the north pole.

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.

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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!