4. tetuán day!

To be clear, Tetuán Day isn't a real day. It's something I made up. There is an actually day for the neighborhood, but it coincided with Gay Pride Week and the World Cup, and who knows what else. I was busy, or asleep. That being said, for a day that I made up, it was awesome. Adventure! Food! Free midday shots! The participants included myself and Sarah, also known as the usual suspects. It was a sunny day that started off with a soccer game in (you guessed it) the Tetuán league. After everyone asked declined to participate in the festivities, Sarah and I wandered off in search of a famed horchatería called la Fábrica Antigua. However, it was already closed for the season, but instead of this minor setback putting a damper on our civic spirit, we strolled toward a bakery near my house to preempt lunch with some pastries. I mean, really, it was still a little too early and we hadn't missed breakfast by that much. We settled for a pestaña, a fried dough creation covered in honey, and something golden and croissant-like that was filled with raspberry and ricotta. Surprising only to us, they were incredibly delicious, as things fried and covered with honey or stuffed with ricotta usually are. After a quick stop by my apartment for a shower, we headed to a chicken place that I have passed on my street for two years and not once entered. It's not as if it didn't smell enticing, but it's a bit intimidating to walk into somewhere that has no menu and serves an exclusively Dominican clientele. I already stick out like a sore thumb, and most of the time, I would like to not be stared at. That being said, this day was no ordinary day. This day was Tetuán Day, and on Tetuán Day, you can go anywhere shamelessly, head held high, proud to live in a barrio that no one wants to go to and makes people feel bad for you. So I have proclaimed. In we walked, and who did I see? The neighborhood barber who makes me feel super uncomfortable because whenever I walk by, he sticks his head out of his shop and makes comments that include: "You're going to give me a stroke," "You're precious," and "Come here," in addition to whistling. Did I mention the staring? Before I lost my nerve and told Sarah that we needed to run away, we were already seated and had ordered the only thing they had...Chicken! And, although I was stared at the entire meal, I totally enjoyed the chicken, yucca, avocado plate that was before me. We raved, I licked my fingers, and then we were invited to free shots. It was a true fiesta. Alas, for those unaccustomed to Tetuán, it was a little rough on the stomach. After early enthusiasm, Sarah was ready to crash, and she barely made it back to my apartment before collapsing from exhaustion. So much awesomeness in one day can really take its toll.

12. La Mucca, not just for drinks

Confession: It started with just drinks, but food was served and eaten, so it still counts. I mean, I very nearly licked the plate. Delicious. But I'm getting ahead of myself. It started with a meeting on the metro. Tara, coming from far, far away, flagged me down and we headed to the Malasaña neighborhood (it's too cool for school, trust me). La Mucca is right there in the heart of it, next to el Palentino, the legendary dive bar, on Calle Pez (I have yet to

see a fish). Since it was early, we grabbed a table outside and enjoyed one of the last days of warmth (although as I write this, it's bright and sunny outside and you could easily walk around in short sleeves). We breezed past the school gossip over our first round, a mojito and a "dirty" martini.Side note: If you are going to put "Dry Martini" as a drink option, do your research. The drink is a martini. Dry is one way of serving it. Dirty is another way of serving it. If i want a dirty martini instead of dry, do not look at me like I'm a crazy person. It's a real thing. Look it up, and stop giving me something different every time I order one. Immense, dramatic sigh. Anyway. After this round, another followed, and then we started to get a little hungry. And also, there's the "always eat dinner" rule to contend with (it's very inflexible). We decided on nachos and a salad, and shockingly, both were delicious. There was no weird surprises on the nachos (green mayonnaise, tomate frito, etc.) and the salad had ham and cheese and a bright dressing, and it was amazing. Then our friend Brian showed up, and we headed out, then Darwin called, I got a text from Sarah and Nuria...needless to say, I got home around five, smelling of smoke, exhausted, and nearly penniless, but with a full stomach.

bonus: salamanca!

It's not on the list, but I didn't make any rules excluding activities. And honestly, this should have been on my list. Who wrote that, anyway?? Anyway, Salamanca is a small city, famous for its university, and it's only two and a half hours from Madrid. And after almost three years, I had never been, which borders on embarassing, to be frank. So, I did the responsible thing and I bought a bus ticket, booked a hotel, and woke up early to catch the 8 AM bus to Salamanca. This was another solo trip, but I needed some time outside the city on my own to wander aimlessly. I groggily left the bus station, left my bag at the hotel, and grabbed some toast and a coffee on my way to the Plaza Mayor. One of the most beautiful central squares in Spain, it was covered in red and gold and blaring techno music upon my arrival. Why? Because the Spanish National Team had come to Salamanca to play and the entire city was lining up in the plaza, chanting and playing games in inflatable bouncey houses. I can't say I was surprised. The arrival of la selección nacional is rivaled only by the second coming of Christ, and one could argue that not even that could top seeing Iniesta in the flesh. But after passing through the main square with the giant teletron, I started looking for the frog sitting on the skull. They say that if you see it, you'll have good luck in your studies. It's hidden on a the face of the university, which is filled with carvings. And of course, I left feeling lucky. I continued wandering, visiting the cathedral, the public library, and several university buildings, and after all that walking, I ate. Peas cooked with ham, pork chops, wine, chorizo, ham, and plenty of coffee...It was overall pretty delicious. Did I get a bit lonely? Let's just say I was ready to be back in Madrid, refueled and refreshed.

13. eat a menú del día

This is the third thing off the list! And all of them involve eating (I've taken up running in the morning to balance this out). So here we are, at Menú del día, my most favorite of madrileño traditions (tapas are right up there as well). To explain, a Menú del día is a special weekday event offered by almost all the restaurants in Spain. It's typically composed of a first plate, a second plate, dessert or coffee, bread, and wine or beer (or water, I guess), all for the extremely economic price of 8 to 13 euros. Sadly, this is only during the week, but I guess for my waistline, it could be a blessing in disguise. My partner in crime for this meal was Tara, who took a break from her work-a-holic schedule (only here can 25 hours seem overwhelming) and headed to the center to get some lunch. Side note: I only have friends with names that rhyme with "-ara." Sarah, Tara...I'm missing Kara and Lara to have a complete set. We wandered through La Latina, veto-ing restaurants left and right. After a ranking of the offerings, we settled down at La Musa in Plaza de la Paja, which is next to Delic (the cake place, as it is known among homesick Americans). Instantly we veered off in different directions, Tara going with salad and fish, and me choosing squash tortelini and beef cheek stew. They could have been pig cheeks; our waiter wasn't sure. And of course, some midday wine never hurts. Unfortunately, this wasn't one of the places that leaves the bottle at the table, but we made do. The pesto salad was incredible, and the squash ravioli was well worth the five mile run (I was preparing for Menú del día!!). Our second courses were nothing to sneeze at, either. Tara's fish was good, but a little plain for me, but the beef or pork stew was so tender and filling. Wow. We finished up with some espresso and split a dessert, which was the right move. There are only so many buttons I can pop without being cited for indecent exposure.

2. chicken and cider

When asked what I wanted to do for my birthday, the only thing I could think of was chicken and cider. Mostly because of the deliciousness of both chicken and cider on their own merits, and then together! Qué emoción! So, following the picnic, two coffees, and a quick costume change (it's my birthday and I will dirty as many clothes as I wish), I headed to Casa Mingo, a very traditional madrileño tavern featuring, you guessed it, roast chicken and cider. Casa Mingo is on the list because it's a classic and also, I may have mentioned this before, delicious. It's located near the Manzanares river (that's what they call the stream that runs through Madrid) and the San Antonio de la Florida Hermitage, home of a beautiful Goya fresco. Now that we're situated, let's eat some chicken. Sarah, Tara, Brian, Nuria, and Darwin all came to join in the festivities, and they were all pretty game. Although it's a traditional madrileño tavern, it's got an Asturian influence, so there wasplenty of sausage, cabrales (a typical cheese from the north of Spain), and meat on the menu. We had a good laugh about the translations, and then ordered some hard pork (sausage) and cheese, among other things (namely, chicken). As we munched and laughed between English and Spanish, I opened a couple presents (Bitelchus!!), we paid, and headed out, mainly to have some gin-tonics. Overall, an excellent way to turn 24.

9. picnic in the retiro

Here it is, the first thing off the list! A positively historic occasion! One down, 19 more to go. I'm glad this was the first thing to cross off my list. The Retiro is a special place in Madrid. It's always a stop on the tour around the city, whether it's freezing cold or blazingly hot. I have shown people to the Crystal Palace, rowed people around the pond, strolled through the African drum circle, and flopped down in the grass for a picnic. Goya would be proud to see me participating in the age-old tradition of spreading my blanket and munching away on some bread and wine. Of all of these activities, the picnic is my absolute favorite. It combines being outside and eating. Who doesn't like that? (Kacie, and I quote: "But then you have the tupperware, and you have to take it with you, and blah, blah, blah.") So, for a birthday picnic, I took a trip to the market, and rounded up salad fixings, some bread, and of course, the ever-present ham. Add in a whirlwind of activity, and off I go, picnic bag in hand. The day was perfect, and since it was a Tuesday, the park was calm (not too many Spanish teenagers playing bad techno from their cell phones or drinking calimotxos). And then Sarah and I arrived. We spread our blanket on the ground, opened the wine, and started to eat. And I don't want to brag about my salad-making skills, but you can never go wrong with roasted squash, caramelized onions, beets, walnuts, and goat cheese (I work part-time. I've got a lot of time to think). The wine, even out of a plastic water bottle, was delicious. And don't forget the ham. Following all that, we had rasperries and macaroons...incredible. I could have laid in that park for hours. But alas, I had a class and one more thing to cross off my To-Do Madrid list.

so this is it, then

Well. Here I am, back in Madrid. I have received a lot of questions, such as, What? Why? What are you doing? It's a valid question, since I myself am not entirely sure. I'm figuring things out, and how better to get a grip on life than with the help of ham? And while I am fully committed to the planning of life, I can't spend all day, everyday doing just that. I'll go crazy! So, I've made a list of things that I want to accomplish before I leave this city. You may notice that almost all of them are food-drink related. It's not really a surprise.

1. Sunday in La Latina

2. Chicken and cider!

3. A night at Charada, finishing with breakfast (preferably churros)

4. Tetuán Day!

5. Go to a game in Santiago Bernebeu

6. La Chata for their pimientos rellenos

7. One more time on the tapa route

8. Melo's en Lavapies for their million calorie sandwich and their croquetas.

9. Picnic in the Retiro and perhaps row a boat

10. Go to Amsterdam to see Leo (ok...so that's not in Madrid. It's close)

11. Go to Naples with Sarah to eat pizza

12. La Mucca, not just for drinks.

13. Eat a Menú del Día

14. Eat cochinillo (suckling pig), maybe even in Segovia

15. Casa Lucío, for their huevos estrellados

16. Dance the night away at Zombie (yes, I do pronounce it with a th).

17. Of course, go to the Big Three: El Prado, El Thyssen, y La Reina Sofía (not to be confused with the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa María).

18. A night in Malasaña

19. Go to Morocco

20. Ham tour.

Any suggestions? I'm going to be a busy girl.

la guatita

So, it's around 6 am, you've been dancing like a madperson all night. There aren't any restuarants open because it's too early to eat breakfast and Madrid doesn't have any American-style diners (no burgers and fries). And...you still don't want to go home. Because where's the fun in that? So you head to a street north of the center, full of people leaving clubs. Well, stumbling in their six-inch heels out of the club. You go up to an older woman standing to the side of entrance. She keeps glancing back to a white van parked on the side of the street. Everyone looks sneakily, glancing around for the police. You hand her money, she reaches into a backpack and passes you...drugs? alcohol? No. A tupperware full of rice and who knows what. Una guatita. It's an Ecuadorean dish, made with rice, a peanuty sauce, hard-boiled egg, a plantain, and of course, let's not forget the tripe. Yes. The intenstines. According to my friend, they've been soaked and cooked and doused with lemon for hours, so their texture isn't so rubbery and hard like Spanish-style callos, and the sauce and lemon makes them totally palatable. I do miss America and late-night pizza, but buying illicit rice on the side of the street just gives me such a rush.

iniestaaaa, iniestaaaaaa

My Spain experience couldn't be complete without an overwhelming display of Spanish patriotism, and since facism is thankfully a thing of the past, the World Cup provided a perfect opportunity to display the red and gold. Each stage of the tournament that Spain miraculously passed was greeted with progressively larger parties and growing excitement. Block parties, cars blaring their horns, the reaction was unreal. And that was before the final, and really, there are no words. I know this is a blog, and writing (i.e. WORDS) are key, but...there's no way to explain. Luckily for me, although my memory of the World Cup win has no transcript, I do have several blurry photographs and also a movie! Way to go, past Abi. I’m not calling it ground-breaking journalism, but I will say that I did an ok job of documenting a singular moment in my life (yes, it WAS that big) and in the history of Spain (because we all know…never gonna happen again). The pictures and video are from the bar where we anxiously watched the game, and there are several from Cibeles, a central plaza where there were big screen TVs set up. The sheer quantity of people was incredible, and while I thought that was a one-time deal, it was only amplified the next day, when the Spanish team rolled through in a make-shift parade. I saw that from my living room and the television because the government begged people to stay home after a certain hour. There was no room for people. It was like a giant amoeba with a hundred thousand heads. Or maybe...a giant prophetic octopus with a hundred thousand little sucker things? No, because everybody knows that prophetic octopus don't exist (Cue X-Files music).

between

To say that you're unemployed, you say you're between jobs. When you graduate college, you're between school and work. Sometimes, you're just between. I realize that to use the word "between," to make grammatical sense, you need to have two nouns. However, I have decided that grammar is overrated, because I just feel between. Am I between jobs? Maybe. Between school and a job? I guess. Between places? Countries? Continents? Languages? All of those things could be true. So, instead of trying to explain my situation, I'm just going to say that I'm between. I'm not sure where I'm going, or what I'll be doing, but it'll be a change. Between describes my state perfectly, and quite honestly, it sounds better than lost, confused, or even dazed. Transitioning just sounds silly. So I'm sticking with between. Abi, what are you doing? What are your plans? I'm between. Between what? Everything.
Clear, concise, and perfect.

la copa mundial!

It's happening in South Africa, the world's best athletes are there right now, and so are a swarm of angry bees...it's the World Cup! And in Spain, it may as well be a national holiday, because no one is really paying attention to anything else (like the painfully slow collapse of the economy). When there's a game that involves Spain, this city shuts down. It's 4 pm, do you know where your Spaniards are? In a bar, at home, wherever there's a TV. In banks, they bring in televisions so that they can watch the game, if they fall during work hours. And somehow, in this soccer/football crazed nation, Spain has yet to earn its first point (USA=2 points. Go figure). I wouldn't say the mood is dour, but there is a certain nervousness in the air. After all, Spain is one of the favorites. You can't be a favorite and lose to the Swiss. Puh-lease. So today, when Spain plays Honduras, I plan to be right there cheering on El Rojo. Why? Because the US isn't going to win (unless all the other teams suddenly come down with a short-lived but debilitating stomach virus), and if Spain wins, there will be a party. Not just any party. A party to end all parties. A let's jump in the fountain and run around like small children party. And that sounds like something I want to see. And if they don't win, everyone will start paying attention to the economy, and no one wants that.

sundays in la latina

Drinking all day is not socially acceptable...in America. Unless you're at barbecue, spending all day in the sun hanging out and kicking back copas would be considered an unhealthy relationship with alcohol. It's not a normal Sunday. However. This blog is about Spain, and as I am American, this is my perspective on all things Spanish, including the Sunday tradition of peeling yourself out of bed on Sunday morning (let's be honest, afternoon) and plopping yourself down on a terrace to drown your hangover with an ice-cold beverage. Many of us don't make it to La Latina, which is the place to be, since it's far and we're lazy. For those who do, as I did today, it is truly wonderful. After starting the morning off at the Reina Sofia Museum at the Photo España exhibition (a photography festival that takes over the city's museums and galleries the month of June), we headed south to La Latina, hoping for a spot in the sun. After a little bit of wandering down Calle Cava Baja (where there aren't any terraces, but a lot of fantastic tapas bars), we scaled the stairs of El Viajero and scored a spot on the roof. After all the stairs, we were clearly hungry, so we proceeded to eat sepia a la plancha (grilled octopus) and drink tintos de verano (red wine mixed with lemon Fanta) for the majority of the day. I've got the sunburn to prove it. Exhausted after so much exertion, we, along with all the other madrileños crawl our way back to our apartments, curling into bed and falling asleep, full, tan, and slightly buzzed. Oh, Sunday.

end of an era

It's now June, the last month of my contract for this year and the end of my stay in a Spanish school. And no, I do not have anything planned for next year. But this isn't about next year, it's about my school. Stay with the subject. So anyway. This is the moment I have been looking forward to and dreading all year. Looking forward to it because it's the beginning of summer, and dreading it because it's the beginning of unemployment. Yikes. And while I imagined I would have a lot of feelings, I didn't think I would miss working in preschool, i.e. the children. That may be a terrible thing to say, but at least I'm being honest. Working with children is exhausting. "Abi, can I go to the bathroom? I have boogers! Look at my shoes! I HAVE TO PEEEEEEE!!" And so on. So I was surprised to find that I feel a little sad leaving those buggers. I will miss the little ones singing Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" to themselves, and telling me that "Me duele la tummy!" They are adorable despite themselves. And they are quite a self-esteem booster. Everyday, I'm told how pretty I am. And then hugged. I feel that doesn't happen in the workplace. I'm not ready to leave preschool!!

speaking the spanglish

Hanging out with Americans here in Madrid feels like cheating, since the real reason we all came to Madrid was to learn Spanish. And of course, when put together, we all speak in English. Well, to a careless bystander, it may sound like English. But, all of us know that we have infused our English with little Spanish ticks or slips into Spanish grammar. It's not something we do knowingly, but rather, with so much switching between the two systems, our mouths and brains slip into familiar patterns...in the wrong moments. The speaker of these ticks has no idea, however, until someone points out, "Do you know what you just said?" For example, Give me a lost call ("una llamada perdida"= a missed call). What's your direction? ("tu dirección"= your address). Yesternight, I didn't sleeped. ("anoche"= last night; and sleeped...I hadn't had coffee that day). For where do you go out in Madrid? (¿Por dónde sales en Madrid?=Where do you go out in Madrid?). These are the ones that come to recent memory, but I'm sure there are plenty more, both intentional and accidental. We'll go tapaearing, maybe grab some cañas and bocadillos if we still have hunger, y a ver, does anyone have the hour?

fun with arabic

If you've ever tried to learn a language, you're probably familiar with language podcasts. Who hasn't thought, I have a long commute in the subway/car/bus, and I can use this time in a productive way to better myself as a human being? So, you download some free podcasts, put them on your iPod, and begin to speak to yourself on the public transportation system. Depending on what language, this almost always guarantees you a certain amount of space (Arabic=the MOST space and the most nervous looks). Having a fair amount of experience with Spanish and French podcasts, I thought I knew what to expect when I downloaded some in Arabic. In varying levels of difficulty, the speakers would discuss daily situations like going to a restaurant or to the gym, and perhaps some current events that reflected a certain cultural aspect. I asked a friend who listens to a German podcast what the set up was like, and she told me there is always someone ordering beer. Work situation? Someone orders a beer. Discussion with a family member? That probably involves a beer, at least in German. You've gotta know your priorities. Well. I've been listening to these Arabic podcasts for some time, and I've gotta say, the situations are getting progressively more bizarre. It started out with a conversation about how one of the speakers was a fast eater and one was a slow eater. The next one was about a child asking for a piece (...of something) from his mother. The next one (and final one, that I have patience for), blows them all out of the water. Here is the transcript, no exagerations:
Title: Please Don't Praise Me

A: You are generous, good, and intelligent.
B: Please don't praise me, because I think that the devil will get inside my head and make me think that I'm better than other people.
A: Modest!

I understand that with Arabic, the different dialects make it a difficult language to teach, and it is inseparable, really, from political and emotional charged discussions/diatribes relating to Islam and relations between the Near East and West. I get that. However. How is that a beginner Arabic conversation?? What happened to counting? Can a girl get a podcast about ordering some food in a restaurant?

mom and dad and lisbon...and sarah??

So...the family vacation, part deux. I've already written about Lisbon. And vacation with the parents. So really, what more is there to talk about? The double-date parental vacation! What in the world is that, you ask? Only when you and one of your closest friends go on vacation to the same place, at the same time, and stay at the same hotel...and each of you is with your parents. Hurrah! So, with my parents, I did all the Lisbon-y things that you do: Go to Sintra to see the fairytale castles, go to Bélem to see the Monastery and the Tower and to eat the awesome pastries, walk around Lisbon and check out the fabulous food. Then, with Sarah, the plan was that we would go out, which we would have, had she not had pneumonia and had I not been a disaster with legs. Life happens. Anyway. We DID have one big group dinner, which was fun and bizarre simaltaneously. After living by yourself, without your friends knowing your parents or family structure, it's almost overwhelming for everyone to meet each other. It helps, for my parents at least, to put a face on this Sarah character, who bakes muffins and engages in bakery eating contests in far-off Italy. And it was great to meet Sarah's dad and step-mom, since I feel like I know so much about them. And of course, the food was awesome. Awesomely gigantic. My mom got some kind of pork loin, and it could have fed all of us. That's not an exageration. After eating as much as she could and giving away slices to everyone, she still had five slice on her plate. Five, thick, saucy slices. After rolling back to our hotel (Lisbon is very hilly), we awoke early the next morning, and said a bittersweet goodbye. It's great to see my parents, but it's always hard to say good-bye. Big BESOS!

mom and dad and porto

It's becoming a yearly event, the (almost) family vacation (just missing the bro!). We're making up for lost time, for the vacation-less saving for college years. Last year, it was London and Edinborough, this year, it was Lisbon and Porto, for a little southern Mediterranean flair. My parents spent a day in Lisbon before I arrived, checking out Sao Jorge's castle and wandering around the capital, something I had already done on my visit last July. When I arrived on Sunday, we caught a train and went north to the city of Porto, famous for its bridges and delicious port wine. Anxious to get out and about, we ventured from our hotel to get something to eat. I decided to follow the advice of my Lonely Planet guidebook, and we headed to Café Embaixador, a restaurant near the main square. Touristy, but we trusted Lonely Planet, and quite honestly, it wasn't bad and we got to experience Portuguese junk food. America and McDonald's always get blamed for the growing obesity epidemic spreading through Europe, but if you're eating a francesinha (the local sandwich) with any regularity, just start buying bigger pants. It's filled with cured ham, two different kinds of sausage and melted cheese, and then drowned with a tomato and beer sauce, only to be topped with...a fried egg. I believe the fried egg is optional, but since we were on vacation, we splurged. We split it between the three of us, and still couldn't eat it all. Then, we walked, to counteract the cholesterol. Up the hills, down the hills, we ended up next to the river with the setting sun hitting the old colorful buildings. Sigh. For dinner, after consulting both the New York Times travel section and guide books (sometimes, it's good to improvise, and sometimes, you need some advice), we headed to a place that quite litereally, resembled a cave. I felt quite at home eating some jamón "pata negra" (the good stuff), cured cheeses, and blood sausage (Dad: "Why is this so dark?" Me: "You don't really want to know."), which disgusted my mom a little bit. Personally, my goal on every trip/day. The next day, we awoke and after elbowing the Germans out of the way at breakfast, we headed across the bridge to drink some port. Luckily, alcohol consumption before noon is perfectly acceptable, so we went at it. Another day gone in a sweet-alcohol induced haze, we hopped on a train to Lisbon the next day. Not after enjoying a lovely seafood stew next to the Duoro river though. Vacation with the parents is the life.

walaa

This week has been really hard for me. I've tried to write a happy-go-lucky post, since that's what this blog is. But this week, I just can't. Walaa, a close friend of mine, committed suicide last Friday, on March 19. I found out on Sunday, from a message from his girlfriend. It came as a shock to me, since I had seen and talked to him everyday the week before. His funeral was in Cairo yesterday. I really don't know what to say, but writing has been helping me, so that's what I'm going to do. I want to share a story about him.

Walaa was really smart. A very intellectual guy. He spoke Arabic (both standard and Egyptian dialect), Spanish, English, and Italian. He had gone to college in Egypt, got a Masters in Information Technology to learn English, and was pursuing doctoral studies in the Universidad Complutense here in Madrid. He was also my Arabic teacher, but more importantly, we had become friends, since we had friends in common. But as I was saying, he was very intelligent, a great guy for serious conversations about life, religion, politics, anything you wanted to talk about. But what I really loved about Walaa was the fact that in spite of the serious studies, the serious job, the difficulty of being an immigrant away from your family and friends, he had such a silly side. He let me talk about Orientalism and gender theory in one moment, and in the next, would pretend to be an Arabic ganster rapper with me. When we learning body parts, I showed him the song "Head, shoulders, knees and toes," and not only did he not think I was completely crazy, he taught first me the words in Arabic (our version was "Head, shoulder, knee, foot"), and then our entire class. Granted, he could never get the rhythm completely right, and his rendition was much more serious than mine, but he felt no shame whatsoever singing a song meant for three-year-olds to a class of serious adults. That was not our only joint musical production. We shared a goal of becoming Arabic gansta rappers, and we practiced on the metro. And yes, had it just been Walaa, people would have been scared. But as he said, life's always easier when you've got a blonde next to you. My part went like this: "Ana fee al-bite!" (I am in the house!) And then he would say "Rookab, rookab!" (Knees, knees!) People had every right to be afraid, because we were clearly insane. Further verses include "Ana lastoo fee al bite!" (I am not in the house!) and "Hal antee fee al bite?" (Are you in the house?), with a constant refrain of "Rookab, rookab" with the occasional "Ayn odun femm amph." (Eye, ear, nose, mouth) Ay, qué risa me dabas, Walaa. Siempre te llevaré conmigo.
مع السالمة صديقي

the guiri gourmet

Over my two years here, I would like to think that I've created a niche for myself. I have an identity, you could say. And that identity revolves around baked goods. I'm, depending on the person, "la chica de las tartas," "esa, quien hace galletas," and "la chica del pastel." (translation: the girl with the pies; that one, who makes cookies; the girl with the cake) My identity depends not a bright smile or a quick wit, but rather, solely on the things that I make with my hands and put in the oven. Which in Spain, is no small feat. No only do you have to find the ingredients, but dessert, although it clearly exists, isn't really that big of a deal here. A typical dessert is a piece of fruit or a yogurt, so you can imagine the first impression a brownie makes. It's like a chocolate explosion in your mouth. Delicious. There are imitations of American baked goods, of course, but being modest, mine are better. One, I use butter, not olive oil. One bakery, Happy Day, sells overpriced plastic looking cupcakes and frisbee-like cookies. And VIPS, the popular chain with American-style food, has a brownie on the menu. Two, I know what I'm doing. I can make chocolate chip cookies in my sleep. I even made them with my third grade afterschool English class. We learned words like mix, stir in and bake. Incredibly useful in my world.

el poeta en nueva york

When I read (and reread and analyzed and translated) Poeta en Nueva York in my last semester as a college student, not once did I have the thought, I bet this would translate really well to modern dance! Maybe I just didn't see it in that moment. Maybe I'm just not a visionary. In my defense, I was very stressed out at this time in my life. However, although I didn't see the potential of this surrealist book of poetry to become a choreographed modern dance-flamenco performance, Blanca Li did. And she made a go of it in the Teatro Canal about ten minutes from my house (in Chamberí, not Tetuán). My reaction upon seeing the poster was one of disbelief, followed by, "That's gonna be the craziest thing ever." Which of course I had to see. And I'm glad I did. Like a true nerd, I reread my copy of Poeta en Nueva York the week prior to seeing the show, so that when I sat and watched the truly amazing recital, I was prepared. While my initial certainty of insanity seemed right on as the set opened with a giant glowing egg and a male dancer wearing a silver suit, the performance of the first poem was truly remarkable. A woman belted out the words in flamenco style (the PAIN! the SUFFERING! the DUENDE!). Following this, the dance sequence seemed pulled from the lyrical poems, dream-like and fluid. The flamenco style mixed beautiful with the more modern dance, and there was even a part with water! I don't want to give the impression that I know anything about dance. But I know about Poeta en Nueva York. And the incredible performances expressed the book in a way that made me want to eat ham and fight bulls, which is, I'm sure, what Lorca intended. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1U3QuO3qo8

el mercado de maravillas

I used to get all my food at the supermarket. It's easy, efficient, and to be honest, how America does food shopping. From suburbia to dowtown Manhattan, the large majority of people roam aisles searching for cereal and stuff shiny fruit into plastic bags. I won't go so far as to say it's the American way, but as a nation, we don't have time to go to the butcher, the baker, or the candlestick maker. We're modern. For the past year, however, I've been getting increasingly old school and getting my groceries from el Mercado de Maravillas (the Market of Miracles). Lucky for me, I live in Tetuán (some of my friends refer to it as the ghetto, but it's because they're jealous), only a few blocks from this famous market. El Mercado is one of the biggest in Europe, and there's an old madrileño saying, "Si buscas algo, vete a Maravillas. Si no lo encuentras, es que no hay." (If you're looking for something, go to Maravillas. If you don't find it, it's because it doesn't exist.) In the building (you know which building because there's a strong smell of fish and gangs of old ladies outside), there's innumerable stands, each specializing in fruit, vegetables, embutidos (cured and deli meats), nuts and olives, beef and pork, and chicken. I have my favorites. My frutero (fruit monger? fruit guy) sells me delicious fruit while simaltaneous making increasing lewd comments, which would usually bother me. But it's so ridiculous, I find it hilarious. My vegetables come from a nearby stand, where they continually ask, "¿Qué más, guapa? ¿Qué más, joven?" (What else, beautiful? What else, young person?) I've recently found a nut guy, who's filled my supply of toasted hazelnuts, macadamia nuts, and even sells cranberries, a rarity here. But the most intimidating stand has to be the meat stands. I was a vegetarian for seven years. I don't know what the different cuts of meat are, not in English, not in Spanish. And I definitely don't have the confidence to go toe-to-toe with some Spanish abuela, nervously pointing and shakily describing what I want. I did manage to buy a chicken for a small dinner party, no small feat for me. But when I went with a friend, we somehow managed to find a great pork stand with a drag queen out front (this is Madrid, people). The butchers behind the counter not only answered our questions but patiently explained where each cut of meat comes from, and how to cook each one. The man even took us across the aisle to their sister stand, which sold less desirable cuts, like liver, brain, trotters, ears, and oh yeah, a bag of pig's blood. What you do with a bag of pig's blood if you aren't planning to reenact Carrie I'm still not sure, but it was awfully nice of him to show us around. A small miracle, perhaps.

new traditions, old habits

Anyone who knows me knows that I love baking. I love the measuring and the mixing, the warm smell of rising dough, and of course, eating whatever comes out of the oven. From start to finish, it gives me a warm feeling (most likely from the oven) and reminds me of home. All in all, very enjoyable. Baking in Spain, however, is a little complicated. You have to translate all the ingredients, improvise the preparation methods (springform pan, schmingform pan), and then there's the oven. My oven likes to play games, the most popular being I'm getting really really hot! Now I'm coooooling down, guess what I'm doing now! I usually win, but it keeps you on your toes. Lately, however, with my vow/crazy cleanse ridiculousness, I can't eat sugar or white flour. There have been times in my life (my mom's coconut cream pie, a cupcake from Sugar Sweet Sunshine) that I have thought life might not be worth living without sugary, indulgent creations. That's how serious I am about dessert. You can imagine the internal struggle that is taking place at this very moment, and it's for this reason that my friend Sarah and I have spent the past two Sundays baking muffins. Not just any muffins. Sugarless muffins, sweetened with fruit and applesauce, and made with spelt/quinoa/barley/who knows what else flour. It sounds like desperation, but it smells like delicious. Last week, our apple/carrot/hazelnut power muffins made my week, and this week, our mix of pumpkin, coconut, dates, and macadamia nuts is pretty awesome. Nothing can compare, however, to the cake we made for Valentine's Day. So sweet, without sugar! So moist, without any fat! And so delicious, yet made with crazy health ingredients! It's a date-walnut-banana cake, and we found the recipe on the Internet (where else?). For those of you who think my tastebuds have died, I give you a second opinion: my roommates. That cake is gone, and so are all the crumbs. As for me, I hope next week brings more muffins.

a canarian adventure

Last weekend, I journeyed to Africa. That is, Africa according to Lonely Planet, Rough Guides, and other travel books. For all other authorities, I was in Spain in the Canary Islands, specifically Gran Canaria. These islands, unlike Mallorca, Menorca, and Ibiza which are located in the Mediterranean, are located in off the coast of Africa, near Western Sahara. It's a two and a half hour plane ride to this part of Spain (although Germany is trying to colonize through a force of drunken, sunburned, socks-and-sandals wearing tourists) and quite honestly, everything changes. The accent is different (closer to the Cuban accent, and the buses are called the guaguas, like in Puerto Rico), and it was beautiful, sunny, and warm, while in Madrid, it was snowing. (OK, it was flurrying. But still. It was chilly and grey and bleh). I arrived with three girlfriends, Sarah, Kacie, and Meghan, all of us English teachers and all of us taking advantage of el Día del Professor (the day of St. Thomas Aquinas...don't you just love Catholicism and all those saints' days???) Our plan was to rent a car and drive across the island, through the mountains (discribed as Himalayan-esque) to the dunes and tourist-covered beaches in the south, where we wanted to see Mogán, a smaller town (the Venice of the Canaries, apparently). Again, this was the plan. The key part of the plan was that Kacie and I knew how to drive a stick. Through mountains. When I say that we knew, please put that in air quotes, and preface it with, "Well, I mean, I learned how to drive a stick..." Needless to say, the first twenty minutes were nearly disastrous. Sarah and Meghan in the back started eating cake to cope with the nerves, and well, the smell of burning clutch. We stalled going up the ramp in the parking garage, leading to a lot of nervous shaking (this was after taking five minutes to start the car, only later realizing that the parking brake was on. I am SHOCKED that they let us leave the parking lot. SHOCKED). This was nothing, however, as we then stalled on the ramp leaving the airport going on to the highway. However! All was not lost, and we somehow managed to get out of the airport and on our way, with our map (which had no current road names..."OK, up here, take the small yellow road."). After an hour, we made it Tejeda, which is in the center of the island, and the goal of going through the interior. We walked around the small town, absorbing the insanely gorgeous mountains and trash-talking tourists that only went to the beaches. At lunch, I got some baby goat (and it was as delicious as I'm sure it was adorable), and we continued on our way, stopping for some more mountain views. When we arrived in the south, in Maspalomas, we headed out for dinner. Although we hoped to find something not super touristy, the impossibility of that task coupled with our hunger led us to...the Hard Rock Café. I am not proud of this moment. But we were exhausted. The next day, we played on the beautiful dunes, and then headed to Puerta de Mogán, which did have canals. I wouldn't say Venice-like, but that's a personal aside. We wore bathing suits and sat on the beach, although it was honestly not that warm. We did not care. To top off our trip, we headed out in Maspalomas, tourist central, in search of nightlife...and we found the Kasbah. It was nothing like the Clash song (although we did rock it), and it was a lot like a mall. Think of Atlantic City, but more trashy. I'm torn that we don't have any good pictures of this mythical place. Pictures would help, but I don't really want to remember that terrible soulless black hole of dignity. Shudder. We sucked it up and danced, our life being so hard and all. The next day, we said good-bye to the Canaries, dropped off the rental car in one piece, and headed back to the Peninsula. That's what the cool locals call it. Which we clearly are not, but it helps to have dreams. (PHOTO CREDITS: KACIE DAUGHETY)

uncle sam DOESN'T want you

So, as many of you know, I was studying for the Foreign Service Officer Test, which you have to pass to join the diplomatic corps of the United States and to work abroad in an embassy. That was in October, and I passed, although I don't really know the breakdown of my score. I then had to write six short essays describing and elaborating any experiences I had relating to the prompts they set out, focusing on leadership, communication, and other things people ask you on job interviews and the like. However, not only did I have to write, I also had to provide references...for each experience. Slightly intense. But I wrote them, rewrote them, had other people read them, edited, and fretted over them. An involved process. I was feeling confident about the whole thing, since I thought I was pretty qualified. But, last week I found that, in fact, Uncle Sam was doing just fine, thank you, no need to pitch in or help out. I wasn't granted an interview, which was the next step in a long, drawn-out process. My candidancy could not be continued at this time, but I shouldn't feel bad, because it's really competetive, and I could always take the test again in a year. Well, there goes that plan. I was gonna have so much health insurance and vacation time. What I will do until then...unknown. Will I take the test again in a year? Unknown. Am I a rudderless ship set out to sea? Not quite...but the metaphor isn't that far off. Am I drowning in angsty seas of broken dreams? ...I just got back from Gran Canaría, so...oh woe is me? Doesn't really go with a bikini.

east coast, west coast

I may be becoming a West Coast hippie. I don't know how to explain it. But it's happening. I think the influence of my coworker Julie and my good friend Sarah are to blame. Both are West Coasters, and one might even say hippies. Or at least New Age-y. For instance, during our games period, we normally do stretches at the beginning, to practice names of the body parts. On Friday, Julie brought some in crazy mystic crap from her belly-dance class, and I just laughed and rolled my eyes. Because I am from the East Coast, and cynical. And yet, somehow, Sarah talked me into doing a crazy diet (not a New Year's resolution, not to lose weight, but to purify and balance everything out). Learning of the restrictions of the diet, I really thought I would last an hour. Maximum. 1. No sugar. 2. Nothing with yeast (bread and all its relatives) 3. Nothing fermented (alcohol, vinager, etc) 4. Nothing aged or that could have mold (cheese, peanuts) I just rounded the two week bend, and I've been eating a lot of beans and brown rice. And nuts. The goal is one month, and then to see how long I can actually go without having sugar-deprived delusions (I'm already having dreams in which I can't eat anything). I haven't even cheated, really. I've astounded myself. Being creative in the kitchen helps a lot. I made a great recipe with chicken and smoked paprika (Roast Chicken Breasts with Garbanzo Beans, Tomatoes, and Smoked Paprika). Surprisingly easy, since I really don't know what to do with chicken, former vegetarian and all (the first whiff of my counter coastal leanings). And on Friday, I found yeast-free, sugar-free spelt cookies (GASP!!). The excitement was nearly palpable in the health food store, where I was hanging out with Spanish hippies (a different breed althogether). But East Coasters, don't worry. I'm still showering, and I haven't shown any desire to do yoga. There's still hope.

looooong overdue...sicily

What did you do in Sicily? Where did you go? Ah, questions. 1. Ate and be surrounded by beauty. 2. Trapani, Marsala, and Eriche. Where are those places? Ask RyanAir, which flies to Trapani. My friend Sarah called me about two months ago, saying, I found an amazing deal on a flight for the long weekend. Where to? Trapani...where is Trapani? It's located on the western coast of Sicily, about two hours west of Palermo. It's more of an industrial fishing town, rather than a tourist destination. Especially in the winter. We were turning heads, based only on the fact that we were not Italian and had somehow managed to get there. It was raining when we got there, so everything was cloudy. Did I mention it was dark, and we had the world's worst map? Luckily, a nice Italian man was willing to gesture us in the right direction, to another Italian who didn't speak English, but at least he was a police officer. After confusing us with Eastern European sex workers and witnessing some sketchy dealings (can you say Mafia?), he helped us find our way, and we got to our, ehem, very romantic hostal. Since we got there late and this is a small town, we went to a pretty touristy place, but of course had a lovely conversation and ended up getting some free fried pizza dough filled with ricotta. FOR FREE. Overall, great day. The next morning, we ate some pizza bread for breakfast (are you seeing the theme??), and headed to Marsala. As in, Marsala wine. And yes, we had some. And some incredible pasta, homemade, with sausage and deliciousness. Oh my. All this decadence called for a walk, all around the town and near the Mediterranean, which has never looked better. On our third day, we ended up going to Eriche, a touristy, but incredibly beautiful town in the mountains (or on top of a hill? It's difficult to say). We really just soaked up the beauty of place...and had a pastry war, between two rival shops. We were the winners, really. The prize was an upset stomach, and much moaning about being gluttons. A little forethought says that eating four (ok, six) pastries between two people is not a good idea. Clearly not a part of our vacation equation. After resting up, we ventured out for a light meal, and the next day, we went back to Madrid. But not before grabbing some gelato. Damn straight.

the new year.

So...I took December off. There's no excuse for that kind of deliquence, especially when for half of the month I was on vacation. I had little to say, quite honestly. For about half of January as well. So much pressure, a blog! Anyway, I decided on a few things, as a new way to start the new year (like a week ago...I'm a little behind!). This is my ridiculous and completely unnecessary list of resolutions:
1. Use all the pages in my passport and have to get new ones, before it expires in six years.
2. Blog at least every three days (already broken, boo yah)
3. Read "Very Important Books"

I have not added anything stressful to my list, because no one wants to start the new year like that. You're asking for trouble, setting yourself up for defeat and disappointment and never being able to look your dog in the eye again. So. I started my year off light-heartedly. But also seriously (notice the "Very Important Books" one). I'm lacking a clear-cut definition of "Very Important Books," though (I hope that you're saying "Very Important Books" slowly, in deep voice, with a fake British accent...in your head. Or out loud. However you want to play that). So far, I've come up with Don Quixote, Cien Años de Soledad, Ulysses, the works of Shakespeare, and probably Twilight. If you have any suggestions to help me sort this out, I would greatly appreciate it. GOOD NIGHT!