the north pole.

There's a special thing that happens in Europe around Christmas time. It's called a Christmas Market, and it's like going to the North Pole. There's holly everywhere, they give you gingerbread, and it's really cold. If that's not the North Pole, I don't know what is. Last weekend (when, maybe where, I got pneumonia), I went to Frankfurt, the location of a substantial Christmas Market, with my friend and co-worker Megan. After arriving and finding the hotel, remarkable with our non-existent German, we wasted no time in heading out to the Christmas Market. Although I would see it during the day, there's something about Christmas lights that just makes everything magical. If not magical, illuminated. It was filled with people drinking warm, mulled wine and eating everything from sausages to some kind of pizza-looking thing with sausage on it. Of course, it wouldn't be Germany if there wasn't dessert. I ate some kind of ball of dough covered in vanilla sauce and cinnamon, and Megan got a waffle covered in nutella. Thank you, German innovation. But, unlike the Spanish, the Germans aren't really into staying up all night (unless there's some kind of techno music involved), so the Christmas market closed down pretty early. Sadly, there were no house remixes of "Silent Night." After resting, we hit the market the next day, ready to buy Christmas presents. Well, I was really feeling like i had the flu (or PNEUMONIA), but I toughed it out, and everyone in my family did receive something from Frankfurt for Christmas. This may have been breaking customs rules. But anyway. During the day, we saw more things made out of wood and/or covered in chocolate than I had ever seen before, at least in one place. Gigantic prezels covered in chocolate, wooden figurines that smoked when you lit up incense, ornaments, popcorn...craziness. More craziness? Germany is colder than Spain, shocking, I know. I wore layers and layers of clothing, and still was hospitalized for a week. That's how cold it is. Maybe they should make that their country's motto. Maybe that's why they eat sauerkraut and sausage all the time...? Passing gas...I'll stop there.

i had pneumonia.

Some of you may have been wondering where I was over this long absence. Unfortunately, I wasn't vacationing in some warm European resort. I was kind of on vacation...with pneumonia. On the plus side, I got to view a different side of Spain, the health care system, that I otherwise would not have been exposed to. On the down side, I was in the hospital for a week. I don't know how I got pneumonia, all I know is that a bad cold and then I went to Frankfurt, and then I got pneumonia. That was the sequence of events that sent me to the doctor, who listen to my lungs and my symptoms, then proceeded to X-ray my lungs, and then told me I had to go to the hospital. Since I didn't have anyone to take care of me in my lovely apartment, checking into the hospital was my only option. Off I went, with a book, for an anticipated 3-4 days at the hospital. The nurses were nice, although they did poke me with needles. Also, I think I gave them a good laugh when I put the thermometer directly in my mouth, where you normally put the thermometer. Except in Spain, you put it under your arm. Who knew? I had few problems, except that I was there for a week, rather than the initial 3-4 expected days. The one problem I did have was with the sheet changing lady, who had control of the scrubs for the sickies. Apparently, there was a limited supply of scrubs, although it was a hospital. After a few days of not having pajamas, she told me that I had to have someone bring me pjs, which my friend Megan thankfully brought me. However, I only had one pair, and after wearing them and sweating off a fever, they were pretty...smelly. Scrubs-Fascist let me know right away...they had no more scrubs. Helpfully, I told her that I could just be naked, no problem. Miraculously, scrubs appeared. Scrubs-Fascist wanted me to know that this was no free ride, though. She told me to wash my dirty pajamas in the bidet, and to hang them up. Luckily, I left that day, so there was no more drama, and I got to go home, and wash my clothes in the washing machine, as you should.

vicky christina barcelona-public service announcement?

Last weekend, I saw Vicky Christina Barcelona, which I know came out like eons ago, but I move slowly. I'm in Spain. Aside from the fantastic scenery of Barcelona, which, as seen in earlier blogs, is the prettier of the two main Spanish cities, the film shows the two main characters and their complex relationships with conformity, commitment, and men. For me, it's about their different perspectives, and the different ways to see love and to see the world. However, if you're an American girl in Spain, there's a more immediate lesson to be learned from Woody: Don't sleep with Spanish men. You will end up alone, confused, and with a possible gunshot wound. In my opinion, this was part of the message. Nothing good can come of sexual relations between the American and Spanish populations. Whether you are romantic or apathetic, it's not going to work. The rules are different, and I can't handle that kind of passionate confusion. The film shows how passionate the Spanish are in comparison to the two young pretty Americans, seduced by the beauty around them, helped by the wine. Even Scarlett Johansson, the more romantic and whimsical of the two, lacks a certain depth of feeling, perhaps a national characteristic. Her friend, succumbing to the romanticism of the moment, quickly comes to her senses after Penelope Cruz brandishes a pistol, yelling "You're all crazy!" Yes. You think they're crazy, they think you're crazy. It can't work, because the crazies are not compatible. We're dealing with non-compatible, multi-lingual crazy here, and quite honestly, the complexity only deepens. Did I mention I saw this movie on a date? With a Spanish guy? Yeah, that's not happening. Because he's CRAZY. Or I am. I don't know. Depends on the perspective, I guess.

learning french in spanish

In a decision that superficially makes not-so-much sense, I am taking French classes. I realize that I am in Spain, where they speak Spanish (imagine that!), teaching English. Let's consider it a last-gasp effort to continue to educate myself, and a desire to see how much language bombardment my poor brain can take. Currently, I am enrolled in the Institut Français (ballin') in the basic level. Being the only nonnative-Spanish speaker in my class can sometimes have its drawbacks. Usually, since the level is pretty basic, things go smoothly with only the occasional hitch. For example, I was unable to explain how I knew that "charme" in French meant "charm" to a fellow classmate, given that my vocab for this specific word was lacking in Spanish. Things hit the skids, however, when we started fashion. Racing through words and phrases, my French professor would shout out what seemed to me like random sounds that I couldn't comprehend in whatever language they were coming out in. It involved a lot of nudging whoever was sitting next to me, and saying "QUÉ??," which they then followed with a word in English, or a complicated series of gestures or sometimes even a drawing. Really, I'm lucky people continue to sit next to me. The advantages of this would be now in French, I can only think in Spanish. I made the commitment with the purchase of a Spanish-French dictionary, so now you know I'm serious. Unfortunately, when trying to speak French, it comes out in Spanish, which is not the most helpful of situations. I also have this great Spanish accent in French now. Well, a Spanish-American attempting to speak French. In other words, I'm doing great.

the erasmus experience

Well, my apartment has changed slightly in the past couple weeks. No more María, whose job contract ended and went to live with her parents in Galicia...I don't feel too bad for her, because she considered it a indeterminate vacation, which, at the moment, has a pleasant ring to it. So, Pierre moved in. As some of you smart readers may be able to figure out, Pierre is French, not Spanish. Pierre is also a guy. If your keeping score, that's two European men, and me, in one apartment. A little too much testosterone. And, if you were wondering about the title, Erasmus is the European study abroad program. European students get to travel around countries, staying for a year at a time, and then flying back home on a short, cheap flight. What a novel idea. If only countries came in "Fun Size" in America (Andorra is comparable to an M&M). So, although finished with college and still American (I'm still waiting to wake up European...I figure I'll know when it happens. I imagine it to be waking up with a cigarette and a permanent scowl), I guess I'm getting the traditional Erasmus study abroad experience now. For instance, Pierre tried to help me with my French pronunciation, which I now believe to be a lost cause. We spent about five minutes making this noise: "oooooo" or "ewwwwww." Well, I spent most of this time laughing, which was counterproductive, and clearly contributing to my insultingly-bad French accent. But most of the time, we speak in Spanish, which must be strange for anyone to hear. People speaking in a language in which neither is a native speaker always amuses me...because it sounds funny. There's not a more profound reason, really. It's just like that. To do my part to contribute to the cultural exchange, I made brownies. Give the people what they want!

absentee epic

I am a fake American. I watch the Daily Show over the internet, I buy organic yogurt, and I live in perhaps the most un-American part of fake America: Europe. Now, I may not wear a flag pin on my non-existent T-Shirt lapel, but I am a patriotic American, and if Sarah Palin thinks otherwise, she should try to vote from here. 30 euros, sweat, blood, and tears later, I voted yesterday, guarenteed to arrive the 4th of November, or your money back. It remains true that the Northeast votes don't matter anyway, unless perhaps if you live in New Hampshire or Maine. New Jersey voters can vote until they're blue in the face and they'll still be...well, blue. But this is not the tale of the ridiculously complex and inefficient Electoral College. This epic details my attempts to vote, from across the pond. The story begins in September, before Obama was a terrorist and before Palin was a diva. Doing what I thought was the right thing, I went to the embassy, where they gave me the absentee ballot application and the address of the Sussex County clerk. I didn't even need to wait. They offered to mail it for me, for free. What a deal! However, I don't have time to be running around Madrid, so I mailed it myself. I even had the clerk glue it shut, since my envelope was a faulty. Weeks past, my brother voted for Scholz/Scholz on the town council, and I still hadn't received my ballot. As a worrier, thoughts of lost mail and stolen ballots began to enter my mind. Then, I realized the embassy had given me the wrong address. Wasting no time, since now it was around October 15, one month after filling out my original absentee ballot application, I filled out two more: one to my mother, and one to the clerk, just in case it didn't get there, again. Crisis averted, or so I thought. In the time between when I sent my ballot, and when my mother informed me of the successful reception by the county clerk's office, I received my first ballot application, sent by the United States Post Office. Sigh. Then, I waited. After a week, without any sign of a ballot or a traveling polling station, I called the clerk. It was Fed-Exed, they told me. You should get it any day now. Four days later, in a frenzy for no apparent reason, I sent a frantic email to the clerk, detailing my saga and begging for some kind of ballot. They gave me a tracking number and told me that I had written the wrong address. Seeing as I have lived here for about three months and have received numerous letters, packages, and the like, I'll let you decide who wrote the wrong address. I called FedEx, and after having decided to pick up the package, I waited for the call with the address where it was. Finally, I called, AGAIN. Speaking this time with Leo, a friendly FedEx clerk, he gave me the address to a location OUTSIDE Madrid, on the side of a highway. Barely containing my frustration, I asked if I could have it delivered. Please hold, he said. Sadly, while holding, my phone ran out of money, leaving me without anyway to communicate my horribly complicated dilemma. So, I did what you do in these situations: I called my mom in tears, saying, "They wrote my direction wrong!" (In Spanish, address is dirreción, hence my confustion). After talking me down, I found an emergency absentee write-in ballot, to be used in case of chaotic mail. The next day, I ran to the post office, and asked how much it would cost to mail my letter express to the US (I had made a mental note to stay under 20 euros). It's 30 euros, she told me. After a moment of hesitation, I gave myself a peptalk. Abigail Scholz, you have come this far, now goddamnit, you're going to vote. And just like that, I voted.

spanish breakfast

Let me be clear: "Spanish breakfast" is a nonsensical phrase, and a worse idea. What the Spanish eat in the morning should not be referred to as "breakfast," to preserve the dignity of what some say is the most important meal of the day. Also, I want it to be clear that I'm not hating on the Spanish, since their lunch is truly remarkable. I will take two plates of goodness 8 days a week, since in Europe, weeks are eight days long. However, their eating habits in the early hours truly leave something to be desired. Something edible, perhaps. For starters, I have watched my roommate prepare breakfast every morning. This is not typical Spanish, since typically, the Spanish don't eat breakfast, they just drink a coffee and get on with it. However, this "breakfast" consists of a large bowl of instant coffee, two pieces of bread (we don't have a toaster) with jelly, and cereal or muesli, which she puts in the bowl of coffee. Yes. You heard (read) me right. In the bowl of coffee. You should be shocked at 1) bowl of coffee, and 2) that I'm spending time writing this down. At first, I thought this was just my roommate, but I've heard other stories regarding bowls of instant coffee, with or without the added bonus of cereal. Or, if you take your coffee without cereal, you can always have these bland, cracker-cookies called Marias for breakfast. They come in whole-wheat, oreo-style, or cardboard-like. But, maybe the instant coffee is too hard to make. Maybe you go out for breakfast in the morning. In that case, instead of ordering an omelet or scrambled eggs, you can get toast with olive oil and tomato paste topped with ham. Actually, not that bad, once you've mourned the loss of anything resembling American breakfast. While Spanish coffee, or café con leche, is an achievement in itself, really, everything else that goes with it is somewhat subpar. This weekend, I got excited over Cheerios. Not regular Cheerios, but the kind with honey. Huzzah!