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.