where everyone knows your name

Cliché, it certainly is. However, there is something to be said for having a special place where the people know who you are, especially when really, there are about two to three people who know who you are. So, rather than frequent Starbucks as a homesickness cure, as was the case during my last trip, I stumbled upon this Argentinean bakery with my friend. I say stumbled because we had just gone running, and my legs were tired. Although we usually always went to an amazing Argentinean ice cream place down the street, we decided to give something new a try. At least we jogged first, so it was kind of like we only ate two mini croissants instead of five. Did I mention my friend is Argentinean (kind of)? (By the way, sometimes I eat Spanish food, too. I should probably just go to Argentina and get the authentic treatment). This may be why we bonded with the people that worked there. Or perhaps it was my innate desire to eat everything in the store, until being unable to fit through the door. Owners appreciate that kind of blind, to hell-with-my-waist devotion. And I appreciate anything fattening (or really, anything) with some dulce de leche. It could not be a more perfect match. Our relationship did not end there. We faithfully returned at least twice a week, for about a month, somehow managing to still fit into our clothes. I bought my birthday cake there, and both merienda (like an afternoon snack) and breakfast were had. I've said it once, I'll say it again: pastry brings people together. Here's to you, Los Manxares.

working with children

Working with preschool and kindergarten-age children is tiring. Working with preschool and kindergarten-age children while speaking another language is like being hit over the head with a very heavy solid object, something like a two-by-four or perhaps a frying pan. After a month, you would think I'd have the hang of it, but every day is like being on Lost...at first, I thought that metaphor was quite a stretch. Now, I think that the Spanish children are the Others, and I am a mixture of Jack, Kate, Sawyer, and Sayid, trying to outwit my enemies while simultaneously attempting escape, and piece by piece discovering what it is that I'm supposed to be doing. Really, it's not as dramatic as it sounds. I spend a lot of time playing in the sand, wiping noses, and sidestepping vomit all the while speaking English to children (and teachers) who have not the slightest clue as to what I'm saying. However, after hours of counting, singing, and coloring, I believe that everyone within a hundred yard radius of me now knows that green is verde, one is uno, and that if you're happy and are aware of this fact, the appropriate reaction would be to clap your hands, stomp your feet, or shout "Hooray!" While I do much of the talking, every once in a while, you get a real gem out of those kids. Ranking high on the "Kids Say the Darndest Things" scale is one small child named Beltrán. Although he almost daily makes me laugh, one of the first things he said to me, after bombarding me with questions like "¿Cómo te llamas?" and "¿Por qué hablas inglés?," was (translated): "I'm sorry, but I speak loudly because I'm Spanish." In my mind, a truer sentence has never been uttered in this land of cacophony. Spending all my life within the tri-state area, I am all-too-familiar with yelling as day to day speech. Another charming moment was when a different three year-old class thought my name was first name Hello, last name Good-Morning, probably because this was the only thing they really ever understand. Although this may seem slightly frustrating and cronically repetitive, don't worry too much, since as a perk, I do receive lots of hugs, and as it is starting to get a little colder, boogers are included.

open letter

Dear United States of America,
Consider this a cross between a happy birthday and a get-well-soon card. Listen, I'm sorry I didn't write earlier, I've been really busy with some stuff and stuff that's going on over here, you know, like siesta. I hear these few months I've been gone have been a little rough for you. Don't feel abandoned, I'm only gone for a year...for now. But please, try to keep it together until I get back. It's not like you've fallen off into the ocean, you're just teetering on the edge of what some have called an economic abyss. There's been hurricane disaster with human sewage running through the street, a vice-presidential nominee that speaks as though English is an uncomfortable second language (first language: shotgun), and the retirement age has been raised to 105 due to a slight financial hiccup, or "the Great Depression, Part II," depending on your perspective. Basically, you look a little like a hot mess. Banks are collapsing, jobs are disappearing, the dollar is falling, thousands of troops are fighting in a never-ending war...I could go on, but that's just overkill. America, I'm just one person. I'll be back for Christmas, try not to do anything crazy until then. Regain rationality! Stay intact, don't let states secede. Also, election day, big day for you. Hint: Don't fall for the "maverick." It's just a fancy word for "cowboy," and look how well that turned out. But hey, what do I know? I've got arugula and Lindt chocolate in my fridge, and I'm living in the hostile socialism of Spain, clearly a sign of rampant elitism. But America, that's not the point. Under the shadow of Día de Hispanidad (known to you as Columbus Day, and the Native Americans as genocide), the "discovery" of your existence, look how far you've come. From building pyramids made of solid stone to drawing them with the Dow Jones. Felicidades, Abi.

dietary transformations

You give me food, I'll eat it. Whatever. While anyone who has known me from my days of blatant refusal to eat green pasta may see this as a bold-face lie, the picky eater in me has been vanquished by my "vegetarian-in-Spain" experience a year ago. This period was also known as "Carbfest with a side of Olive Oil '07." But really, vegetarianism/voluntary starvation opens your tastebuds and dietary system up to a whole new array of options here in Spain. Yesterday, I ate pig fat fried in fat. I believe it still had hairs on its hide. It was free, so I figured I might as well try it. I ate gulas...I believe the consensus, through online dictionary research, is that gulas are baby eels. Which makes sense, since they looked like little worms. To be fair, I had no idea what gulas were when I ordered them. I simply thought to myself, "Well, whatever they are, they can't be too weird." This in the country that serves a pig's ear as part of standard tapas fare (I haven't tried it yet). In Morlupo, the little Italian town I visited, I ate some kind of wild chicken. We think they caught it somewhere near the premises. With Rebecca's encouragement, in Barcelona, I managed to eat a whole fish. I know it was a whole fish because it still had its head, fins, skin, bones, and eyes. However, perhaps the strangest things that end up in my stomach come from the school cafeteria. There are two reasons for this. One, everything is free, and I just graduated from college and moved to another country as my native land fell head-first into a sub-prime abyss, meaning that money and I really don't see a lot of each other. Two, I really don't know what anything is. I ask, the cafeteria women tell me, I give a confused look, they say it again, but louder, and I point and say "Esto, por favor." One moment had special significance, the day that callos were an option. I have reproduced the conversation, in translation:
Cafeteria Lady: For the second plate, there's chicken and this other chicken.
Me: What's that tray underneath the chicken?
Cafeteria Lady: Callos.
Me: What?
Cafeteria Lady: Callos.
Me: ...What?
Cafeteria Lady (shakes head): You won't like them. Trust me.
Me (shrugs): OK. That chicken, please.
Cafeteria Lady: Tell you what. I'll give you a little bit, you try it. On Monday, you let me know if you liked it or not. Yeah?
Me: Why not?
I just want to say for the doubters, I gave the callos two bites. The first bite, I got mostly sauce, and described it to my fellow American Megan, who was watching intently, as smoking, musky chorizo that's kinda old. The second bite, I got some meat, and I believe my face contorted in a way I did not know was possible. It was chewy, rubbery, slippery, unidentifiable. We shrugged it off, as neither of us had any idea what it could be. When someone else sat down with a plate heaped full of it, I politely asked if he knew what it was. He looked at me consolingly, and said, These are the cow's stomach and intestines. On Monday, I told the lunch lady that callos really weren't my thing.

la rentrée

While the word is French, not Spanish, everybody's gotta go back to work sometimes, even in Europe. The wonderful time of rest and relaxation has come to end for all, adults and kids alike. School is starting, and I'm heading back to school...to teach. Enter Zen metaphors about young grasshoppers, coming full circle, etc. With little to no training and qualifications that include baby-sitting and volunteer tutoring, the Spanish government and public education system has cleared me to be around children. Shocking. I will be assistant teaching at the preschool level for children age 3-5, which means...songs! games! dancing! unbridled excitement for all things American! Irresistible enthusiasm for life! This could take some getting used to, since the last three years of living in New York and attending NYU were spent in a haze of sarcastic apathy with random bursts of cynicism. Drinking crappy American and musing about poststructualism have really not prepared me to teach English to 3 year-olds. However, with my nurturing nature and saint-like patience, I'm sure I'll be a natural...Well, I can probably guarantee that I will not throw any of the children within the first week. Live like you teach, starting with violence is never the answer, unless you really need oil and a distraction from the mess you've created domestically. Or if God declares that it's your manifest destiny to rule a country that stretches from sea to shining sea, meaning that everyone else, mostly the indigenous people that have rightful claims to the land, better get out of the way. USA! Er...amarillo is...that's right, yellow!

traveling with friends

Everyone classifies their friends, into neat little groups to keep things simple. There are your friends from home, your friends from school, your friends from Spain. But beyond geographical distinction, there are your soccer friends, your Project Runway friends, your Lost friends (or friend, in this case). But still, one more category, perhaps the most important category: friends you can travel with. Yes, you may think you can travel with just about any one of your friends. After all, it's vacation! Time to relax, and who better to do it with than your friends? Well, there may in fact be many other people who are more qualified travel partners, if Rome is any example of the darker side of travel. Perhaps it was doomed to bickering as Miguel and I arrived on a flight after all the trains to Leo's house had stopped running. I mean, really, who wants to go home from Rome after 8:45? So, maybe it was the hectic last minute scrambling that started everyone off on the wrong foot. Or, perhaps it was the divergent itineraries. Miguel wanted to hit everything on the map, Leo wanted to do the opposite of whatever Miguel wanted to do, and I just wanted to eat anything that looked Italian. Day 1 started with two different plans, two different directions, and ended in two different opinions of what had happened. Put these three people in a small house 45 minutes outside of Rome...with ONE bathroom. If I had thought to bring a videocrew, we would now have a fantastic telenovela, or be three people and a hot tub short of Spain's first Real World. If I thought living with four other girls and one bathroom was difficult...there are no words to finish this sentence, to identify the anguish. I had no idea that guys need at least an hour to get ready. As the tug of war continued, arguments flared, and not in the passive aggressive girl way that I'm used to. There were no bitchy notes, or talking behind backs. Seething wordlessly was not really an acceptable method of combat, nor was heavy sarcasm. Unfamiliar territory, indeed. To keep the peace between the intense name-calling and ridiculous bet-making, I resorted to the old stand-bys: pastries. If your mouth is filled with delicious baked goods, can you really do anything but eat? And also alcohol. Surprisingly enough (or not really surprising at all), we got along great when drunk. The power of Italian wine. As agreed on by the group, this trip could have used more alcohol, more tranquilizers, more pastries, and less attitude. To move on, I can think of only one appropriate phrase: fugehdbowdit. Or something like that.

closed for vacation.

While my lapse in writing may seem strange to you hard-working Americans, I just want you to know: it's August, and Europe is on vacation. Small stores and restaurants are closed, the beaches are full of tourists, and the few that continue to work do so with groaning audible to the entire chilled-out population. Masquerading as a European, I went to the beach, braving the eight-hour bus from Madrid (in August, known as "the beachless ghost town) to Barcelona with Rebecca, former roommate, fellow fake European. Our trip began in near disaster, as we had decided to take an overnight bus to Barcelona, leaving at 1 am. As it was Rebecca's last night in Madrid, we had a nice, leisurely dinner starting at around 9:30...followed by a sprint through the metro system, back to my apartment to get the suitcase that I hadn't packed. This was then followed by more sprinting, barely making the last bus of the night. As we sat in our seats, sweating profusely, awaiting our departure and the beginning of eight fun-filled hours, we thought about how we probably wouldn't do this when we were older. My thought is, of course we wouldn't do this when we're older, because we would know better than to wait to the last minute to get to the bus station and really, to take a bus for eight hours overnight when you can fly for an hour and be done with it. Or to think that we would actually sleep on the bus, which made stops every two hours, complete with lights and announcements. However, coffee, along with some chocolate and churros, heals all wounds. One strange omelette thing later, we were off, leaping into sight-seeing Gaudí action, and then continuing our three-hour lunching tradition. While we definitely did not see everything Barcelona had to offer, we gave a valiant effort in eating as much as possible. I did my best to consume anything that remotely resembled a pastry, given Madrid's, uh, slightly lacking dessert scene. By dessert, I mean the piece of melon or apple they give you at the end of your meal and try to pass it off as a dessert. We sunbathed, drank in public, and meandered as though we had plenty of time. We did our best to embrace Spanish culture: sloowwww dowwwwnnnn. Done and done. After Rebecca left for the south of France, I pretty much laid on the beach for two days...just to make sure that we contributed enough chill. Isn't that what vacation is all about? Oh and don't expect anything too soon, I'm off to Italy, to visit a friend. Europe did get this vacation thing right.