Why I Will Never Be a Domestic Goddess

Food is important. They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. If that is true, I'd better get rich quick, or I might spend the rest of my life as an old maid. Good thing my boyfriend likes Hardee's and Waffle House so much. One of my new year's resolutions this year is to learn how to cook. My friend Katie got me two cookbooks for Christmas, and we have already attempted one recipe, which turned out to be pretty good. (See my mom's blog, humberfourthgrade.blogspot.com, for full details of their ten-day visit with me here in Spain).

Now, food in itself is not a foreign concept to me. Remember, there are two different realms of the act of food consumption: that of the actual preparation of the food, aka cooking, and that of the actual consuming, aka eating. I love to eat, and I consider myself quite good at it, as my boyfriend can certainly attest to. I devote hours everyday to thinking about food and its many varieties.

Cooking, to me, is like the German language. I know a few words and phrases, but having a complete conversation is thoroughly out of my grasp. For example, "Guten tag" (trans. good day) is like your basic peanut butter and jelly sandwich. When all else fails, shout "Guten tag!" smile, nod, and then run away. Pretty cowardly I guess, but a good alternative when you have no other alternatives. One step up is the "Wo ist die Bushaltestelle" (trans. where is the bus stop) which is your simple spaghetti in tomato sauce (the sauce being of the Ragu variety, of course). Simple enough, right? And finally, my favorite, the multi-purpose "Du bist ein dum Kopf" (trans. you are a stupid head) which would be brownies out of a box. Brownies are pretty hard to screw up, especially when all you have to do is add oil, water, and an egg. Even if they don't cook all the way through, the gooey brownie mix is still good licked off a spoon. I am proud to say that I can make a mean batch of Betty Crocker brownies, though the best of what I have produced couldn't hold a candle to Katie's brownies. Here's a list of a few other things I can make: macaroni and cheese, toast and jelly, and strangely enough, fried plantains. Those are hit-or-miss because I still haven't perfected the art of choosing good plantains.

And there you have it. The extent of my cooking repertoire. I guess I could blame my genes for it, because my mom has never had much of an interest in cooking either, nor her mom before her. However, now that I am no longer in college and have access to a full kitchen, my excuses for not being more creative are running low. I have absolutely no idea how to cook any meat products, casseroles, vegetable dishes, or (heaven help me) desserts (excluding aforementioned brownies from a box).

There is one aspect of food preparation that I have mastered. That is, the art of heating stuff up. I am the queen of the microwave. I can make baked potatoes, hot dogs, eggs, you name it, in the microwave. I don't consider that cooking in the least bit. It's more like cheating. Using my language analogy, microwaving is like plugging a whole German paragraph into freetranslation.com and in two seconds, Ding! The English version pops out, albeit a bit funky in places, but usually pretty edible.

"Media polla y una Fanta, por favor."

Ahhh...the joys of learning a new language. Even more opportunities to stick one's foot in one's mouth than normal. All these foot-in-mouth moments make for rollicking good laughs later on, but at the time, they seem nothing short of tragic. Of course, no one wants to be picked out as a foreigner immediately after sitting down in the best chicken restaurant in Spain and trying to work out how to order what you want with perfect grammar and accent before the waitress gets to the table. Sadly, when your waitress advances on you with a menacing (and very Spanish) "if I have to serve one more table of jackasses today..." look in her eyes, it is quite easy to forget the perfect sentence you just created and order a "media polla" instead of the plate of delicious roasted chicken that you came to Alcalá de Henares specifically to eat. You know what's even sadder? That grotesque situation happened to me today in Pollo de Alcalá, the famed warehouse-turned-rotisserie that all Canterburians have been talking about since Johnny B, Alcalá-aficionado among English teachers, led that first lucky bunch through the big blue doors. Any Spanish-speakers reading this should be shaking your head and laughing at me by now. Those of you who don't speak Spanish...well, let me enlighten you about what I ordered. "Medio pollo," what I wanted to order, means half a chicken. "Media polla" means half a penis. Now, I just want to clarify that I knew the differences in the two words beforehand. However, all language-savvy flies out the door when I am confronted with formal-type scenarios, where speaking correctly should be the easiest thing in the world. Give me a bar chat any day, and I'll spout Cervantes. Put me in a Spanish 101 situation, and I might as well be in Kazakhstan. I did learn one thing from the experience, though. If you're in a Spanish chicken restaurant, see your waitress coming, and know from the look on her face that your food is gonna come with a side of spit, ask for a media polla and fear no more. For you have just brightened your waitress's day immeasurably, because now she knows she's smarter than you, and making fun of customers behind their backs is one of the greatest joys of the job. Take it from someone who knows...from both sides.

Metro Magic

Up until recently, I have been loving public transportation. It is cheaper, easier, and in some cases faster than personal transportation, such as an itty bitty electric car or a moped, which are popular here. Sometimes you even get free entertainment, because it is very common for some musician to come into your car with his guitar or pan pipe or accordion, play a couple of songs, and then walk around with his coin purse held out, asking for money. I probably see a metro musician at least once every day. Sometimes it's good music, and sometimes I have to fight to keep from sticking my fingers into my ears. However, it's all in good fun, and nobody ever seems to mind that much. You can see all sorts of interesting characters in the metro. Dreadlocked punks, prim and proper ladies, and even the world's greatest Rubik's cube solver (I timed him at 17 seconds). In the summer months, it smells like a boys' locker room. Charming. A monthly metro pass lets me use the main metro, the inner-city bus system, and a bit of the Cercanias above-ground train system for one easy fee of 40,45 euros per month. That's a heck of a lot less money than I was spending on gas and car maintenance back home. And once you figure out what goes where, it's smooth sailing. Up until today...

On Mondays and Wednesdays, I have an 8:30 class in Pinar de Chamartin, which is the northernmost metro stop on the brown line, about an hour from where I live. Since today is Wednesday, I dutifully got up at 6:30 so I could leave by 7:30. After I got going on my morning metro commute and made the transfer to the brown line at Avenida de America, I noticed that the platform was way more crowded than usual. I shoved my way into the car anyway when the train came, and tried to maintain my balance as we took off. As more and more people piled in upon reaching each stop, I was starting to have Tomatina flashbacks of being crushed to death. When we got to the Alfonso XIII stop, I breathed a sigh of relief because I knew that the train would empty significantly there, as it usually does. However, an announcement in rapid-fire Spanish came over the intercom system, and for some reason everyone was made to disembark. The train took off completely empty, leaving about 500 people waiting on the platform. Another announcement told us that it would be 20 to 30 more minutes until we could get moving again because the brown line was completely shut down. I knew I needed to call my student and tell her about the delay that was surely going to make me very late, but there is no cell phone service in the underground, so I left the metro station and went up into the open air to call her. After explaining the situation, we decided to make up the class tomorrow morning. Fine, great, so then what? I had no idea where I was. Alfonso XIII, yes, but where is that in relation to anything else in Madrid? I walked to a bus stop and saw that the #72 bus ran to Diego de Leon, which is a stop on my green line. Unfortunately, I took the #72 bus going the wrong way. So instead of heading toward Diego de Leon, I was heading away from it to someplace called Hortaleza. Nothing was familiar, so I got off the bus in frustration and started walking. Two months in Madrid and I had finally gotten myself completely lost. Out of pure luck, I found a bus that would take me in the right direction, and I went and told the bus driver to make sure I got off at the right stop. I wasn't taking any chances. So, after 2.5 hours of traveling, I finally made it back home. Sigh. I got up at 6:30 this morning for nothing! So, you know what I did when I got back to my apartment? That's right. I went to bed.

A Long-ish Update on Several New Developments in Spanishland

One of the funny things about living in pretty much any country other than the United States is that after your first couple of weeks, you feel like you are losing weight. It’s wonderful to pull on a pair of freshly-laundered slacks and have them seem a bit saggier than the last time you wore them. Back home, this is direct proof that your waist, butt, and thighs are a bit smaller than they were before. However, if you are skeptical about this, you should be. Because your waist, butt, and thighs probably aren’t any smaller. Yes, your pants are looser, but that is just a side-effect of wearing them, washing them, and then hanging them up to dry rather than tossing them into a dryer, which shrinks clothes back down to their former size. In all the countries I have visited, I have noticed a remarkable lack of clothes dryers. Maybe they just haven’t caught on in other parts of the world like they did in the US. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who still uses their clothesline regularly in the States. Well, in the South anyway. My apartment’s lack of a dryer has resulted in me not being able to wear any of my dress pants now, because however professional and put-together I may look up top, I always end up busting a sag down below. Unfortunate. I did buy a cheap black belt today at the Chino store near my apartment. It has little pewter skulls and crossbones imbedded into the “genuine leather” (doubtful). It was the best I could find without having to waltz down to H&M and coughing up probably 15€ or so. I’m gonna give it a try tomorrow, and see if the new pirate belt can rescue my forlorn slacks.

Do you remember from an earlier blog how I described the suspicious didgeridoo sounds that occasionally came floating through the walls in my old apartment? Well, apparently I am a magnet for musicians because my new apartment is right next door to a classical flautist. To be more specific, my bedroom shares a wall with the room where the flautist practices. Your probably thinking, “Classical flute music? Quite an improvement from BBBUUUUAAAAAAA!” (That was a didgeridoo sound, obviously) And you would be right, in one respect. However, the didgeridooist didn’t play that often. This stinking flautist plays for hours every day. HOURS! In a row. Without stopping. He is quite persistent in getting every song perfect. I have heard his music so often that I could probably play the songs myself. So I am forced to crank up the Jimmy Buffett or Julieta Venegas whenever he gets going to drown him out.

My classes are still going well, and I am getting better and better at teaching as the weeks pass. However, like love, English class is a battlefield. By this I mean that you can’t win ‘em all. Especially when it comes to small children. Let me offer up one example of glorious defeat at the hands of a six-year-old. Last week, I had a class with Sofia, a really cute little girl from a high-society family. The class started ok, with a quick rendition of “Head and Shoulders, Knees and Toes” because the topic of the day was body parts. I had several fun activities planned out that had worked well with my other two six-year-old demon children, so I thought my lesson plan was foolproof. Sofia should have been a piece of cake. For some reason, this day she refused to let one word of English come out of her mouth. Actually, she pretty much didn’t say anything at all, except “¿Cuántos minutos faltan?” which, roughly translated, means, “When the heck are you gonna get out of my house so I can go watch TV?” Unfortunately, that started about 10 minutes into the hour-long lesson. She wouldn’t listen to anything I said or even sit in her chair. She kept crawling under the table, hiding from me, and then jumping up and running out of the room. By minute 30, I was desperate. So I decided to try and get her to color a picture. I told her, in Spanish (she refused to respond to English), that she could draw whatever she wanted, as long as she sat still. I was paranoid that her mother would see her running around like a hoodlum and fire me for being such a crappy teacher. She finally complied and I gave her a blank sheet of paper and some markers. I sat beside her to draw my own picture, and drew her name in the middle of my paper. Then she took my paper and went to work on it herself. Here’s what resulted: Sofia, mama, and Fatima (the housekeeper) written, circled, and connected to the word buena (meaning good). Underneath all that, she wrote my name, circled it, and lovingly connected it to the word tonta (meaning stupid or foolish). Cute, huh? Just when I thought she was done insulting me, the little brat took it a bit further. She proceeded to turn her circled name into a shoe, my circled name into an ant, and said she was stepping on me. Lovely. Well, I refuse to let my feelings be hurt by a little snot-nosed six-year-old princess, so I busted out Mean Ginny. That’s right. I know it’s hard to believe that I can be mean, but desperate times call for desperate (and probably unethical) measures. I threatened her with hellfire and brimstone (meaning I told her I was going to talk to her mother), snarled a little bit, started packing up my stuff, and then ignored her for the rest of the class. This week, I am still at a loss for what to prepare. Any ideas for an English lesson that I teach to a little girl who hates me?

I bought a copy of Hot English magazine the other day, which is especially for learners of English. It comes with a CD and is full of lots of interesting stories and random tidbits of information. I learned a lot from reading it myself. Did you know that if you chew gum while chopping onions, your eyes won’t water? That’s right. Also, the issue that I purchased was the “Gangster” issue, so I learned a lot of bloody things about that notorious underworld which my boyfriend wants to join. Heck, this issue has proved so useful, that I might cough up another 5,15 euros for a copy of next month. (Yes, I used a comma rather than a period on purpose; that’s the way they write numbers here.)

I really enjoy going to the supermercado and buying my own groceries. That is one of the finest pleasures I take from living on my own. However, lately the language barrier has been a bit of a problem in the market, leading me to make a few unfortunate purchases. For example, I really like green olives and they are abundant here in Spain. So I bought a big jar of them. And now I know that “rellena de anchoa” means “filled with anchovies.” I gave them to Charo, my roommate. And bitter orange jelly? Yup, I accidently bought that too. It was such a pretty orange color, and I thought I was buying peach jelly. Not so. It’s still on my shelf in the fridge, just taking up space. I will probably end up throwing it away. Sad to waste food, but I don’t have a dog to feed it to here. All I have is a plant. And it’s dying. Hey, I am still new at this whole “adult” thing. It’s harder than it looks.

Last night, Joaquin informed me that we have talked for over 14 hours on Skype lately. He seemed surprised. For me, I wish it was 400. I would gladly give up whole nights of sleep to chatear about nothing. I realize that makes me sound like a loser, but it’s the best remedy I have found so far for depression. Not that I am depressed that much. Just sometimes. It is really hard being away from everything familiar and everyone you love. I would like to interject here that my parents are wonderful! They bought me a plane ticket to come home for Thanksgiving! So I will be spending the holiday with the whole family plus Joaquin in Panama City! The thought of missing a week’s worth of work and possible pissing off some clients hasn’t fazed my excitement one bit. Whatever trouble I might get into is totally worth it. I would wiggle my way out of anything for the chance to see everyone in a month! I am good at wiggling. In both senses of the word…

Of Grapes, And The Stuff That Can Be Made From Them...

Yesterday was the great annual Canterbury wine extravaganza, also known as the Vendimia Grape Harvest. Surprisingly most people were on time to meet at the office at 8:30 in the morning. I say surprisingly because the night before was spent at a Russian restaurant for our end-of-class dinner, and our hard-working and responsible group of English teachers knocked off about 4 bottles of vodka and several more of red wine. The next morning, none the worse for wear, we all took a bus to San Martín de Valdeiglesias, a 12th century Crusader town, about an hour outside of Madrid, and then the bus driver dumped us on the side of the road so we could walk to our first destination of the day- the vineyard of Manolo, a local grape-grower. Armed with steak knives and paint buckets, we divided into teams of two, and then each team set off down a row of vines, cutting off the bunches of grapes from each plant and then moving along to the next one in our row. Megan was my partner, and we were just having a good time, talking, eating handfuls of grapes, and moving along at a nice pace. We didn't realize it at first, but when we finally looked up from our work to take a short break, we saw that we were smoking all the other teams. They were barely half-way along their rows and we were almost to the end of ours! The two of us must have some sort of speedy grape-harvesting gene that we've never tapped into before. Maybe we had migrant worker ancestors or something. Anyway, when the time came to finish up and head back to the bus, we were half-way along our second line, and no other team had even finished their first. Glorious victory! Not that we were officially racing or anything, but it felt nice to be recognized for doing a good job. Until the ever-popular Johnny B decided to act like he was part of our team and stole our sunshine. He got a hug from Manolo and invited to his house. Manolo even offered Johnny his own bed to sleep in, as long as his wife wasn't in it...

After we washed our sticky fingers and got back on the bus, we headed to the local town bodega, or winery, called Don Alvaro de Luna, to see how wine is made. I have never been in a factory that actually smelled good, but this whole place smelled AMAZING. After a brief tour of the building (see Vendimia Grape Harvest photo album) we entered the last room, and discovered a veritable appetizer feast laid out before us and quite a few bottles of different kinds of wine for us to taste. Honestly, I am not a huge fan of wine, but I kept my duty as a devout student of culture and forced a few swigs down my throat. The red one was pretty rough, but the pink one was ok. I didn't even try the white one because, in my limited experience, white wine tends to taste like a mixture of vinegar and vomit. The vast majority of the other teachers on the trip would disagree with me wholeheartedly. Quite a few lushes in this bunch. In less than five minutes, the bottles were empty and everyone was getting happy. I got happy when one of the workers gave me a few corks to take home. Then, already full from the appetizers and heading toward a local farm for a barbeque, everyone climbed back onto the bus, and off we went towards our third destination of the day.

Again dumped on the side of the highway, we took about 10 minute hike to a small farm in the countryside. It was such a beautiful location (again, see pictures) and such a beautiful day for a barbeque. The sun was shining and a warm breeze was blowing, and there were lots of things to explore. Mom and Dad, I think we should have our next family reunion out there. What do you think? Anyway, several local musicians were playing some nice guitar music and there were copious amounts of sangria for everyone to indulge in, so the party got off to a promising start. The food consisted of different types of sausages, rice, salad, baguettes, garbanzo beans, green beans, white figs, and watermelon. Turns out the most delicious sausage was blood sausage, but the name didn't deter me from eating about five of them. Everyone was getting good and drunk (except me, of course) so I decided to take a nap. What I wouldn't have given for two trees and a hammock! I stretched out on the ground with my backpack for a pillow, and closed my eyes. With the sun on my face and the dried animal feces that it turned out I was laying on being nice and comfy, I almost fell asleep. I very well would have if some hippy Spaniard hadn't decided to bring out his flute and play some improv with an accompanying bongo. It was probably the worst music I have ever heard. Music, what a joke. Imagine a ten-year old who just learned to play the scales on his flute and is practicing them, when all of a sudden, a giant bumble bee flies into the end of his flute. The resulting squeak and frantic blowing of air and pushing of buttons to eject the bee is exactly what this man sounded like while playing his groovy improv. Needless to say, it was a rude awakening from my dream-like state. The rest of the party followed with some good flamenco music (after our favorite flautist decided he had done enough damage), a bit of dancing, and more drinking. When 8:00pm rolled around and we were informed that if we weren't back on the bus in fifteen minutes, we would have to walk home, the party broke up and we collected our things and headed back down the road. We were sad to go, but it had been such a full day that we were tired and most were drunk, and everyone knew it was time to head out. On the way back to Madrid, I got chatted up by the both drunk and high guitar player who entertained us at the beginning of the party, and spent the next hour leaning away from him and supplying short and vague answers to his very philosophical questions. So there you go Joaquin, I guess I do get hit on sometimes. But they have to be drunkenly obvious for me to realize it. So...that was my day as a grape-harvesting, wine-tasting, blood sausage-eating Spaniard wannabe. Chalk it up as one of my favorite days so far!

Swedish superstores, naked Brits, and fart jokes...welcome to the real Spain!

I think I have finally settled in. That's an incredible feeling, because for the first few weeks, I didn't feel comfortable here in Spain. Now I have a new apartment with supercool roommates in a pretty friendly part of town, and I feel much better about my situation. Let my Spanish life begin!

Saturday afternoon, my friend Biz and I went to a new IKEA on the outskirts of town. We rode the metro to the south end of the blue line, and then took the free shuttle bus to shopping paradise. I had never been in an IKEA before, but had heard other people sing its praises. I was pretty excited, especially because I was planning on buying a lot of things for my new room. However, it is a pretty stinking hard store to figure out. Especially because everything is neither in English nor Spanish, but Swedish. So me and Biz wandered around for about an hour trying to figure out how to buy sheets. Turns out, we were in the wrong section of IKEA, the "exposition" section (where apparently you look but don't buy), so by the time we found the sheets, I just wanted to leave. However, we finally figured out the store's layout, and then were able to find the things on my list. I bought pink and white curtains, a down pillow, a bottom sheet, and a duvet cover and pillowcase set. I bought the duvet cover to serve as my top sheet, because IKEA does not carry top sheets, therefore forcing me to improvise. I also bought a few towels, a rug, and some little cinnamon-scented tealights. So it turned out to be a successful trip after all. I am all color-coordinated now and slowly but surely making my new room my own.

Sunday night was La Noche en Blanco here in Madrid, one night a year where many different cultural events go on from 9pm till 7am. And once again, I wore the wrong shoes. Why do I keep doing that? Anyway, Biz and I went to Santiago Bernabeu stadium (where the super-famous Real Madrid soccer team plays) for the free tour. After standing in a line that wound around the entire stadium for almost two hours (we are both very stubborn) we finally got to go in. It was interesting to see in person what I had only ever seen on TV, but my mind was mostly occupied by the plight of my poor feet. And my camera's battery died, but luckily Biz had hers. I was slightly cheered by the fact that the tour was supposed to include entry into Real Madrid's locker room. However, upon entering said locker room, I was dismayed to discover a sign on the wall that informed us we were to see an "authentic replica" of Real Madrid's locker room. I should have known it was too good to be true. My fantasy of walking into the same room where the glorious David Beckham has strode around without his knickers on remains just that. A fantasy. Joaquin is throwing up now.

After a run-, er, hobble-through, of the trophy room, Biz and I left for her apartment to get me some more shoes. It was about 2:00am, and we had wrongly assumed that the metro would stay open late for the cultural-event-goers to use. Nope, it closed right at 1:30 like normal, so we were stuck in north Madrid without any means of transportation. Me more than Biz, because I couldn't even use my feet. The line for the night bus was starting to wrap around the stadium as well. So I took off my beautiful-but-evil Honduran gold heels, and walked back to Biz's place barefoot, an only slightly less painful adventure than if I had kept them on. I guess people were probably looking at me funny, but I didn't see them because I was keeping my eyes on the sidewalk to prevent myself from stepping on some stray hypodermic needle. Not that there is much drug parephenalia laying around in the open in Madrid, but one can never be too careful when it comes to HIV. Anyway, I crashed on Biz's couch that night, with my bloody, blistered feet hanging off the edge. Good memories.

Yesterday (Monday) was our last day of TEFL, in which we took our final exams. 45 minutes of Children's, 45 minutes of Business, and 90 eternal minutes of theory. So three hours of writing. We did get a break in the middle, but it certainly wasn't long enough. I was pretty irritated with the whole thing when I finally finished, especially since we had to write two essays in the theory part. There were several questions I left blank, such as "What is a collocation?" I think we did go over that in class, but I didn't think it was important enough to remember at the time. I still don't. Better yet, what is a relative pronoun or an appositive? Yeah, I have no clue. If a student ever asks me, I'll make them look it up.

Since there is no more TEFL to worry about, I have begun picking up a lot more English classes. I had three new students tonight, two six year-old boys together, and then a 10 year old boy. What a world of difference four years makes. The two six year olds would not stop moving for one nanosecond. Poor things had just gotten out of school, and then they were subjected to a hour of some weird foreign lady trying to make them sit still when all they wanted to do was burn off some energy. They were completely out of control, running around, yelling in rapid-fire Spanish, bouncing off each other, throwing things around...you know, as much general pandemonium as two little boys can create. At one point, the "better" of the two, Alejandro, sat on the other, Alvaro, and farted in his face. And then about 20 minutes of hysterical "pedo" comments ensued. I had to laugh through my gritted teeth. What can you do? I didn't lose my temper or leave early, and that's about all their moms could ask of me, for the first day anyway. I am going to be prepared for battle next week. Anybody got any ideas?

My second class was with a 10 year-old, also named Alejandro, and he was remarkably better-behaved. And really smart! The information I recieved listed him as "false beginner" and though I am not sure what that means, he is no beginner. He goes to a bilingual school, and it seems to me that he is getting close to fluent. His English is way better than my Spanish anyway. So I had him read a children's book to me to determine his reading level, and except for a few pronunciation errors, he had no problem. He's an only child and obviously his parents have done a wonderful job in providing for his education. Well, they are well-off and live in a fairly fancy apartment complex...rather, apartment compound. I was surprised the guards didn't frisk me upon entering. Anyway, the hour-and-a-half class flew by, with us talking about travel, Harry Potter, and showing each other some card tricks. All in all, he's a very cool kid, and I am looking forward to our class next week.

Well, that's about it for now. I have been playing Brad Paisley's song Ticks over and over again for the past hour because it is just so stinkin funny. And makes me feel at home. I have always said I couldn't wait to get out of the Deep South, but strangely enough, any little bit of the South that I brought with me or that I have found here is a precious commodity. Huh. I would never have guessed it, but just hearing the word "y'all" here is like listening to a symphony orchestra play Pachelbel's Canon in D. It makes my heart soar up into the clouds.

One little white lie...

12:15pm
I hate lying. I really, really hate it. No matter how careful I am in constructing said lie, it always somehow finds a way of biting me in the butt. And now I am in the middle of a big one which has already bitten me several times this week. Thankfully, it will be over in less than an hour, because at 1:00pm, I am meeting my ex-roommate to give her the apartment keys back and retrieve from her a precious copy of my passport. And then I will never have to see her again, because I will be in Alcalá de Henares. Or so she thinks. Let me explain…

It all started about two weeks ago on one lovely Monday morning, when I fatefully decided to get up early and take a shower before my roommate awoke. I tip-toed out of my bedroom into the living room (where strangely enough, my roommate sleeps). And there he was. Some guy in bed with her. Awkward! Oh well, what could I do? I took a shower, tip-toed back into my room, and began to get ready for the day. I heard some bustling in the living room while I was getting ready, and when I came back out of my room to fix a bowl of cereal, here came the demon-woman. She started chastising me in Spanish (which is our common language), and it was all coming out so fast, that I didn’t understand what she was mad about. I assumed it was because she didn’t know I had planned to shower in the morning. And who knows what she was really mad about? I personally think she was embarrassed that I had seen her in bed with her guy, after she had explicitly told me that sleepovers were not allowed, which was perfectly fine with me, of course. The reason for her being mad at me all goes a bit hazy from here. All I know is that I got fussed at several times, even though I was trying my best to stay out of her way, and let her have free use of all the common facilities while she was home. I showered and cooked while she was gone to work, and stayed in my room while she was there. I was neat as a pin, never left dishes in the sink or the bathroom floor wet, and was super-quiet too. So how could there be a problem? Still, apparently I was doing the exact opposite of everything she told me to do. Needless to say, it turned into a very uncomfortable situation. After being down in the dumps for about a week straight, I finally decided to give in to the coaxing of my friends and family, and tell her I was moving.

Here’s where my big fat lie comes in. I wanted to spare her feelings and try to limit the amount of drama that was undoubtedly coming, so instead of telling her that I was moving because she was a psychopath, I told her I had received a wonderful job offer in a little town just east of Madrid called Alcalá de Henares. The commute would be too much for me to continue living in Madrid, so I had to move on account of location. Well, the fact that I didn’t deserve it aside, there was no “congratulations on your new job!” or “this leaves me without a roommate but we’ll work it out.” No, all I got was about 20 minutes worth of the J-word (equivalent to the F-word in English) in all its various forms. I offered to advertise the apartment online and show it when she didn’t have time, but that was futile. I finally just got up, walked into my room, closed the door, and started packing. I called my friend Megan who graciously offered to let me stay with her for a few days until I found a new place. I have been with Megan now for four nights, and I also spent one night with another good friend named Biz. They are both unbelievable people who have fed me, given me a place to sleep and shower, and Megan has even clothed me. Even though I have been homeless the past week, I have wanted for nothing. Even the fact that my things are now spread over three different apartments for storage hasn’t been such a problem. I am incredibly blessed to have met such wonderful people.

This morning, my lie got sticky. I woke up to the sound of my cell phone ringing and with a heavy heart, I knew immediately who it was. Good old roomie-of-the-year calling to badger me some more. I did still have her keys, which I was holding ransom for the return of the copy of my passport that she had. But I had already told her that I was going to be in Alcalá this weekend in order to move into my new apartment, get situated, and that I was going to call her at the beginning of the week. She jumped the gun, though, and told me she was coming to Alcalá this afternoon to meet me and get the keys. However, I was not in Alcalá. I was lying on Megan’s trundle bed about 30 minutes away from the center of Madrid. I did a bit of panicking, and then decided that, no, I wasn’t going to run to Alcalá just to cover up my lie. I was going to make her meet me in Madrid somewhere, by telling her that I was in town for the afternoon in order to pick up some stuff from a friend’s house. She finally consented to meet me at the Puerta del Sol, though she didn’t want to meet at the fountain because she said she didn’t know where it was. I mean, COME ON! It’s smack in the middle of the Puerta del Sol! She has lived here for 5 years and doesn’t know where the fountain is? I didn’t buy that. Then I realized that she is the type of person who has to maintain some control over every situation that she is in. So she suggested meeting near the bear statue (about 20 feet away from the fountain) and I was like, “Yeah, that’s fine. Whatever.” So at 1:00pm, that’s where we’re meeting. I will collect my posse at the fountain and we’ll walk 20 feet to face my evil roommate and whatever backup she has decided to bring. I’ll update after it all goes down.

5:00pm
It’s over! It’s finally over! I am so glad I will never have to see that meanie-head again. Everything happened as planned. We met, made the exchange, and then she high-tailed it out of there, probably intimidated by my group of girls with “just try us” looks on their faces. It was not a big deal, and I was kinda disappointed that I didn’t have the opportunity to tell her off. But at least it’s all over. She has her keys and I have my passport copy. She still has my deposit, but there’s no way in hell or on earth that she would ever give that back to me, even though I didn’t do any harm whatsoever to the apartment. Oh well. Chalk it up to a 180€ life lesson. And my last lie for a long, long (long, long, long) time.

There are weirdos in Spain too! I fit right in...

I taught my first class tonight. It wasn’t great, and it wasn’t terrible, so I am ok about it. The little girls are very sweet and eager to play, but not really eager to learn. That’s ok. I think I have sufficient knowledge now about teaching so that I can successfully trick them into learning next time. The only problem is that the littlest one, Lucia, who I was told was three years old, is actually two. She can’t even speak Spanish yet, let alone English. What the heck can I do with a two year-old? Today, she pretty much just colored a picture and watched her sister play a matching game with flashcards. Adriana, the six year-old, knows some basic words and is better behaved than her last teacher’s final report led me to believe. However, she did take her skirt off half-way through the lesson and wanted to continue in just her underwear until her dad saw her and made her put the skirt back on. She’s sweet though, and I think I’ll enjoy hanging out with her a couple times a week. The dad, Julio, speaks a little English. Their apartment is very nice and clean with fancy Pier-1 type décor. It is pretty far away from the center of Madrid, so it takes me about 50 minutes to get there. I have to take the metro all the way out to the end of one of the lines, and then catch a train the rest of the way. However, I can use my monthly metro pass for the train, and Canterbury is giving me a 3 euro travel stipend per class because of the distance. And I like riding the train because there are lots of windows and I get to see the outskirts of the city. So I am happy for now. Hopefully, they’ll start offering me more classes soon. Also, I am going to apply with other English schools around Madrid to try and pick up extra classes. Heck yeah! English teacher in Madrid! Everything is starting to come together now. It’s just a matter of time before I’m cruising the calles on my purple Vespa with my little puppy-dog’s ears flapping in the breeze.

Last night, I had kind of a rough time. I developed a really bad stomachache, and so spent a large percentage of the night in the bathroom. I don’t really know what the problem was, though it may have had something to do with the entire jar of green olives I ate for dinner. I stayed in bed late this morning because of my lack of sleep and then got up and went to the second half of my TEFL class. Don’t worry about me though. I’m fine now. It was probably just my stinkin’ dengue acting up again. (Just kidding, Joaquin! Don’t get mad…I love you…)

I went to church on Sunday with my friend Biz. She found a small Iglesia Cristiana in another part of town, and so I went with her to check it out. Luckily, the guest speaker wasn’t a native Spanish speaker. He was actually a German missionary working in Mexico, but he spoke in Spanish slowly and clearly, without slang or difficult words, so we were able to understand him fairly easily. We spoke to him after the service, but apparently he doesn’t speak English because he continued to converse with us in Spanish even after we told him we were Americans. It was a nice Sunday morning, and Biz and I stopped for empanadas at a little bakery close to the church on our way back to the metro station.

The neighborhood I live in is very multicultural, like I have said before. However, I thought the multicultural-ness was restricted to South and Central American countries. Apparently it’s not. I have a strong suspicion that I live next door to an aboriginal Australian, because I got ready this morning to the sound of him practicing his didgeridoo. I know you are probably thinking that‘s highly unlikely to be a correct assumption, but trust me. Didgeridoo music is very distinctive. I know the sound of a man puffing up his cheeks and blowing with all his might into a long thick tube of Australian-type wood stuffs when I hear it.

My Moroccan roomy has calmed down a bit since the last time we talked. Some of you already know about her psychotic episodes of absolute nonsense, but hopefully she has lightened up and will remain so. She is having her older brother bring a desk for my room sometime this week, so that will be nice. Her brother also lives here in Madrid, which just follows the trend I have noticed about girls from Muslim families living abroad. Every Muslim girl I have ever met was only able to move to another part of the world after her older brother had already established himself there. I sure am glad my family is not like that, because I have no older brother. So I would either be stuck at home cooking couscous all day, or be disowned and ostracized from my family for shipping myself off anyway.* Thank God for the good old Baptists.

Speaking of other religions, I saw a couple of “Elders” on the metro this afternoon. Poor things must have had to leave their bicycles at home today. I was wondering when I would run into some Mormons, as they seem to pollute every country I have ever visited. Saw a couple in Quiznos in Tegucigalpa, and got into a heated verbal exchange with two in the Tupac Amaru market of Juliaca, Peru a couple of years ago. Well, good for them. I hope they get nice big planets when they die and become gods. And seven virgins. And a 21-gun salute. And their first taste of Coca-Cola. Gosh, it can’t be just a coincidence that the name of their religion is only one letter away from spelling “morons.”

Well, I am a sleepy child who needs her rest and all that. Maybe my roommate’s asleep so I can go sneak and take a shower. Madrid makes my armpits sweat like crazy. And apparently everyone else’s too. During midday, this whole city smells like a boys’ locker room. Not that I’ve ever been in a boys’ locker room. Obviously. Because I am a girl. Ok, then…

*I mean no harm by making gross generalizations like this. It is only for humorous purposes and not meant to be taken seriously. Muslims are generally very nice people. And I make fun of my own religion quite regularly. Those mentioned in the next paragraph, however, I do not wish to spare. Let all laughter at the expense of the Mormons ring loud and free!

I have already used up my supply of creativity for the week, and it´s only Tuesday.

**DISCLAIMER- This blog may contain crude subject matter. However, there is no crudeness merely for the sake of crudeness. Any crudeness in this blog will be present because I feel it necessary to help explain something or expand upon something. If you are not ok with this, go get a sense of humor. **

Life has calmed down a bit for me here in Madrid. I am through my first week of classes, am settled into my apartment, and am learning my way around my new neighborhood. City life is still a bit new, but I am adjusting well, I think. Not only do I have to adjust to city life, but there are also loads of cultural differences that surprise me every day. Sometimes they make me laugh, sometimes they make me go, “hmmm,” and sometimes they make me frustrated. However, they all make life a little bit less monotonous. Here are some things I have noticed that you guys might find interesting.

Spain has a different view on beer and alcohol than the United States does. The first difference is that you can drink when you’re 18 here (as it is in most of the sane world). That’s the law, though it’s not strictly enforced. I have been out to several bars with my friends, and we never get asked for ID. And some of us look pretty young, though we are all in our early 20s. Ok, so no big deal. Go to the bar and have a drink as long as you don’t look younger than 12. Also, grocery and convenience stores everywhere sell beers individually, so if you wanted a quick drink on the run, easy. No need to buy a whole six-pack. McDonald’s even has beer on tap, right next to the Coca-Cola. In the building where I have my TEFL classes, the vending machine will shoot out a can of Mahou (Spain’s most popular beer) for a mere euro, to whoever puts one in and presses the correct button. No age questions there. All you young alcoholics out there, Spain’s the place to be!

I actually learned something just last night that made me feel pretty dumb about myself. In every private bathroom that I have been in (including those in the three hostals I stayed in, as well as the one in my current apartment) there is a little mini toilet-looking thing that I assumed was a foot basin. I mean, walking around the city in your flip-flops or sandals, and your feet get pretty dirty. How handy to have a little sink close to the floor to wash your feet in! Smart people…um, yeah, it’s not a foot basin. Anybody wanna take a guess at what it really is? It’s a douche, or a bidet (spelling may be wrong here) as the dainty French ladies call it. Hello! Yup, I have been washing my feet in a…um…yeah. Ewwww!

And now, let’s talk about food. What a nice transition…so, I’ve been exploring the local grocery stores lately. There are three fairly large ones near my apartment. Grocery-shopping has always been one of my all-time favorite “living on my own” activities. And grocery-shopping in another country is always an adventure. You have to bag your own groceries here, and sometimes you have to pay for how many plastic bags you use, but they are only like 3 cents each, so it’s not a big deal. I have been able to find many familiar foods and even some of the same brands from home. There are a few things that are really, really different though. The milk and eggs aren’t refrigerated here. They are just sitting out on shelves like your everyday box of cereal. I assume that you are supposed to refrigerate after getting them home. After all, who wants warm milk with their Oreos? And unrefrigerated eggs? That’s a foolproof recipe for disaster. A praise report- I finally found peanut butter! None of the large grocery stores had it, and by chance I found a jar in this little Ecuadorian import store near my apartment. It is called pasta de maní, rather than mantequilla de cacahuate, like I am used to saying. It has no added sugar and is kinda separated at the moment, with the peanut oil floating on top. I don’t care! It’s peanut butter and I can finally make a PB&J sandwich! Victory!

I bought laundry detergent the other day because I had loads of loads to wash. Silly me, I just bought the cheapest thing I saw and didn’t even smell it first. So now all my clean clothes smell like men’s Axe body spray. Strongly. We don’t have a dryer and have to hang everything outside to dry, so there is nothing to tone down the smell but the wind. Oh well, there’s nobody here I want to smell good for anyway. Just to be on the safe side though (since I have my classes in a fairly homosexual side of town) I am planning on making a big tag to wear on my chest that says “I like men!” Wait. People might take that the wrong way. How about, “I’m not a lesbian!” Yeah, that’ll work.

So, I am adjusting, bit by bit, to this whole Live-in-Madrid thing that I have gotten myself into. Life’s fun, and my classes and new friends are great. I do miss home though. I called my grandparents this afternoon and they were planning to go down to the lake with my family and have a nice little barbeque thingy. I miss being able to do that. Oh well, if I get too lonely, I can just hop on the metro and go sit by the lake in the park for a few hours. Well, that might actually make it worse. Ok! I admit it. I really miss home! Someone come visit me! Please! Now!

La Freakin´ Tomatina

It has been two days since the Tomatina festival in Buñol and I am still feelings its effects. My shoulders are sore, I have a bruise on the side of my knee, and when I try to take deep breaths, my ribcage and side muscles feel like I have recently been freed from 10 years in a corset. I had no idea that a simple tomato fight would turn into a struggle for my very life…

Imagine, if you can, a small rural town in southern Spain. Mainly industrial. Not too charming or picturesque. Narrow streets. White-washed walls. Dusty and windy outskirts. Now, picture 40,000 people from all over the world descending on this one town for one special day, the last Wednesday of August, every year. These people come with the intent of creaming each other with hundreds of tons of tomatoes for the span of one hour, and then rinsing off and heading back to wherever they came from. One hour of incredible silliness with fellow adventure seekers in a vast pool of tomato puree. Sounds fun, interesting, and quite a bit out of the ordinary, doesn’t it? That’s what I thought ever since I first heard of the festival a few years ago. I continued to think that up until about 52 hours ago when I experienced La Tomatina for myself.

First of all, do you know how many 40, 000 people really is? It’s a whole stinkin’ lot. And do you know how narrow the streets are in small rural Spanish towns? Pretty stinkin’ narrow. And do you know what you get when you force 40,000 people into the narrow streets of a small rural Spanish town? A lot of opportunity for pain.

In theory, the festival works like this: big trucks filled with overripe tomatoes drive through the streets and dump the tomatoes in strategic spots for expectant food-fighters to throw at each other. Everyone must squeeze the tomato and break its skin so that it won’t harm the person who gets hit with it. And there you go. Chaos ensues. However, that is not the way it works in reality. Let me put it all in a timeline so that you may understand better my thought process throughout the festival.

10:30am- We arrive in Buñol in a big charter bus after a 3.5 hour ride from Madrid. Gosh, there are a lot of people and cars along the streets. And we aren’t even in the town center yet. We park at a gas station, get out of the bus, and start following the flow of people to wherever they are going. Hey, they are all heading in the same direction, so they must be here for the same reason we are. We see people wearing goggles, bikinis, tank tops, shorts, and wacky stuff too. Everyone looks like a hippie. I feel like I am going to Woodstock. And my group is dressed pretty much the same. I am wearing a tight, black sleeveless shirt, hiking shorts, and my red tennis shoes, which I think have little chance of getting ruined by tomatoes since they are already red. We are all ready! So where is the festival?

10:50am- Ok, so I have been walking for about 20 minutes, still following the crowd, and it doesn’t look like the hike is nearing an end yet. Oh well, I am with my new Canterbury friends, and we are having a good time chatting and anticipating while we walk. We are all looking forward to heading to the beach at Valencia, about 45 minutes away, after La Tomatina ends. There is a helicopter circling overhead. Maybe it’s the news here to film the festival. Wait…nope, it’s the Guardia Civil, Spain’s police force. Well, that’s encouraging…

11:00am- Still walking. Suddenly, we hear a gun go off. Crack! Signals the start of the festival, I guess. Several guys start running, evidently in a hurry to get to “Ground Zero,” as Canterbury’s director and resident Tomatina aficionado, James, lovingly refers to it. The crowd starts building up as we enter the center of town with its narrow, winding streets and alleys. Well, there’s only one way to continue, and that’s to push our way through. Do I really want to though? That’s a lot of sweaty people and they already smell pretty bad. Hey! Quit pushing me! Wait! Oh man, here we go. I am getting pushed along, and there’s no way to fight the crowd that is carrying me. Best to just go with it, I think. Some guys start chanting “Dónde están los tomates? Los tomates, dónde están?” Me and my friend Biz, who has stuck with me since we got separated from the rest of the group, start laughing and singing along. We are still moving forward as the crowd grows more and more dense…

11:15am- Ok, so… dónde están los tomates? The only thing I have seen thrown so far is water, beer, and sangría. Me and Biz find ourselves near the center of the main street surrounded by so many people, I can hardly believe it. Boy, this stinks. I am pressed up against some guy’s sweaty bare back. There’s no room to move away from him though. I am keeping my arms up in front of my chest so I can push myself away if I need to. Wait…I think I just heard someone say a truck is coming. From what I can tell, the vast majority of the people here speak English. That’s strange…I think I see something coming. Oh yay! It’s a truck! Finally, let’s get this food fight started! Huh. I wonder how it can fit through with all these people in the street. Hey, get your elbow out of my stomach! I gotta get out of the way of the truck. Man, it’s getting tight in here. I can already smell the tomatoes, which I have to say is much nicer than body odor. How am I going to throw a tomato when I can’t move my arms? Wow, ouch, I am getting squeezed pretty hard here. Biz is right behind me, and we are trying to laugh about this situation, but the fact that it’s hard to breathe has kind of put a damper on the whole partying spirit. Oh crap, this really hurts. I will not pass out. I will not pass out. I have plenty of air. I will not pass out. Ok, not cool. Ahhhhh! Oh, God! I can’t…breathe…

11:20am- Whew! The truck is finally past us. The crowd has loosened a bit and it’s easier to breathe now. Wow, that was scary. But we still can’t move. Why didn’t the truck drop the tomatoes? That doesn’t make sense. There were people in the back of the truck throwing some at us, but there still isn’t any for the people in the street to throw. What? Another truck is coming? Oh crap…oh crap…ouch, ow, oh crap…Biz, you ok? Yeah, my ribs are being crushed too. Oh sorry! I didn’t mean to poke you in the eye. I was just trying to scratch behind my ear…

11:30am- Ok, this is officially not fun anymore. It would be so easy to get trampled or crushed to death in this unbelievable mob. But I am determined to survive. Oh #%&*, not another truck! Ah, ah, ah, owww, crap. Please stop, please stop. I want to leave! This hurts so much! Ahhhhhh!

11:50am- Biz and I have worked our way, slowly but surely, to the side of the street, and I am now using my right arm and hip as a brace against the wall to create more room for myself. This poor short Asian girl behind us has pretty much disappeared. There is a fair amount of tomato pulp in my hair now, and my feet are sharing my shoes with about a quart of tomato juice, but I have been nowhere close to being able to throw a tomato of my own. The best I can do is feebly flick off whatever lands on the shoulders of the guy in front of me. Ten more minutes of this madness…

12:00pm- Ok, it’s noon. Let’s get out of here! Why aren’t people moving? Let me out!!!! Come on, guys, it’s over. Leave, so I can have room to leave too. What a stupid idea, this tomato fight. I just want to rinse off, get back on the bus, and never eat another tomato for the rest of my life. Gah! Biz, let’s try to force our way out. Ready? PUSH!!!!!!!

12:30pm- I lost Biz in the crowd and am now walking back to the bus by myself. I don’t see anyone that I know. Man, I am so tired. And I am starting to itch. My hair is crusted over with bits of tomatoes. It’s in my ears, down my sports bra, caked onto my arms and legs…literally everywhere. Freakin’ Tomatina. I’m glad it’s over with. Ok, there’s the gas station. I see some of my friends that have returned and I ask them where I can go shower off. They point at the car wash. I’m like, you’re kidding…

1:00pm- Well, that was weird and a bit humiliating. After inserting my euro to make the water start spraying, and enduring the gross catcalls of the drunk guys who congregated around the carwash to jeer at the wet girls, I am finally mostly tomato-free. My hair is a lost cause though. It is still a tomato helmet. I will just have to wait and wash it off in the sea when we get to the beach. The beach! That is a cheerful thought. Maybe happy times at the beach will lessen my chances of having nightmares tonight, waking suddenly, convinced I am being smothered by tomato people. I settle back into my seat on the bus, and look forward to a perfect, relaxing afternoon by the Mediterranean…

After reliving La Tomatina in the writing of this blog, I am thoroughly exhausted and will have to wait until next time to tell you about all the sand, sun, and boobs that I saw at the beach in Valencia. I need a nap. And a massage…

Day 5 and 6

This is gonna be short because I have 10 paragraphs of homework to do tonight. And today was the first day of classes! Anyway...

Yesterday (Sunday) I didn´t really have anything to do, so I decided to go to the Prado Museum because Sundays are free. When I got there, the line out the front door pretty much stretched around the block, so I chose to mosey on. I went on down to the Museo Nacional Centro de Artes Reina Sofia, which was also free on Sundays. There was no line here, as this museum isn´t nearly as famous as the Prado. When I got inside and started wandering through the permanent collection, I realized that this museum mostly catered toward those who appreciate the more modern types of art. I, however, am not one of those and continually fail to see the artistic importance of a mostly blank canvas with a few swooshes of brown or black. Therefore, I didn´t really enjoy myself. There was one point of massive interest to me in that museum, though, and it was Picasso´s Guernica, pretty much the most famous painting of the 20th century. So I was pretty excited to see that. I did see a few paintings of Salvador Dali as well, and one by Diego Rivera, but they were Cubist paintings and, therefore, boring and stupid. To me. That is my opinion. I´m sorry, Jane.

Today (Monday), I had my first TEFL class. I really think I am going to enjoy this course, because the teacher of the theory section is very cool and interesting. I´ve made a few more friends too, especially Elaine from Ireland, who I talked to today over a kebab lunch at a little Greek restaurant. Tomorrow, I am going to pick up the keys for my new apartment. That´s pretty much it. I´ll definitely let ya´ll know how La Tomatina goes, along with pictures. After this week, I´ll probably blog once a week or so, because things are starting to slow down and there´s not so much to write about. I hope Alabama cools down for ya´ll. The weather here is lovely!

Day 4- an update

I found an apartment!!!!!! It´s cute, it´s beautiful, it´s perfect, and I absolutely love it! My roommate is cool too. She´s a bit older than me, but I know we will get along great. She´s a hairdresser (which couldn´t be better because she said she could help me with my hair) and she doesn´t speak English (which is also great because I am forced to speak Spanish with her). I was so stressed today because I was having trouble finding a place, but now all is well in Spanish-Land and I am moving in Thursday! That´s really a huge relief. And I bought myself a huge chocolate ice cream cone on the walk back to my hostal to celebrate. Just thought I´d let ya´ll know. About the apartment, not the ice cream cone. Well, now you know about both. Ok, I´m giddy.

Day 4- Saturday, August 25th 2007

The apartment search is not going well. So I am a little discouraged today. I looked at an apartment last night in a part of town that was too far to walk to, so I took the metro for the first time. The metro is Madrid’s subway system, and once you pick up a map of all the stops and stations, it’s pretty easy to navigate. However, once I got to the right part of town, I had a bit of trouble finding the apartment. I don’t think that Madrid has a ghetto, but if it did, that would have been it, and there I was hiking up and down the street. I had kind of already made up my mind about the place, and when I did finally arrive to the correct building and ring the buzzer to tell them I was there, I was panting for breath. What fun to realize that the apartment was on the 5th floor with no elevator! And when I say the fifth floor, I really mean the sixth floor, because they don’t count the ground floor. The second I saw the room they wanted to rent out, I was like, “Heck no!” Well, I actually thought something a little stronger, but my momma’s gonna read this so I will keep it to myself. There was no bed, just a mattress on the floor. The little wooden bookshelf looked like it would collapse if I put even my passport on it. And the bathroom and kitchen were worse. It was altogether massively depressing. So I politely told the guy that the location was too far from my work, and then I left.

When I came up out of the metro station at the Puerta del Sol, I saw a crowd gathered around some people playing some very familiar-sounding music, so I walked over to check it out. There was an Andean musical group there performing and selling CDs! They were very good and the music made me happy. This was at about 11:00pm, and the streets were completely full of people. This is the latest I have been out so far, and it astonished me to see so many people out that late. And it wasn’t just young people or teenagers. There were nicely-dressed older couples, middle-aged businessmen in suits, and even families with their kids! In the States, if you are in the streets that late, people assume you are looking for trouble. So, pushing my way through the crowds, I made it back to my hostal and did the American thing. I went to bed.

This morning, I got up, packed everything, and went down the street to a new hostal that is 12 euros cheaper per night than I have been paying. It is a small place and seems to be run by a family in their apartment. I don’t have my own bathroom this time, but I don’t care. It is cheap enough for me to stay until I find an apartment, and I am tired of carrying my luggage around! The next time I move it will be into a taxi and to my new permanent room.

I have made a lot of calls to people, trying to set up some apartment-viewings, but only two have come though so far, partially because it is so hard for me to understand Spanish people, especially over the phone. The first was last night, and the second was this afternoon, in a nicer part of town that was really pretty. The apartment was cute-ish, though the room was really really small. The people who already live there seem nice and clean. However, it is also up six flights of stairs with no elevator, and won’t be available until the 1st of September. So heck. I’ll keep on looking. When I was walking to the apartment this afternoon, a car passed by me blasting “Atrevete” at full volume and it made me smile. I know that seems really lame, but I associate that song with my friends back home, so it made me think of them.

I hope my new friend Megan from Denver calls me today so we can hang out tonight. She is also gonna be taking the TEFL course with me, and we met at the orientation yesterday. I also met Rick from Boston, and we three chatted a lot. They are both a lot like me, recently out of college and teaching English for an excuse to live in Madrid.

I am back in an Internet café because I couldn’t pick up any wireless network from my new hostal. Hopefully, I can get my living situation worked out soon because this is really stressing me out. I may seek help from the wise ones at Canterbury, who can help me make phone calls and should be able to understand what people are freakin saying. Tomorrow I am going to the Prado because it is free public museum day. And I am gonna sit on my butt and look at some paintings for awhile. That should make me feel better. I miss everyone at home so much! Love ya’ll!

Day 3- Friday, August 24th 2007

Thank the heavens and dark chocolate! Canterbury English does exist! I went to my orientation today and got everything straightened out, so I no longer have to be suspicious about getting scammed by stinky Internet scammers.

A few small victories to report today:
-I got a cell phone! At the orientation, we were told that cell phones are essential for teachers to have in case of class cancellations and such. So I waltzed down to the nearest Phone House and bought the cheapest prepaid thing they had, so now I can communicate!
-I have friends now! That sounds so lame, I know, but it was a victory in itself, because up until this morning, I knew absolutely nobody in this city. Granted, I still don´t know any Spaniards, but American friends are a good start.
-I went to a café and ordered breakfast without incident! I had my first Spanish tortilla, which is like a potato omelet, and pretty yummy with coffee. Nothing at all like a Latin-American tortilla.

-On Wednesday, I am going on a trip with the Canterbury people to Buñol for La Tomatina!!!! That´s the world´s biggest tomato fight where people come from all over to throw tons of tomatoes at each other and get completely soaked from head to toe in tomato juice. Yup. Go ahead, look it up on the Internet and be jealous.

Some other interesting stuff:
-The light thingy at crosswalks that tells you it´s safe to cross the street (what are those called?) makes chirping sounds when the little man turns green. Chirping like a little bird in your garden singing at the sun, which is quite a bit nicer than ¨You may cross Bennett Street...¨
-I walked down some new streets today and passed by all the prostitutes. It made me so sad to see all those beautiful girls in their tiny little skirts and dresses, with extremely high-heeled shoes, leaning against the light posts and in doorways, waiting for some skanky old Madridian man to come by and buy them. These girls were not missing any teeth, wearing torn fishnet stockings, or looking like they fell out of a bad 80s music video, which is the way I always picture prostitutes. Nope, they were nice looking with good hair, cute clothes, and very pretty faces. They could have just as soon been on America´s Next Top Model. But there was no doubt what they were. Broke my heart. My second prostitute viewing ever. The first was in Tegucigalpa, but those prostitutes were transvestites and for some reason didn´t make me feel bad at all. They just made me laugh.

So...that´s it for now. I hope you guys are enjoying my blogs, and I think I´ve fixed the comment thing so ya´ll can leave comments if you want. Pictures coming soon!

Day 2- Thursday, August 23rd 2007

Ok, things feel like they are starting to fall into place now, and I am getting more comfortable in my surroundings. Several successes to report on today: I found a plug convertor kit so I can use the laptop now. Also, I got a USB cable for my digital camera so I can put pictures on the computer too. Hooray for technology!

This morning I got up and did my best to repack my bags and get everything into a transportable fashion. Joaquin is an amazing packer, and I couldn’t quite recreate the magic he must have used to fit everything in, but I did the best I could. I said goodbye to the over-priced touristic apartment, gave the key to the guy at the front desk and high-tailed it out of there to find some place a lot more economical. Well, high-tailing it is a bit of an exaggeration, because with all my bags, the best I could really do was struggle valiantly. So…I struggled valiantly out of there and to the main road, determined to make it on foot because taxis are dang expensive. However, contrary to my belief that cheap hostals would pop up everywhere I turned, I was apparently in the wrong part of town for that. So after an hour of huffing and puffing and fighting my luggage around the neighborhood, I finally gave up and hailed a taxi to take me somewhere…anywhere!...to a place where I could leave that maldito equipaje. Thankfully, the cab driver who picked me up knew just where to go.

So here I am at Hostal Cantábrico, a neat 30€ per night, and really close to the Puerta del Sol, an extremely busy and popular plaza which serves as the hub of commercial Madrid, or so it seems to me. There are several pedestrian-only streets here, lined with every kind of store imaginable. I saw H&M (definitely gonna go check that one out soon), El Corte Inglés, FNAC (where I bought my plug convertors and USB) (by the way, how the heck do you say that? Fuh-nack?) (Is it ok to have several phrases in parentheses strung together like this? Oh well.), lots and lots of shoe stores, Mcdonald’s, Burger King, and Starbucks, lots of food stores and little Chinese grocers, and so forth. It was an amazing discovery for me. And I ate lunch at Pollo Campero! I didn’t know they had that here. I was so happy to be someplace familiar.

I also found where my orientation will take place tomorrow. Well, I think I found it. I followed the directions from Canterbury’s website and arrived at the correct building, but there is no indication anywhere that English classes take place there. I felt a deep sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach after walking up and down the street trying to figure it out. On top of that, yesterday I tried to find Canterbury’s main administrative office, located in a different neighborhood. The building I arrived at, following the address from the website, was the same case as today. No indication whatsoever that people speak English in those parts. Plus, I asked everyone within a 100-meter radius of the address (See? Meters! Hee hee, I am converting…) but nobody knew of Canterbury English. So today, with great dread in my heart, I finally called the office phone number, half-expecting to hear “We’re sorry, but this number has been disconnected,” or whatever its equivalent is in Spanish. I was convinced I had fallen into a great Internet scam in which some hacker ran off with my 300€ I transferred to hold my place in the program. Much to my surprise and massive relief, a lady answered the phone and verified that there is indeed a Canterbury English program in Madrid, and not to worry, the orientation would take place as planned in the afore-mentioned building. Hopefully, tomorrow morning, as I try once again to figure out how to get in, there will be several English-speaking people like me in the same predicament, and we can work together to figure it out. Heck, I’m getting there thirty minutes early just in case. I know, I know…early! Like I said before, this place is already impacting me and changing my pre-conceived notions and habits. Don’t worry though, you’ll still know me when I get back, I’ll just be more fearless! And early…

Day 1- Wednesday, August 22nd 2007

Well, I’m here! I don’t think it’s quite sunk in yet that I have finally dropped myself in the middle of Europe to endure my greatest self-preservation test yet: succeed as a foreigner in a foreign country by adapting to a foreign language, culture, and monetary system. All by myself. That last part’s the kicker. I know that it might not be that big a deal to many people, but it feels huge to me, especially right now.So…what have I seen so far? Let me give you the rundown.

When I got off the plane, I exchanged all the cash I had for euros (€) at a terrible exchange rate, and then went off to find a taxi to take me to the city center. The cab driver I found took me to the Apartamentos Recoletos near the Plaza Cibeles (my current point of reference) and I was so tired that I didn’t want to look for a cheaper place. Plus, I had no idea where to look anyway, and my luggage was way heavy. I just wanted to take a nap. So I paid the 77€ for a double room (the cheapest thing they had) and then conked out for four hours. I woke up about 1:00pm and then realized how badly I needed a shower, so I took one. Wow, this is becoming horribly detailed.

Anyway, after all that, I went for a walk to find something to eat and to explore a bit. Plaza Cibeles is right smack in the middle of lots of interesting things, so my mouth was hanging open during my entire walk. Alan, I give you fair warning: if you ever find yourself in Madrid, make sure to take deep breaths and drink lots of water to keep calm, or the architecture just might send you into cardiac arrest. I went walking up and down some streets, and down the wide Paseo del Prado. After about 20 minutes, I was famished so I popped into the next restaurant I came to, called Mercado de la Reina, or the Queen’s Market. I had no idea what anything on the menu was, so I just ordered one of the cheapest things, which was croquetas caseras de jamón ibérico. Anything with ham sounded good to me. Turns out, the croquetas were little fried balls of sweet creamy lard stuff, with bacon bits mixed in. Probably the most artery-clogging thing I’ve ever eaten. After I paid my dreadlocked waitress, I headed out for some more exploring.

I decided to find the Prado Museum, which houses some of my favorite Spanish paintings, especially those by Diego Velásquez. Thanks to my lucky travel book and its lovely maps, I found it quite easily and began staking out the place. Unfortunately, it seems to be very well-guarded. Walking out with Los Borrachos (my favorite Velásquez painting) is going to be a bit more difficult than I had anticipated. Well, I’m here for eight months, which should be plenty of time to figure something out.

Even though this is my first day here, I have already realized what a profound influence this place is going to have on my life. For example, living in Madrid will force me to get over my fear of fountains, because they are everywhere. I saw a particularly scary spiky metal one in the shade-tree pedestrian part of the Paseo del Prado, and actually walked by it like it was not there, ignoring its deadly bubbliness completely, so I am proud of myself.

The Prado is close to the Parque del Retiro, so I headed there next. The Parque is like a gigantic forest in the middle of the city, with lots of shady walking paths. It was nice and cool and relaxing. Well, it would have been relaxing if my shoes hadn’t started trying to peel the skin off my heels at the very moment I arrived there. I had definitely chosen the wrong shoes for a hike around the city, but I least I looked cute while limping. Actually, Joaquin, remember the time we were in that mall in Tegucigalpa (I think Miraflores) and I had to stuff tissues in my shoes because they were hurting so bad? Yup, same shoes. I think I’ve learned my lesson this time. Anyway, there is a big lake in the northern part of the park where people can rent rowboats. There are benches everywhere, which I took full advantage of whenever I could. Around the lake is a great place for people-watching. I saw Spider-Man, two Minnies, and Shrek making balloon animals for kids. Lots of people were roller-skating. There were fortune tellers, and portrait sketchers, and artists selling their little paintings on bed sheets in the shade. Many families were out taking a walk and couples were rowing their little boats around the lake. As such, the Parque del Retiro is my favorite place in Madrid so far.

Another thing about the people in Madrid: I have seen so many different kinds of people, of different colors, speaking different languages, wearing different types of clothes. People looking confident and people looking completely lost. People walking fast and people just strolling along. Blond people, black people, Japanese people, mestizo-type people, American-type people (somehow, you can just tell), dorky people, fashionable people, fat people, skinny people, funny-looking people…it goes on and on. This was a particularly encouraging thing for me to discover, because I fit in perfectly! Finally, a Spanish-speaking country where I don’t stick out like a sore thumb! It’s about time…

In Over My Head

Eight days until I ship myself off to Europe. I am beginning to get a little nervous. I mean, I have made a packing list, familiarized myself with the layout of Madrid, studied Spanish for a good four years, and surveyed apartment availability on the Internet. And I have never felt more unprepared in my life.

What was I thinking? In a little over a week, I am going to throw myself into a foreign culture, whose language I barely speak (even after the aforementioned four years' study), without knowing a soul in the whole city, without a place to live, without a ride from the airport, without a clue how to teach English...the list of withouts goes on and on. I wanted an adventure, and I guess I am about to get one. I feel a bit foolish now, because my idealism and I-can-do-it! attitude may very well prove to kick me in the arse. I am in way over my head.

Wow, I had no idea I was so neurotic...