plant serial killer

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

grown-up decisions

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

traveling, solo style.

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

inauguration in madrid

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

OMG IT'S SNOWING OMG

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

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.