a canarian adventure

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.

uncle sam DOESN'T want you

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

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

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.

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

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

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.