobs, move. The big changes happen. In the month that I've been back, I've been all over the East Coast...I've driven through or been in every state of New England, except Rhode Island (not even an island! Doesn't count). I've spent significant amounts of time in Pennsylvania, New York, and New Jersey...it's been a whirlwind East Coast roadtrip. And through all of that, I've seen cousins, grandparents, friends, old roommates. I've slept on couches, futons, and beds in both apartments and houses. Unforunately, there are only three meals a day (only three opportunities to say "Do you want to grab _______?"), but I've had them all, including coffee, which I don't believe counts as a meal. Through all of this, it's been hard to keep a perspective on reality. The reality that a lot has changed, and that I wasn't here to experience it. And that it's really hard to share what you've done for an entire year in one two hour meal/beverage break. All that said, it's still much easier to connect with old friends than to make new ones. Especially if your new friends speak a different language and come from a different place. With old friends, there's a foundation and a bond that deteriorates with time, but that doesn't mean it never existed. But, like I said, things have changed. I'm visiting, and a visit is a lot different than day to day life. Who knows what would have happened had I stayed. The fights I could have had and the rifts that could have formed, and maybe the new people I could have met. There's no way to know how things played out in the infinite parallel universes in which all possibilities are being explored...no way to know except to travel to them. But this is a blog, not a Michael Crichton novel. The technology just isn't there. In the meantime, watch Star Trek, preferably Next Generation.

solo trippin' (portugal)

2009-08-10T09:46:00.000-07:00

There are vacations you take to see interesting architecture, thought-provoking museums, historically rich monuments. And then there are trips you take to lay on a beach, eat seafood, and do very little thinking. After working the whole year (including July!) with preschool-aged children, I had little desire to see anything that wasn't an ocean. So, in the interest of my mental health, I bought a ticket to Lisbon, with a plan to go south to the beach. I didn't think much about buying a ticket for just one person. I mean, my American friends were visiting America, and my Spanish friends were working. The last thing I wanted to do was coordinate a group vacation, finding dates that worked for everyone, and ughhh. Already exhausted. So, I went alone. I planned to stay in hostels anyway, and I figured I would meet people there. Which I did. But on a side note. Are there any people between the ages of 18 and 27 left in Australia? Does the entire country come to a standstill for six months to a year to go on a backpacking trip around Europe? And, is there enough alcohol to sustain their lockstep march to self-destruction? After this trip, these are all valid concerns about the sustainability of Australia. But, I went to Portugal, and not Australia, let's move on. Since I've lived in Spain for a year, I assumed the two places would be similar. They're both on the Iberian peninsula, and the languages have a lot in common. However, Portugal was a lot different. For one, it was incredibly beautiful. I'm not saying Spain is not beautiful, but Portugal is truly stunning. In Lisbon and Sintra, the architecture was incredible, ranging from Medieval castles to Romantic palaces. And then there were the beaches and the mountains. And the tiles! Everything is covered in ceramic tiles! And I'm gushing. In my defense, I was traveling alone, so I had quite a lot of time to notice all of these things. However, this trip was not without its downsides. One, meals really suck when you travel alone. Two, there's no one to tell you when something is a terrible idea. Example: "Hey, don't take your bag in the water with you. Your camera is in there. Thats' a TERRIBLE idea." You learn something everyday.

high school reunion madrid

2009-07-11T08:23:00.001-07:00

I don't get a lot of visitors here in Madrid...shocking, I know, since it's so close to everything. So, when a friend from high school told me he and a group of his friends from college would be in Madrid as part of a "European tour," I got pretty excited. Never mind that we hadn't seen each other for two years, or that I didn't know any of his friends. They're in my new home, and I feel responsible to show them around. Responsible isn't the right word. I'm proud of where I live, and I want to show it off. Especially the food. Also, I have an ego, and I like to show people that I can speak the spanish. No one's completely selfless. But anyway. Initially, I was a little nervous, because I didn't know any of these people, and they're all engineers. Chemical engineers. What do I know about chemical engineering? Nothing. Not one thing. But you give people alcohol and olives, and everyone gets along. Tapas bring people together. I really enjoyed Dave's friend's explanation of tapas: "So, you just kinda snack until your full? And you stop whenever you want? And that's dinner?" Basically, yes. Somethings are fried, some are hot, some are cold, but most things are really good. And tapas was just the start of making friends. If I say so myself, I was a pretty awesome tourguide. So my dates and historical figures might be a little suspect (who says you can't just make stuff up? Who's going to know?) In addition to fabricating history, I did things that I had never done in Madrid. Such as ride in the boats in El Retiro, the Central Park of Madrid. After more than a year in Madrid, there's no excuse for that kind of inexperience. It's one of the more touristy things to do. But when you're with a group of tourists, it needs to happen. Overall, my "tour" of Madrid was pretty good, inclusive. I covered all bases- tapas to gin tonic to jamón. Wait, seeing stuff? Decidedly not important. It's Madrid. Eat, drink, and take two aspirin in the morning.

scholz tour de france

2009-07-11T08:23:00.000-07:00

Our "tour de france" is about three weeks shorter, minimal bike activity, and a lot more bread, in all of its many forms. Also, there was a significant amount of cheese. But let's start at the beginning...(also, apologies for not writing anything for a month...sorry?). So, my brother came to visit me in Madrid, and, seeing as he has already seen Madrid, I decided that we needed to go to France...because why not? Under my brilliant plan, we went to Toulouse and Nice. Why not Paris, or Lyon, or Bordeaux? Because I was paying, and I'm working as a teacher. You have to be realistic. So, off we went, on the smallest plane ever. Toulouse, sometimes known as the Pink City, because the buildings are made of pink bricks, is a sleepy, very nice town. A small city, although Spencer would say "medium-sized" ("Burlington is a small city!"). They are very nice there, especially patient if your French is really basic, and sometime you don't understand at all. But hey, no worries. Our first meal in Toulouse was memorable, mostly because I ordered little tiny squids. Calamari is usually unrecognizeble, since it comes in the shape of rings...these were definitely tiny little squids. And then there were these strange looking mushrooms on my side salad...I popped one in my mouth, and CRUNCH!!!! What seemed to be mushrooms were actually frogs' legs. I know it seems hard to confuse the two, but it happens. They didn't really taste like anything, and it was really a pain to try to eat them and avoid all the little bones. But whatever. Toulouse, we did a lot of nothing. Very relaxing. Saw some churches, the Natural Science Museum (which was in French...shocking). Then we got on a train, and headed to Nice. I'll spare you the puns. Nice is definitely not Toulouse. Toulouse is a university town, sleepy, calm, homey. Nice is a tourist mecca. A really elaborate, expensive trap, but beautiful all the same. And that's not to say that there aren't little undiscovered pockets of places to eat, zones that are more residential, etc. Like everywhere, you just have to look, and walk. A lot. Also, I want to apologize to all visitors/fellow travellers. I go on vacation, and I just walk. And walk. And then I sit down for a little bit. But then I walk some more. Witnesses to this are both my parents and my brother, and several friends. But my brother held up fairly well. He's a trooper. Even when I insisted we walk around the harbour to the other side, only to immediately have to walk back. But we did get sno-cones!! And they were delicious. For me, well worth the blisters. But other than Mediterranean death marches, we beached it, we saw some museums, we climbed a fort. Normally southern France things. Then we went back to sweltering Madrid. And pretty much just sweat. Gross, but such is life without A/C. But overall, I think we had a good time. No epic fighting, no swearing, no pushing. Sigh, we're so grown-up!

schoooool's out for the summer.

2009-06-05T01:04:00.001-07:00

The school year's almost over!! Hurrrrrahhh!!! Really, I'll miss the children, and...sorry, I can't continue in this vein, too much suppressed laughter. It's just ridiculous. Will I miss the children? Eh, I'll probably miss the cute ones, but I don't think I'm allowed to say that, being politically correct and all. Will I miss having to repeat myself over and over and over again, until about half the class understands half of what I'm saying? Will I miss the occasional projectile vomitting? Will I miss the temper tantrums? Will I miss forcing children to eat vegetables, one spoonful at a time? If you answered no to any of those questions, congratulations, we can hang out sometime and not do those things. I mean, I'll miss the little children telling me that I'm beautiful. Working in a preschool is the place to be for a self-esteem boost, I'll tell you that much. The affectionate ones, when they don't have milk or snot all over their face, can make you day. And sometimes it's really nice when you hear them speak in English, and you realize that you taught them something. Even if it's just the word "tomato." Give yourself a pat on the back. Is it worth all the vomitting and the weird smells and the pulling out of your own hair? Ehhh...the jury's still out on that one.

all about my mother

2009-06-04T14:03:00.000-07:00

There's a moment in every girl's life when she realizes that she is becoming her mother. My moment came this weekend. Standing in the supermarket, holding a pound of butter in my hands, I thought, Hmmm...but is this enough butter? Granted, I was making cupcakes and brownies, but still, what 22 year old girl is buying a pound of butter and wondering if it's not enough? I'm only one girl! I can't even finish a liter of milk in a week (That's right...a LITER. Or dare I say, a litre...dramatic gasp). As soon as the thought past through my head, I started to laugh. Mostly because I thought of my mom around Christmas and how our household singlehandedly sustains the dairy industry. I remember my mom asking me to pick up half a pound of butter at the supermarket, because she was sure that we didn't have enough in the fridge. When I got home, there was nowhere to put the butter I had bought because our fridge was full of...BUTTER! This is not an exagerration. This is a true story, one you should be cautious about trying at home, especially if you have to wear a bathing suit in the near future, or ever. Did any of the butter go bad? Of course not. There were cookies, cakes, bread... Anything and everything that can be made with butter was made, no calories were spared. Shockingly, none of us are grossly obese. One can dream, I suppose. But back to my moment. Not only am I stockpiling butter like my mom, but I'm also making her recipes. And they are deliciousss. Confirmed by my roommate's workplace. And my workplace. And my French class. And my other roommate. And the empty tupperware containers with chocolate cake crumbs...Burp.

stuff breaks

2009-06-01T14:02:00.000-07:00

Although I've been living on my own since I was eighteen, I've never really had to fix anything. There was always the NYU Fixer-Upper crew. When you had a problem, you registered it with them, and that was that. Well. The good life is over, and now I've got to fix stuff on my own. So far, things have stayed broken. But that's going to change! (I use the exclamation mark to energize myself). First, there was the broken outlet. Somehow, in my sleep, I ripped my outlet out of the wall. I mean, it is right next to my bed. I don't remember how I did it. All I know is, I woke up and there were wires...things were a bit disatrous, but no one was electrocuted. It still worked though...needless to say, I used it. And that outlet pretty much stayed out of the wall. I considered the duct tape option, but then I just learned to live with the status quo. Until Lidia's friend Carol visited. Lidia mentioned that I was in danger of frying the wiring of the entire building, and Carol got right to work. Qualification: Good at putting IKEA furniture together. With some scissors and a knife, my outlet was back in its rightful place. A real McGyver. But now, within a week of paradise of everything working, I totally broke my blinds. They aren't the normal American kind. They go up into the wall, and there's a cord that goes in there too. For all I know, there are little gnomes in there pulling and pushing my blinds up and down. However, if that is the case, the little guys have gone on strike. My behavior had nothing to do with it. I was always nice to them. But who did what to whom is irrelevant. The point is that I can't sleep past sunrise. I'm tired, I'm cranky, and I am committed to fixing these blinds. How am I going to fix them? Two solutions: 1) Actually attempting to unscrew things. When that ends in me breaking my thumb...2) Baking. Baking is always a solution. Why? "Can you help me fix my blinds? I just don't know what to do..." (smile, hand on waist) "Brownies?" Yay feminism!

tourismo in madrid

2009-05-28T23:02:00.000-07:00

For those of you who think that I just bounce around Europe, drinking coffee and eating flaky pastries, sometimes I do stay in Madrid. And it's café con leche, much better than coffee, for the record. Anyway. The past long weekend, I took it easy with the traveling, and hung out in Madrid. But, to avoid massive boredom, I did some touristy things around town. Beacause when you live in a place, you don't really see what's around you. Example: I lived in New York for three years, and I did not see the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, the Guggenheim, or the Whitney Museum. I'm not proud of myself, I'm just saying. So, while in Madrid, I decided to go to the tennis tournament, the Masters Series in Madrid, at the new stadium, la Caja Mágica. (Translation: The Magic Box) I lucked out, and got to see Nadal vs. Verdasco, an all-Spanish affair (Verdasco is even from Madrid), followed by Murray vs. del Poltro (Battle of the Gangly). It was pretty cool, and the view was definitely not that bad, considering where I was sitting. Not only did I see some sports action, I also went to some museusm, fulfilling all cultural requirements. Having taking a class at the Prado (and really having no desire to return), I went to a temporary exhibition called La Sombra (The Shadow). It was two parts, starting in the Museo Thyssen (for the more classical works...about to the year 1850), and finishing in Caja Madrid, a gallery-like art space, which had more modern paintings and films. It was all about the shadow in art. Actually really cool. I don't know why I hadn't gone earlier. So, although I didn't travel anywhere, I lived it up here in Madrid, which, clearly, is a pretty cool place.

visiting friends!

2009-05-16T16:05:00.000-07:00

So, not only do friends visit me, but I also visit friends. It's a great idea, especially because it's way cheaper, and it's more fun to go with someone who knows all the spots around town. And, sometimes, you get really lucky and your friend has a car. My friend Vanesa, who is an English teacher I work with, went to visit her family in Asturias, a region in the north of Spain. She has always generously invited us to go with her, and a couple weekends ago, I took her up on it. We picked up her godson Dani on the way up, who lives in Leon. Although she did give me fair warning, he was a talker. About an hour in, he was like, "So...you're English?" He really didn't stop...for three days. A feat of remarkable endurance. We finally made it to Oveido, which is just as beautiful, if not more, than the movie "Vicky Cristina Barcelona" makes it look. It's a city, but it's small and quaint and green. Trees everywhere. Trees, and parks, and cobblestones. You wouldn't think Madrid and Oveido are in the same country. It's that green. And there's a lot of cider there. The way they pour it is incredible. The bartenders hold the bottle in their hand, stretched all the way above their head, and pour it out into the glass, which is in their other hand, stretched to below their waist. I can imagine drunk people trying to that, and failing miserably. I mean, they're specially trained. Then, we headed to Gijón, which is ridiculously gorgeous beach town. Basically, everything about this trip was beautiful/gorgeous/breath-taking. The mountains are gigantic. Did I say everything is green? After Gijón, we headed to where her family lives, in Cangas de Narcea, which is a pretty small town. We visited her grandparents, who live in a smaller town, of about 50 people. I could not understand a word they said. Luckily we didn't talk that much. They just made me eat my weight in food. I thought I was going to explode, just from sheer hospitality. Everywhere we went, "Do you want coffee? A snack? Food? Are you hungry?" The madness! This blog entry is my pitch for Asturias: Everything is green, it's ridiculously beautiful, and you will leave in stretchy pants.

when friends visit

2009-05-05T14:45:00.000-07:00

When you start over, no one you meet knows how you used to be, or where you started. They get version 2.0, the more finished product, and the past isn't really relevant. But that's what your friends are for! To remind you of that time when you did that thing, and so on and so forth. So, I was really excited when my friend Sarah came to visit me in good old Spain. We lived together here when we studied abroad (also Veronica, shout out!), and it was a nice reunion. It also made my job of host super easy, because Sarah had already lived in Madrid, and we didn't need to do touristy things. But that article my mom sent me from the NYTimes on Madrid did in fact come in quite handy. We hit up all over Madrid, going to El Matadero, an alternative art space that used to be a slaughterhouse (still pretty sketchy). We checked out some cool gardens, along with some Roman murals in La Latina, a pretty trendy neighborhood. And our old señora, Maria Luisa, was not forgotten. I'm extremely glad Sarah made me go see her, and we went out to dinner with her. We nearly exploded with food. Disgusting. Chorizo and cured meat would have gone everywhere. Sarah even came to school with me for a day, to watch me teach 3 year olds the Hokey Pokey. My job is very stressful, clearly. It was overall, a great visit. Except the part where I got Sarah sick. That wasn't so great for her. But at least it wasn't swine flu.

missing: self

2009-04-15T11:16:00.000-07:00

Yes, I've lost myself. And, like the cliché that I may be becoming, I apparently believe that it's in Europe, waiting to be found. Because selves just lounge around in foreign cities, waiting for you to show up. Mostly in Europe. Some go to Asia, more and more are being found in South America, but traditionally, most can be found at some café in Paris, or at a terrace in Rome, or even in a beer garden in Berlin. I have no statistics on which to base my assumptions, but I would wildly guess that there are thousands of Americans wandering around Europe, trying to discover their real "selves." Personally, the purpose of "finding yourself" is not why I came to Spain, and it's not why I may choose to stay. I know perfectly well that I'm dragging my heels on the way to adulthood, and Spain is as good as Neverland. People are relaxed, and the men really do seem to never grow up. I haven't spotted any pirates or crocodiles, but I'm sure they're closer to the ocean. I am working, so it's not like I'm lounging around, but still. And really, I know myself well enough that I will never "find myself" in Spain. My "self" is neither relaxed nor loud, and it does not enjoy staying up all night. No, I'm sure my "self" will be waiting for me when I get back. Sometimes you need to play hide and seek with yourself, to keep things interesting.

traveling with the parents

2009-04-12T06:23:00.000-07:00

We stayed in a hotel room, without bunk beds! We ate at expensive (ok, moderately-priced) restaurants without guilt! We shopped and actually bought things! We went to bed relatively sober at a reasonable hour! We got up early without moaning! That's right, it's...vacation with the parents! I spent a week with my parents, European-style. Specifically, British-style. First stop: London. A half-way point between Continental Europe and the US, a wading pool, if you will. Everything's old, like Europe, but people drink out of American-sized To-Go cups. There's also a New York-like theater (I mean, theatre) district, and large portion sizes. People speak English, but it sounds a bit funny. I may have said London is America Lite. Am I being an arrogant, pretentious American? Probably, yes. But, back to the main "theme" of this entry: parents, traveling. The last time my parents and I hung out on the "Old World" continent, we were in Madrid, and things were a bit stressful. I was the designated translator, but I was at school most of the time, so things were a little hairy for my parents. But in the UK, everybody speaks English! So, that was one problem solved. And since no one was familiar with London or Edinburgh, we could all get lost together. We didn't feel strange about whipping out a giant map, or asking strangers for directions. I did feel slightly self-conscious about my American accent, which sounded like a drawl compared to the prim and proper British one. So we explored London, walked a lot, ate way too much food (much of it fried), and that was vacation. There weren't any late nights, but there were plenty of early mornings. Next stop: Edinburgh. Way beautiful. Gigantic castle on the hill. A lot of bagpipes. There was also a tower that reminded me of Mordor. And Scotch, with particularly "peaty" aftertaste. We didn't try any haggis, but again, we walked and ate a lot. That was the main theme of the trip. We also watched Quantum of Solace (I really had to take advantage of movies being in English), and relaxed. Because that's what vacation with the parents is all about. Relaxing, and traveling in style.

understanding soccer by understanding baseball

2009-04-11T12:30:00.000-07:00

Europeans are crazy about soccer. I mean, football. Soccer is an American word. Europeans love football. I think their blood may be the color of the field. Or pitch. Whatever. Green as grass. Things stop when their teams are playing. Spanish people, being Europeans, are no exceptions. Since winning Eurocup (which was insanity), Spaniards everywhere have moved on to the national league. In this blog, I will not attempt to explain the inner-workings of the Spanish league. It would be too long, and too boring, and really, I don't understand it either. All I know is that in Madrid, there are only three teams that matter. Real Madrid, Madrid Atletica (Atleti), and Barcelona. If you live in Madrid, you are either for Real Madrid or Atleti, and you hate Barcelona. There are exceptions to the rule, but they are rare and frowned upon. If someone insults your team, you must insult theirs. If you support Real Madrid, you say that Atleti are a bunch of chokers who can't seal the deal. If you're for Atleti, you call Real Madrid a bunch of spoiled, overpaid crybabies, with no heart or teamspirit. But really, you join together in your overwhelming hate for Barça. At first, I didn't know what team to support. I went with Real Madrid because NYU's campus is right next to Santiago Bernabeu, their stadium. Then, I started thinking about baseball. New York has two teams. The Yankees and the Mets. The Mets have spunk, spirit. But, every September, with enormous leads and truly epic meltdowns, they turn out to be a bunch of chokers who can't seal the deal. And the Yankees, although they have a storied history, lack that camraderie and could very well be described as spoiled, overpaid crybabies. And everybody hates Boston. Perhaps the Mets hate the Yankees more, but they're not part of Red Sox Nation, by any means. Through my new understanding of soccer, ehm, football, I have had a revelation. I hate the Yankees, therefore I can't support Real Madrid. And I don't live in Barcelona, so I can't support Barça. That leaves me with Atleti, the Mets. And I don't hate the Mets, so I'm a proud support of a bunch of chokers who can't seal the deal. Thank you, baseball, for helping me come to terms with my new life.

actual adventure: paris, the second time around.

2009-03-24T15:24:00.000-07:00

When last in Paris, I saw museums. Many, many museums. Paintings, sculptures, painted sculptures, paintings of sculptures, you name it, I saw it. Things I did not do? Visit the Eiffel Tower, go inside Notre Dame or Sacre Coeur, eat steak-frite. You know, the things you go to Paris to do, I did not do. Luckily, I got a second chance. After a slight mishap, we arrived, exhausted, in Paris. Unfortunately, it was far from smooth sailing. We arrived at our hostel (named Oops, on Goblin Street), only to be told, "We're sorry, you can't stay here. Our water is broken." (This may not be surprising to those who have the power of rational thought: our hostel was named Oops, and located on Goblin Street...how could anything possibly, ever go wrong?). We ended up, surprisingly, eerily near where I had stayed on my last trip, at a friend's appartment (shout out Laura McElherne!). We dropped our stuff off, and went off to buy some supplies, mostly pastry, for a picnic near the Eiffel Tower. I practiced my French, we bought hot, hot bread, and everything was finally perfect. After eating way too much food, the only thing left to do was to climb the Eiffel Tower, and then walk from there to the Arc de Triomphe, down the Champs d'Elysses, all the way to the Louvre. Which was quite far. To make up for the exhaustion, we drank amazing liquid chocolate. This may have defeated the original purpose of the intense walk-a-thon, which was to burn off the insane amount of pastry we ate, but hey. You're only in Paris once. Or twice. However many times you're in Paris, it's an obligation to eat as much or more than humanly possible. We then headed to the Latin Quarter, for happy hour, later arriving at the hostel and instantly falling asleep. The next day, we hit up Versailles, which cannot be a real place. There simply cannot exist a place as grandiose and majestic and elegant as Versailles. Doesn't process. After wandering around the gardens, we picnicked by the reflecting pool, and harassed the rowers, some of whom were truly "gifted," while narrowly avoiding a swan attack. After getting back from Versailles, we strolled around Montmarte, feeling classy, and while checking out a wineshop, we stumbled into a secret restaurant behind, where we ate lots of cheese and pâté. Our last day in Paris had arrived, and we spent it wandering around the cemetary, looking for Baudelaire's grave, and the catacombs. Creepier than expected, the catacombs lasted for far too long. Going underground into a narrow tunnel when all the walls are made of bones...makes your skin crawl a little bit. We followed that up with some steak-frite (one more thing off the Parisian check list) and a stroll along the Seine, ending in a quick tour of Notre Dame. Afterwards, we checked out the view at Sacre Coeur and rode "the fun," as Megan liked to call it. We finished the night with wine, cheese, one crazy Frenchman, and dancing with newfound acquaintances. It doesn't seem like it really happened, but, it did.

the epic adventure: paris, the journey.

2009-03-23T04:18:00.001-07:00

Apparently, my friend Megan and I should never travel together. All the signs are there, and if I had any brains, I would be able to see that. On our trips, things never seem to go right. They, in fact, go wrong. Right now would be a great place for an allusion to rodents and their plans, but I'll resist. So, as a recap, in December, we went to Frankfurt, and I got pneumonia. This weekend, we went to Paris, but made a slight detour through the north of Spain before arriving. I'll explain. To save money, we booked two flights each way. On the way there, we planned to leave Wednesday night for Girona and leave early Thursday morning for Paris, and to return on Sunday with a stop in Girona. This would have worked perfectly had we made the flight on Wednesday, which, through our own stupidity, we did not. My excuse? We're both 22, and when you're 22, you make bad choices so that later in life, you learn from these mistakes and make better decisions. So, there we were, in Madrid around quarter to ten at night, stranded, and needing to be in Girona (an hour outside of Barcelona) by 6 am at the latest. The bus was about 8 hours to Barcelona, putting us in Girona at around 8. The train going to Girona that night had already left. There were no more flights. Keep in mind the earlier statement about being 22 and making questionable choices. What to do, what to do...So, weighing our options, we rented a car, from the only car company that would rent us a car: Europcar. We were sent there after being denied by Hertz, which would not let us near one of its cars until we were at least 25. Europcar will rent you a car at 23, and if you're younger, they charge you an astonishing additional fee of...12 euros. Seriously. How did we know where to go? Not only did Europcar rent us a Nissan Micro (remote control car size), they also gave us a map. Off we went, with one map, three candy bars, and Diet Coke. At least Megan had experience outside of a parking lot with a manual car, unlike the other driver. But, no one was injured, and many of the tollworkers were incredibly amused, especially when I missed the toll and had to back up at four in the morning. Hilarious. The journey was surreal, to say the least. We passed under the Prime Meridian at about 3:30 am. How do I know this? Not only are there signs, but Spain decided it would be a good idea to mark this manmade, imaginary line with a glowing arc in the middle of nowhere. I'm about 90% sure that I wasn't dreaming that. But, although I had serious doubts, we somehow made it to Girona, by 5:30 am. Time to spare! We caught the plane, dead tired, and somehow, made it to Paris. At least at 22, sleep can wait.

the pro/con list

2009-03-02T14:59:00.001-08:00

To help me make my decision about where to live next year, I made a pro/con list. For your enjoyment, here it is:

AMERICA
Pro

No visa problems
Friends and Family
Lots of peanut butter
Don't have to try to figure out European-sized clothing
Will no longer have to pretend to understand Celsius

Con

JOBLESS DURING THE GREAT DEPRESSION PART II
No health insurance
No apartment
Being poor and starting over
Job search

SPAIN
Pro

Improve Spanish
Financial security
Socialized medicine
Jamón serrano (HAM)
Cheap grad school programs
Drinking is socially acceptable before 12 PM
CHEAP rent
Cheap and good olive oil
Ex-pat status makes you cooler
Strong Euro (well...before)
Traveling is really fun
It's not that cold

Con

Really, there's only teaching jobs
Delaying the inevitable of going back?
Being lonely
Figuring out the giant bureaucratic nightmare of the Spanish higher education system
My bank charged me 15 euros for not being Spanish?!?!?!
All my clothes smell like smoke after a night out
VISA DRAMA
Movies are dubbed.
Can't touch the fruit before I buy it.
Desert-like conditions in the summer.
Preschoolers.

plant serial killer

2009-02-25T10:15:00.000-08:00

I don't live with nudists anymore. I moved, and now live happily with two girls. Well, I live happily with two girls, and lots of dead plants. At one point, the plants were alive, but now, the majority are dead. I believe that my roommate loves plants, but just doesn't have that green thumb touch. Last week, she asked me if i thought this pot of moldy-looking soil with a twig in it was still alive. Uh...was this once a plant? But things have started to turn around, although suspiciously so. A couple days ago, my roommates were laughing in the living room, and I went to see what was going on. "Abi, look at this plant," one of them said. If you can imagine what a plant doing cocaine would look like, please do so now. This plant had its leaves pointed ridiculously upward, as if it's hair was standing on end after six shots of espresso. I thought this was a new plant, but no, this had been the withered brown plant-like organism just a few days before. I really couldn't believe it. I asked my roommate what she had done to incite this miraculous turnaround. "Mierda de penguinos." I'm sorry, come again? Did you just say penguin shit? Apparently, it had been quite an expensive buy at the supermarket. She showed me the bottle, because I'm a rational person and did at no moment believe that there could possibly be someone selling penguin poop as fertilizer. Collecting the excrement in such harsh climates seems like a fool's errand, and I mean, how would you even get the idea to procede with said plan, seeing as penguins live in desert climates with little plant life to fertilize? But right there on the label was a picture of a plant and a penguin, apparently in some kind of symbiotic relationship, brought to you by Carrefour Express. Further reading discovered that the poop was from Peruvian marine birds, but what does it matter? The morale of the story: penguin poop is crack for plants.

grown-up decisions

2009-02-21T10:23:00.000-08:00

It's time to make a big decision. Continental-moving decisions, going back to school decisions, health insurance decisions. In simpler words, big decisions. Decisions that require revising resumes, writing cover letters, and translating both. As of right now, the question, "So, how long are you staying in Spain?" elicits a panicky response and makes my palms sweat. When my friends ask me when I'm coming back, I mumble something practically unintelligible. Last week, I was mentally prepared to go back, to work as a temp, to think about grad school. This week, I'm set on staying here, to work and to study. You could say I'm a touch indecisive. But with so many options to weigh, I think it's irresponsible to commit too quickly. First of all, there's phrases like "short-term goals" and "long-term goals" and "career options." For someone who's only ever had jobs, "career" is a nearly incomprehensible word. It may be short in length, but it's positively explosive. Then, there's the question of education and a return to the academic fold. That comes with its own set of brain-warping problems. What to study, how long to study, whether to do a Masters program or a Ph.D., where in the world to do these things, and every other possible question that you could worry about. Next, let's talk about health insurance. In Spain, medicine is socialized, and I've got a private company (please don't ask me how that works...my brain hurts when I think about health insurance). I spent a week in the hospital and didn't owe so much as a co-pay. Then I read this and became simaltaneously paranoid and terrified. With this post, I believe I covered all possible sources of anxiety about my future. While this may not be as informative as some of my other posts, I needed to get it off my chest. Much appreciated.

traveling, solo style.

2009-02-08T12:13:00.000-08:00

Kids imitate adults, and they're always asking to do things, all by themselves. They are committed to proving their independence until little by little, they grow up and get thrown into the adult world, suddenly independent and broke. As a newly-minted grown-up, I do most things on my own. I iron things, usually clothes. I make my own meals. I clean my room. But one thing I hadn't really done was traveling by myself (not counting moving to Spain...that's a move). All by my lonesome. So, on my long weekend, I hit the road, er, plane. Off to Prague, in the Czech Republic. Let me be clear: I do not, nor have I ever, spoken the Czech language. I do not know what it sounds like, or what it looks like. But I got on that plane, and off I went. Getting off the plane and exchange my euros for krona, or crowns, or whatever, and I instantly became a whole lot richer. "Three thousand crowns, ma'am." Hot dog, let's hit the town. I successfully made it to the hostal safely, no problems. After leaving my bags with the nice, English-speaking hostal employee, I hit up the castle. I decided to live it up and go with the audioguide. Truly fascinating stuff, i got to see the basement of the castle...looked a lot like a basement. But, moving on, the view was fantastic. The evening continued with about a liter of dark beer and some potato-y and pork Czech food. Starting off the weekend with some carbs is never a bad sign. The next day began with some pastry, some coffee spiked with Bailey's and a lot of walking. I climbed a clocktower. I walked across a bridge about ten times. I saw some modern Central European art, penguins included. After some bagels and more hot alcohol, I checked out the Franz Kafka museum, which had a pair of peeing statues out front. But not just any peeing statues. You could move the hips, and engage in some kind of pee warfare. To say the least, I thought this may have been slightly misplaced, but perhaps I just haven't read enough Kafka. The following day, I got up early, saw a collection of Jewish synagogues, and got myself back to Madrid. All in one piece.

inauguration in madrid

2009-01-21T08:13:00.000-08:00

There were two and a half million people, at least, in Washington D.C. for the inauguration of President Obama. The crowds were enormous. I mean, I saw them in pictures. What maybe you didn't see in pictures were the 600 people crammed into a small room at the Hotel Intercontinental on Paseo de la Castellano in Madrid. Not nearly as historic nor as cold, but we were just as excited. We also had jumbo screens and were uncomfortably close to strangers. There was jamón and fried corn kernels...I'm still in Spain, after all. Being in Spain, I haven't really had the chance to be surrounded by large groups of Americans. Watching the inauguration was similar to an out-of-body experience. Really, it was an out-of-country experience. In this crowded smelly room, English was the dominate language and everyone looked...well, American. The emotion and excitement contained in this small space was astounding, unlike anything I had experienced in politics. Leaving this space, for some reason, I had a truly strange feeling, like the world had somehow changed. I mean, I know that I know better, that one election will not change the world. However, I was slightly disappointed that the streets weren't bursting into song, or that red, white, and blue confetti wasn't raining down from the sky. Everything seemed...normal. I did my part by smiling profusely at every passerby. That's a change.

OMG IT'S SNOWING OMG

2009-01-09T07:54:00.000-08:00

It doesn't snow here. Or so I thought. After spending about ten hours in the Madrid airport due to about a foot of snow, I thought I was done with it. Winter is different here. It's not as cold (single digits in Celsius aren't as cold as single digits in Fahrenheit), and it only rains. Rarely do we see the white stuff here (Cocaine, highest in EU, snow no). Except for last week, as we got a few inches over the course of the day. This may not seem significant for many northern US residents. Born and raised in the northeast part of the country, a few inches is good for maybe a delayed opening, but it's cleaned up and the roads cleared in a matter of hours. No one panics, no one is snapping photos of fallen snow...it's just snow. After seeing the chaos that three inches (MAXIMUM) of snow can wreck on a major metropolitan city, I have gained an appreciation for the snowplows and salt trucks. The morning of January 9th (the infamous day), I went to work like any other day, but I noticed some flurries. My first reaction was disbelief, as it's rarely cold enough here to snow and it's even rarer when it actually does something. My second reaction was that it would probably stop by the time I got off the metro. Arriving at work, it was picking up steam, and I walked into the teachers' room, in which everyone was talking about...what else? It continued all through the day, and whenever I passed another American in the school grounds, we exchanged a shake of the head and "It's still going!" At lunch, I walked to a student's home for tutoring, nearly falling probably about 20 times. When it's never really that cold, you don't put salt on the sidewalks. And then, when it snows and there's no salt on the sidewalks, it's like ice-skating for free. You shouldn't attempt this with cars, especially when no one knows how to drive in the snow. The grown-up equivalent of bumper cars isn't as fun, as I witnessed. Honestly, I really didn't think that things were out of the norm until I got home. My roommate had been sent home from work early. The public transportation buses had stopped running. People had left their cars at work and taken the metro. University classes were canceled. The airport was complete and totally anarchy. For about two inches of snow. While the madness left an impression, the complete glee of the madrileños playing in the snow was truly more remarkable. Everyone was smiling, I saw groups of adults building snowmen and having snowball fights. Kids were everywhere, with their parents snapping pictures of them. People looked genuinely happy. There was barely a patch of snow that remained untouched. Who knew a little bit of snow could be such a big deal, bringing joy and chaos at the same time. Wow.

the north pole.

2008-12-18T07:03:00.000-08:00

There's a special thing that happens in Europe around Christmas time. It's called a Christmas Market, and it's like going to the North Pole. There's holly everywhere, they give you gingerbread, and it's really cold. If that's not the North Pole, I don't know what is. Last weekend (when, maybe where, I got pneumonia), I went to Frankfurt, the location of a substantial Christmas Market, with my friend and co-worker Megan. After arriving and finding the hotel, remarkable with our non-existent German, we wasted no time in heading out to the Christmas Market. Although I would see it during the day, there's something about Christmas lights that just makes everything magical. If not magical, illuminated. It was filled with people drinking warm, mulled wine and eating everything from sausages to some kind of pizza-looking thing with sausage on it. Of course, it wouldn't be Germany if there wasn't dessert. I ate some kind of ball of dough covered in vanilla sauce and cinnamon, and Megan got a waffle covered in nutella. Thank you, German innovation. But, unlike the Spanish, the Germans aren't really into staying up all night (unless there's some kind of techno music involved), so the Christmas market closed down pretty early. Sadly, there were no house remixes of "Silent Night." After resting, we hit the market the next day, ready to buy Christmas presents. Well, I was really feeling like i had the flu (or PNEUMONIA), but I toughed it out, and everyone in my family did receive something from Frankfurt for Christmas. This may have been breaking customs rules. But anyway. During the day, we saw more things made out of wood and/or covered in chocolate than I had ever seen before, at least in one place. Gigantic prezels covered in chocolate, wooden figurines that smoked when you lit up incense, ornaments, popcorn...craziness. More craziness? Germany is colder than Spain, shocking, I know. I wore layers and layers of clothing, and still was hospitalized for a week. That's how cold it is. Maybe they should make that their country's motto. Maybe that's why they eat sauerkraut and sausage all the time...? Passing gas...I'll stop there.

i had pneumonia.

2008-12-18T04:38:00.001-08:00

Some of you may have been wondering where I was over this long absence. Unfortunately, I wasn't vacationing in some warm European resort. I was kind of on vacation...with pneumonia. On the plus side, I got to view a different side of Spain, the health care system, that I otherwise would not have been exposed to. On the down side, I was in the hospital for a week. I don't know how I got pneumonia, all I know is that a bad cold and then I went to Frankfurt, and then I got pneumonia. That was the sequence of events that sent me to the doctor, who listen to my lungs and my symptoms, then proceeded to X-ray my lungs, and then told me I had to go to the hospital. Since I didn't have anyone to take care of me in my lovely apartment, checking into the hospital was my only option. Off I went, with a book, for an anticipated 3-4 days at the hospital. The nurses were nice, although they did poke me with needles. Also, I think I gave them a good laugh when I put the thermometer directly in my mouth, where you normally put the thermometer. Except in Spain, you put it under your arm. Who knew? I had few problems, except that I was there for a week, rather than the initial 3-4 expected days. The one problem I did have was with the sheet changing lady, who had control of the scrubs for the sickies. Apparently, there was a limited supply of scrubs, although it was a hospital. After a few days of not having pajamas, she told me that I had to have someone bring me pjs, which my friend Megan thankfully brought me. However, I only had one pair, and after wearing them and sweating off a fever, they were pretty...smelly. Scrubs-Fascist let me know right away...they had no more scrubs. Helpfully, I told her that I could just be naked, no problem. Miraculously, scrubs appeared. Scrubs-Fascist wanted me to know that this was no free ride, though. She told me to wash my dirty pajamas in the bidet, and to hang them up. Luckily, I left that day, so there was no more drama, and I got to go home, and wash my clothes in the washing machine, as you should.

vicky christina barcelona-public service announcement?

2008-11-25T23:35:00.001-08:00

Last weekend, I saw Vicky Christina Barcelona, which I know came out like eons ago, but I move slowly. I'm in Spain. Aside from the fantastic scenery of Barcelona, which, as seen in earlier blogs, is the prettier of the two main Spanish cities, the film shows the two main characters and their complex relationships with conformity, commitment, and men. For me, it's about their different perspectives, and the different ways to see love and to see the world. However, if you're an American girl in Spain, there's a more immediate lesson to be learned from Woody: Don't sleep with Spanish men. You will end up alone, confused, and with a possible gunshot wound. In my opinion, this was part of the message. Nothing good can come of sexual relations between the American and Spanish populations. Whether you are romantic or apathetic, it's not going to work. The rules are different, and I can't handle that kind of passionate confusion. The film shows how passionate the Spanish are in comparison to the two young pretty Americans, seduced by the beauty around them, helped by the wine. Even Scarlett Johansson, the more romantic and whimsical of the two, lacks a certain depth of feeling, perhaps a national characteristic. Her friend, succumbing to the romanticism of the moment, quickly comes to her senses after Penelope Cruz brandishes a pistol, yelling "You're all crazy!" Yes. You think they're crazy, they think you're crazy. It can't work, because the crazies are not compatible. We're dealing with non-compatible, multi-lingual crazy here, and quite honestly, the complexity only deepens. Did I mention I saw this movie on a date? With a Spanish guy? Yeah, that's not happening. Because he's CRAZY. Or I am. I don't know. Depends on the perspective, I guess.

learning french in spanish

2008-11-14T08:05:00.000-08:00

In a decision that superficially makes not-so-much sense, I am taking French classes. I realize that I am in Spain, where they speak Spanish (imagine that!), teaching English. Let's consider it a last-gasp effort to continue to educate myself, and a desire to see how much language bombardment my poor brain can take. Currently, I am enrolled in the Institut Français (ballin') in the basic level. Being the only nonnative-Spanish speaker in my class can sometimes have its drawbacks. Usually, since the level is pretty basic, things go smoothly with only the occasional hitch. For example, I was unable to explain how I knew that "charme" in French meant "charm" to a fellow classmate, given that my vocab for this specific word was lacking in Spanish. Things hit the skids, however, when we started fashion. Racing through words and phrases, my French professor would shout out what seemed to me like random sounds that I couldn't comprehend in whatever language they were coming out in. It involved a lot of nudging whoever was sitting next to me, and saying "QUÉ??," which they then followed with a word in English, or a complicated series of gestures or sometimes even a drawing. Really, I'm lucky people continue to sit next to me. The advantages of this would be now in French, I can only think in Spanish. I made the commitment with the purchase of a Spanish-French dictionary, so now you know I'm serious. Unfortunately, when trying to speak French, it comes out in Spanish, which is not the most helpful of situations. I also have this great Spanish accent in French now. Well, a Spanish-American attempting to speak French. In other words, I'm doing great.

the erasmus experience

2008-11-11T07:55:00.001-08:00

Well, my apartment has changed slightly in the past couple weeks. No more María, whose job contract ended and went to live with her parents in Galicia...I don't feel too bad for her, because she considered it a indeterminate vacation, which, at the moment, has a pleasant ring to it. So, Pierre moved in. As some of you smart readers may be able to figure out, Pierre is French, not Spanish. Pierre is also a guy. If your keeping score, that's two European men, and me, in one apartment. A little too much testosterone. And, if you were wondering about the title, Erasmus is the European study abroad program. European students get to travel around countries, staying for a year at a time, and then flying back home on a short, cheap flight. What a novel idea. If only countries came in "Fun Size" in America (Andorra is comparable to an M&M). So, although finished with college and still American (I'm still waiting to wake up European...I figure I'll know when it happens. I imagine it to be waking up with a cigarette and a permanent scowl), I guess I'm getting the traditional Erasmus study abroad experience now. For instance, Pierre tried to help me with my French pronunciation, which I now believe to be a lost cause. We spent about five minutes making this noise: "oooooo" or "ewwwwww." Well, I spent most of this time laughing, which was counterproductive, and clearly contributing to my insultingly-bad French accent. But most of the time, we speak in Spanish, which must be strange for anyone to hear. People speaking in a language in which neither is a native speaker always amuses me...because it sounds funny. There's not a more profound reason, really. It's just like that. To do my part to contribute to the cultural exchange, I made brownies. Give the people what they want!

absentee epic

2008-10-29T10:20:00.001-07:00

I am a fake American. I watch the Daily Show over the internet, I buy organic yogurt, and I live in perhaps the most un-American part of fake America: Europe. Now, I may not wear a flag pin on my non-existent T-Shirt lapel, but I am a patriotic American, and if Sarah Palin thinks otherwise, she should try to vote from here. 30 euros, sweat, blood, and tears later, I voted yesterday, guarenteed to arrive the 4th of November, or your money back. It remains true that the Northeast votes don't matter anyway, unless perhaps if you live in New Hampshire or Maine. New Jersey voters can vote until they're blue in the face and they'll still be...well, blue. But this is not the tale of the ridiculously complex and inefficient Electoral College. This epic details my attempts to vote, from across the pond. The story begins in September, before Obama was a terrorist and before Palin was a diva. Doing what I thought was the right thing, I went to the embassy, where they gave me the absentee ballot application and the address of the Sussex County clerk. I didn't even need to wait. They offered to mail it for me, for free. What a deal! However, I don't have time to be running around Madrid, so I mailed it myself. I even had the clerk glue it shut, since my envelope was a faulty. Weeks past, my brother voted for Scholz/Scholz on the town council, and I still hadn't received my ballot. As a worrier, thoughts of lost mail and stolen ballots began to enter my mind. Then, I realized the embassy had given me the wrong address. Wasting no time, since now it was around October 15, one month after filling out my original absentee ballot application, I filled out two more: one to my mother, and one to the clerk, just in case it didn't get there, again. Crisis averted, or so I thought. In the time between when I sent my ballot, and when my mother informed me of the successful reception by the county clerk's office, I received my first ballot application, sent by the United States Post Office. Sigh. Then, I waited. After a week, without any sign of a ballot or a traveling polling station, I called the clerk. It was Fed-Exed, they told me. You should get it any day now. Four days later, in a frenzy for no apparent reason, I sent a frantic email to the clerk, detailing my saga and begging for some kind of ballot. They gave me a tracking number and told me that I had written the wrong address. Seeing as I have lived here for about three months and have received numerous letters, packages, and the like, I'll let you decide who wrote the wrong address. I called FedEx, and after having decided to pick up the package, I waited for the call with the address where it was. Finally, I called, AGAIN. Speaking this time with Leo, a friendly FedEx clerk, he gave me the address to a location OUTSIDE Madrid, on the side of a highway. Barely containing my frustration, I asked if I could have it delivered. Please hold, he said. Sadly, while holding, my phone ran out of money, leaving me without anyway to communicate my horribly complicated dilemma. So, I did what you do in these situations: I called my mom in tears, saying, "They wrote my direction wrong!" (In Spanish, address is dirreción, hence my confustion). After talking me down, I found an emergency absentee write-in ballot, to be used in case of chaotic mail. The next day, I ran to the post office, and asked how much it would cost to mail my letter express to the US (I had made a mental note to stay under 20 euros). It's 30 euros, she told me. After a moment of hesitation, I gave myself a peptalk. Abigail Scholz, you have come this far, now goddamnit, you're going to vote. And just like that, I voted.

spanish breakfast

2008-10-26T02:40:00.000-07:00

Let me be clear: "Spanish breakfast" is a nonsensical phrase, and a worse idea. What the Spanish eat in the morning should not be referred to as "breakfast," to preserve the dignity of what some say is the most important meal of the day. Also, I want it to be clear that I'm not hating on the Spanish, since their lunch is truly remarkable. I will take two plates of goodness 8 days a week, since in Europe, weeks are eight days long. However, their eating habits in the early hours truly leave something to be desired. Something edible, perhaps. For starters, I have watched my roommate prepare breakfast every morning. This is not typical Spanish, since typically, the Spanish don't eat breakfast, they just drink a coffee and get on with it. However, this "breakfast" consists of a large bowl of instant coffee, two pieces of bread (we don't have a toaster) with jelly, and cereal or muesli, which she puts in the bowl of coffee. Yes. You heard (read) me right. In the bowl of coffee. You should be shocked at 1) bowl of coffee, and 2) that I'm spending time writing this down. At first, I thought this was just my roommate, but I've heard other stories regarding bowls of instant coffee, with or without the added bonus of cereal. Or, if you take your coffee without cereal, you can always have these bland, cracker-cookies called Marias for breakfast. They come in whole-wheat, oreo-style, or cardboard-like. But, maybe the instant coffee is too hard to make. Maybe you go out for breakfast in the morning. In that case, instead of ordering an omelet or scrambled eggs, you can get toast with olive oil and tomato paste topped with ham. Actually, not that bad, once you've mourned the loss of anything resembling American breakfast. While Spanish coffee, or café con leche, is an achievement in itself, really, everything else that goes with it is somewhat subpar. This weekend, I got excited over Cheerios. Not regular Cheerios, but the kind with honey. Huzzah!

where everyone knows your name

2008-10-19T06:19:00.000-07:00

Cliché, it certainly is. However, there is something to be said for having a special place where the people know who you are, especially when really, there are about two to three people who know who you are. So, rather than frequent Starbucks as a homesickness cure, as was the case during my last trip, I stumbled upon this Argentinean bakery with my friend. I say stumbled because we had just gone running, and my legs were tired. Although we usually always went to an amazing Argentinean ice cream place down the street, we decided to give something new a try. At least we jogged first, so it was kind of like we only ate two mini croissants instead of five. Did I mention my friend is Argentinean (kind of)? (By the way, sometimes I eat Spanish food, too. I should probably just go to Argentina and get the authentic treatment). This may be why we bonded with the people that worked there. Or perhaps it was my innate desire to eat everything in the store, until being unable to fit through the door. Owners appreciate that kind of blind, to hell-with-my-waist devotion. And I appreciate anything fattening (or really, anything) with some dulce de leche. It could not be a more perfect match. Our relationship did not end there. We faithfully returned at least twice a week, for about a month, somehow managing to still fit into our clothes. I bought my birthday cake there, and both merienda (like an afternoon snack) and breakfast were had. I've said it once, I'll say it again: pastry brings people together. Here's to you, Los Manxares.

working with children

2008-10-12T10:10:00.000-07:00

Working with preschool and kindergarten-age children is tiring. Working with preschool and kindergarten-age children while speaking another language is like being hit over the head with a very heavy solid object, something like a two-by-four or perhaps a frying pan. After a month, you would think I'd have the hang of it, but every day is like being on Lost...at first, I thought that metaphor was quite a stretch. Now, I think that the Spanish children are the Others, and I am a mixture of Jack, Kate, Sawyer, and Sayid, trying to outwit my enemies while simultaneously attempting escape, and piece by piece discovering what it is that I'm supposed to be doing. Really, it's not as dramatic as it sounds. I spend a lot of time playing in the sand, wiping noses, and sidestepping vomit all the while speaking English to children (and teachers) who have not the slightest clue as to what I'm saying. However, after hours of counting, singing, and coloring, I believe that everyone within a hundred yard radius of me now knows that green is verde, one is uno, and that if you're happy and are aware of this fact, the appropriate reaction would be to clap your hands, stomp your feet, or shout "Hooray!" While I do much of the talking, every once in a while, you get a real gem out of those kids. Ranking high on the "Kids Say the Darndest Things" scale is one small child named Beltrán. Although he almost daily makes me laugh, one of the first things he said to me, after bombarding me with questions like "¿Cómo te llamas?" and "¿Por qué hablas inglés?," was (translated): "I'm sorry, but I speak loudly because I'm Spanish." In my mind, a truer sentence has never been uttered in this land of cacophony. Spending all my life within the tri-state area, I am all-too-familiar with yelling as day to day speech. Another charming moment was when a different three year-old class thought my name was first name Hello, last name Good-Morning, probably because this was the only thing they really ever understand. Although this may seem slightly frustrating and cronically repetitive, don't worry too much, since as a perk, I do receive lots of hugs, and as it is starting to get a little colder, boogers are included.

open letter

2008-10-03T09:26:00.000-07:00

Dear United States of America,
Consider this a cross between a happy birthday and a get-well-soon card. Listen, I'm sorry I didn't write earlier, I've been really busy with some stuff and stuff that's going on over here, you know, like siesta. I hear these few months I've been gone have been a little rough for you. Don't feel abandoned, I'm only gone for a year...for now. But please, try to keep it together until I get back. It's not like you've fallen off into the ocean, you're just teetering on the edge of what some have called an economic abyss. There's been hurricane disaster with human sewage running through the street, a vice-presidential nominee that speaks as though English is an uncomfortable second language (first language: shotgun), and the retirement age has been raised to 105 due to a slight financial hiccup, or "the Great Depression, Part II," depending on your perspective. Basically, you look a little like a hot mess. Banks are collapsing, jobs are disappearing, the dollar is falling, thousands of troops are fighting in a never-ending war...I could go on, but that's just overkill. America, I'm just one person. I'll be back for Christmas, try not to do anything crazy until then. Regain rationality! Stay intact, don't let states secede. Also, election day, big day for you. Hint: Don't fall for the "maverick." It's just a fancy word for "cowboy," and look how well that turned out. But hey, what do I know? I've got arugula and Lindt chocolate in my fridge, and I'm living in the hostile socialism of Spain, clearly a sign of rampant elitism. But America, that's not the point. Under the shadow of Día de Hispanidad (known to you as Columbus Day, and the Native Americans as genocide), the "discovery" of your existence, look how far you've come. From building pyramids made of solid stone to drawing them with the Dow Jones. Felicidades, Abi.

dietary transformations

2008-09-18T22:26:00.000-07:00

You give me food, I'll eat it. Whatever. While anyone who has known me from my days of blatant refusal to eat green pasta may see this as a bold-face lie, the picky eater in me has been vanquished by my "vegetarian-in-Spain" experience a year ago. This period was also known as "Carbfest with a side of Olive Oil '07." But really, vegetarianism/voluntary starvation opens your tastebuds and dietary system up to a whole new array of options here in Spain. Yesterday, I ate pig fat fried in fat. I believe it still had hairs on its hide. It was free, so I figured I might as well try it. I ate gulas...I believe the consensus, through online dictionary research, is that gulas are baby eels. Which makes sense, since they looked like little worms. To be fair, I had no idea what gulas were when I ordered them. I simply thought to myself, "Well, whatever they are, they can't be too weird." This in the country that serves a pig's ear as part of standard tapas fare (I haven't tried it yet). In Morlupo, the little Italian town I visited, I ate some kind of wild chicken. We think they caught it somewhere near the premises. With Rebecca's encouragement, in Barcelona, I managed to eat a whole fish. I know it was a whole fish because it still had its head, fins, skin, bones, and eyes. However, perhaps the strangest things that end up in my stomach come from the school cafeteria. There are two reasons for this. One, everything is free, and I just graduated from college and moved to another country as my native land fell head-first into a sub-prime abyss, meaning that money and I really don't see a lot of each other. Two, I really don't know what anything is. I ask, the cafeteria women tell me, I give a confused look, they say it again, but louder, and I point and say "Esto, por favor." One moment had special significance, the day that callos were an option. I have reproduced the conversation, in translation:
Cafeteria Lady: For the second plate, there's chicken and this other chicken.
Me: What's that tray underneath the chicken?
Cafeteria Lady: Callos.
Me: What?
Cafeteria Lady: Callos.
Me: ...What?
Cafeteria Lady (shakes head): You won't like them. Trust me.
Me (shrugs): OK. That chicken, please.
Cafeteria Lady: Tell you what. I'll give you a little bit, you try it. On Monday, you let me know if you liked it or not. Yeah?
Me: Why not?
I just want to say for the doubters, I gave the callos two bites. The first bite, I got mostly sauce, and described it to my fellow American Megan, who was watching intently, as smoking, musky chorizo that's kinda old. The second bite, I got some meat, and I believe my face contorted in a way I did not know was possible. It was chewy, rubbery, slippery, unidentifiable. We shrugged it off, as neither of us had any idea what it could be. When someone else sat down with a plate heaped full of it, I politely asked if he knew what it was. He looked at me consolingly, and said, These are the cow's stomach and intestines. On Monday, I told the lunch lady that callos really weren't my thing.

la rentrée

2008-09-09T07:18:00.000-07:00

While the word is French, not Spanish, everybody's gotta go back to work sometimes, even in Europe. The wonderful time of rest and relaxation has come to end for all, adults and kids alike. School is starting, and I'm heading back to school...to teach. Enter Zen metaphors about young grasshoppers, coming full circle, etc. With little to no training and qualifications that include baby-sitting and volunteer tutoring, the Spanish government and public education system has cleared me to be around children. Shocking. I will be assistant teaching at the preschool level for children age 3-5, which means...songs! games! dancing! unbridled excitement for all things American! Irresistible enthusiasm for life! This could take some getting used to, since the last three years of living in New York and attending NYU were spent in a haze of sarcastic apathy with random bursts of cynicism. Drinking crappy American and musing about poststructualism have really not prepared me to teach English to 3 year-olds. However, with my nurturing nature and saint-like patience, I'm sure I'll be a natural...Well, I can probably guarantee that I will not throw any of the children within the first week. Live like you teach, starting with violence is never the answer, unless you really need oil and a distraction from the mess you've created domestically. Or if God declares that it's your manifest destiny to rule a country that stretches from sea to shining sea, meaning that everyone else, mostly the indigenous people that have rightful claims to the land, better get out of the way. USA! Er...amarillo is...that's right, yellow!

traveling with friends

2008-08-25T15:46:00.000-07:00

Everyone classifies their friends, into neat little groups to keep things simple. There are your friends from home, your friends from school, your friends from Spain. But beyond geographical distinction, there are your soccer friends, your Project Runway friends, your Lost friends (or friend, in this case). But still, one more category, perhaps the most important category: friends you can travel with. Yes, you may think you can travel with just about any one of your friends. After all, it's vacation! Time to relax, and who better to do it with than your friends? Well, there may in fact be many other people who are more qualified travel partners, if Rome is any example of the darker side of travel. Perhaps it was doomed to bickering as Miguel and I arrived on a flight after all the trains to Leo's house had stopped running. I mean, really, who wants to go home from Rome after 8:45? So, maybe it was the hectic last minute scrambling that started everyone off on the wrong foot. Or, perhaps it was the divergent itineraries. Miguel wanted to hit everything on the map, Leo wanted to do the opposite of whatever Miguel wanted to do, and I just wanted to eat anything that looked Italian. Day 1 started with two different plans, two different directions, and ended in two different opinions of what had happened. Put these three people in a small house 45 minutes outside of Rome...with ONE bathroom. If I had thought to bring a videocrew, we would now have a fantastic telenovela, or be three people and a hot tub short of Spain's first Real World. If I thought living with four other girls and one bathroom was difficult...there are no words to finish this sentence, to identify the anguish. I had no idea that guys need at least an hour to get ready. As the tug of war continued, arguments flared, and not in the passive aggressive girl way that I'm used to. There were no bitchy notes, or talking behind backs. Seething wordlessly was not really an acceptable method of combat, nor was heavy sarcasm. Unfamiliar territory, indeed. To keep the peace between the intense name-calling and ridiculous bet-making, I resorted to the old stand-bys: pastries. If your mouth is filled with delicious baked goods, can you really do anything but eat? And also alcohol. Surprisingly enough (or not really surprising at all), we got along great when drunk. The power of Italian wine. As agreed on by the group, this trip could have used more alcohol, more tranquilizers, more pastries, and less attitude. To move on, I can think of only one appropriate phrase: fugehdbowdit. Or something like that.

closed for vacation.

2008-08-05T04:01:00.000-07:00

While my lapse in writing may seem strange to you hard-working Americans, I just want you to know: it's August, and Europe is on vacation. Small stores and restaurants are closed, the beaches are full of tourists, and the few that continue to work do so with groaning audible to the entire chilled-out population. Masquerading as a European, I went to the beach, braving the eight-hour bus from Madrid (in August, known as "the beachless ghost town) to Barcelona with Rebecca, former roommate, fellow fake European. Our trip began in near disaster, as we had decided to take an overnight bus to Barcelona, leaving at 1 am. As it was Rebecca's last night in Madrid, we had a nice, leisurely dinner starting at around 9:30...followed by a sprint through the metro system, back to my apartment to get the suitcase that I hadn't packed. This was then followed by more sprinting, barely making the last bus of the night. As we sat in our seats, sweating profusely, awaiting our departure and the beginning of eight fun-filled hours, we thought about how we probably wouldn't do this when we were older. My thought is, of course we wouldn't do this when we're older, because we would know better than to wait to the last minute to get to the bus station and really, to take a bus for eight hours overnight when you can fly for an hour and be done with it. Or to think that we would actually sleep on the bus, which made stops every two hours, complete with lights and announcements. However, coffee, along with some chocolate and churros, heals all wounds. One strange omelette thing later, we were off, leaping into sight-seeing Gaudí action, and then continuing our three-hour lunching tradition. While we definitely did not see everything Barcelona had to offer, we gave a valiant effort in eating as much as possible. I did my best to consume anything that remotely resembled a pastry, given Madrid's, uh, slightly lacking dessert scene. By dessert, I mean the piece of melon or apple they give you at the end of your meal and try to pass it off as a dessert. We sunbathed, drank in public, and meandered as though we had plenty of time. We did our best to embrace Spanish culture: sloowwww dowwwwnnnn. Done and done. After Rebecca left for the south of France, I pretty much laid on the beach for two days...just to make sure that we contributed enough chill. Isn't that what vacation is all about? Oh and don't expect anything too soon, I'm off to Italy, to visit a friend. Europe did get this vacation thing right.

naked roommate

2008-07-27T05:40:00.000-07:00

It started with boxers. If you're playing strip poker, and you start in boxers, well, it'll be a short game. Madrid in the summer is like playing strip poker, all the time. It's hot. Not New York hot, where you feel like the air is crushing you and everyone and everything are stickier than the counters of cheap diners. It's nice "dry" heat...all the time, mere inches (or dare I say, centimeters) from the sun. Looking at the weather has begun to get a little boring. Day after day of sun and 90+ degree heat stretched as far as the eye can see. It looks like a menu featuring only sunny-side up eggs. This heat wave known as "summer in Spain" might explain lack of clothes in the streets, at the pools, or in my apartment. People deal with the heat in their own ways. Most leave. To beat the heat, my roommate has gone commando. It's not really a new development. On the first day that I moved in, I walked into the kitchen to see him standing at the sink in boxers. All hairy, and thirty-plus, a sight usually reserved for the Jersey shore, not my kitchen. I should have realized that on day 1, when someone is comfortable enough to walk around in just boxers, clothes have been shelved. At first, I just figured he didn't realize I had moved in. I did my little apology (Lo siento!) with the polite averted glance, problem solved. Then I realized it was all the time. After a few awkward encounters, I got used to it. What else should I do? I mean, a pleasant sight, not really. But hey. It's hot, it's his apartment, he's comfortable, I'm American and therefore uncomfortable and awkward with nudity. Which explains my reaction to him chilling in his room, in the nude, door open. The first time this happened, my reaction was "Is he naked!?!?!?!" Because, somehow, it was not completely and totally clear to me. For motives I cannot recall, I started a conversation with him. Mistake. I looked at the floor, the door frame, the window, my feet, the ceiling. At this point, he probably thinks I have restless eye syndrome. Or at least awkward American syndrome. Symptons include nervous giggling, aversion to direct gazes, wearing clothes, and a higher than normal discomfort level with European shamelessness. It's not a life-threatening condition, but high levels of nudity should be avoided until the symptons are under control.

los viejos

2008-07-20T14:07:00.000-07:00

Los viejos, otherwise known as old men, are thriving here in Madrid. The old man community has made me feel very welcome, as they clearly recognize one of their own among them (i.e. me being a grandpa). But i want to give special attention to two old men who have gone above and beyond others in making me feel especially, uh, welcome. First, there's Alfonso, a charming regular at my friend's cafeteria (it's like a bar...but as they are everywhere here, it might be better to picture them like Spanish diners). While at first a little shy, he quickly warmed right up to me, and our first conversation went something like this (this is a translation. i sound better in english):
Me: Yeah, I've been here about a week. This heat is killing me though.
Alfonso: You're really beautiful, no? What are you doing here with Leo?
Me: uh...thanks? By the way, where is Leo?

While my "conversation" with Alfonso was the usual awkward old-man encounter (but in Spanish!!!), Fernando was something special. Clearly charmed by his question, "Are you a foreigner?," I was persuaded to stay and chat with him a few minutes. In this half-hour period, in which I drank for free, at 4 pm on a Sunday afternoon, Fernando told me that Spain's history was the most interesting history in the world. Not his opinion, but an actual fact. Also, did you know that the best parts of the US were founded by the Spanish? California, the richest part of the US, founded by the Spanish. Miami, the most important tourist destination, founded by the Spanish. Texas, the biggest state in so many ways, founded by the Spanish. (Fact-checking has never been my strong point). And let's not even talk about Spanish food. Since all Americans subsist on a diet of solely hamburgers, how we could possibly understand the depth and complexity of French fries topped with a fried egg? And while I declined an invitation to go clubbing with him, I did learn a lot about Spain, and I also drank for free. So, here's to you, old men. Thanks again, for making me feel welcome in a slightly uncomfortable, musty sort of way.

laundry.

2008-07-19T16:40:00.000-07:00

my washing machine is smaller than any i have ever seen, like most things in europe. the countries are small, the coffees are small, the cars are small and the old women here barely come up to my waist. i suppose that makes it energy efficient, since it probably uses less water and electricity; a polar bear is saved every time i wash my socks. it would be, rather, if i knew how to use it in the proper way, one that didn't involve domestic abuse and death threats. it wasn't always like this. at the beginning, things were happier. there was mutual understanding, an easy forgiveness, a steady camaraderie between the two of us. the washing machine was patient with my frequent miscommunication, awkward dial turning, and sometimes forceful button pushing. it ignored my mutterings, steadily swirling my clothes in a mix of soap and water. doing laundry was simple then, in that time of innocence. things began to sour however, as the honeymoon stage quickly wore off, and our differences– american vs. european, english vs. spanish, human vs. machine– pulled us apart like stockings with a run. first, although the dial would turn to a finished position, clicking coolly into place, the door refused to open. no amount of tugging, pounding, swearing, or pleading could convince it that yes, the clothes are clean, and yes, i would like to hang them on my clothesline (another european charm). and so began the four hour washing cycle. turning the dial started the cycle again, forcing my clothes round and round, until at some point i could open the door. this brought with it another unforeseen problem: soaking wet clothes. not damp, like they should be. really, i could both remove my laundry and shower simultaneously. perhaps this is another, less obvious energy-saving tactic in which two polar bears, not one, could be saved simply by washing clothes. way to go, europe. having already showered, i decided to wring out my clothes over the garden three floors below my window. sadly, numerous socks were dropped, forcing impromptu rescue missions, and yes, dirty socks. which had to be washed. again. given my now-cold relationship with my washing machine, my mom suggested hand-washing. my roommate (apartment-mate?) just hand-washed some of her clothes this morning...in the bidet. there you have it. the bidet: not just for genital cleaning, also a great place to wash your delicates!