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.

thanksgiving...T-One Week

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

another solo trip? do you even have friends?

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

eat the hamburger with your hands!

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

squeeze the minutes out of the day.

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

reasons i shouldn't be a preschool teacher

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

the big 2-3

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

the readjustment.

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

studying for the fsot

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

at home, he's a tourist

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

solo trippin' (portugal)

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

high school reunion madrid

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

scholz tour de france

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

schoooool's out for the summer.

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

all about my mother

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

stuff breaks

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

tourismo in madrid

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

visiting friends!

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

when friends visit

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

missing: self

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

traveling with the parents

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

understanding soccer by understanding baseball

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

actual adventure: paris, the second time around.

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

the epic adventure: paris, the journey.

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

the pro/con list

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

AMERICA
Pro

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

Con

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

SPAIN
Pro

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

Con

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

plant serial killer

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

grown-up decisions

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

traveling, solo style.

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

inauguration in madrid

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

OMG IT'S SNOWING OMG

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