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.