Suerte in Action

Recently I had a conversation with a friend of mine about luck, karma, and other hocus-pocusy superstitions.  Although I can’t really say why, some part of me has always believed in this stuff.  At least a little bit. I mean just check the name of this blog. I don’t believe in psychics or mind-readers or that aliens have already invaded the earth, but fate, good booga-booga , etc., these sorta things just seem to be around us. 

Not too long ago, I went to Granada for some Spanish holiday called a puente (Memo to Self: look up Puente) and found not only a great time and amazing tapas, but also a little more evidence (for lack of a better word) for these kinda supernatural things.

Luck

Over the years I've developed a pretty wicked internal alarm clock and I normally wake up about 3 minutes before my alarm goes off. I think it's my body's irrational way of giving the middle finger to a device that is designed to interrupt slumber. Like saying "Gonna try to walk me up? Screw you, alarm. Already awake." That being said, alcohol does tend to hit my biological snooze button. So going out until 6 am the night before I had a 10:30 bus ride was probably not the best idea. Needless to say when my travel buddy, Phoebe, called me at 9:20 am I was not packed, not dressed, and not awake. Things did not look good. But then the metro was waiting for me when I ran into the station and when I arrived at 10:29 at the bus station, which was crowded with over 60 buses, something pulled me straight to the bus to Granada. And that lovely, lucky bus took me here...

GRANADA!

Good Karma

The idea that what goes around comes around is an intriguing one. Even the littlest good deed can pay off and vice versa. I firmly believe that in Granada, the main source of good karma is the tapas. All of Spain is known for tapas, or the small servings of food that come for free with a drink purchase at a bar. In Granada they up their game; you get full freaking meals. For 5 euros you get all that you see below...

 

And sending these tasty vibes out into the universe shows in Granada. The people are happy, nice, surrounded daily by beauty. Not to mention well fed.

Bad Karma

Our second day in Granada I noticed this...

That's the Bank of Spain with the word "Ladrones" spray-painted on the front. Ladrones means thieves. Just goes to show that in any culture if you screw people over enough they'll get pissed and it'll come back to bite you in the form of graffiti and large public protests.

Jinx

A mix of modern design and Arabic buildings, Granada is absolutely breath taking. And it's crown jewel is the Alhambra. Originally a palace and fortress for Arabic Sultans, construction on the Alhambra began around 1237. And despite being about 800 years old, the entirety of the ginormous complex is still amazingly well preserved. Phoebe and I spent 5 hours walking around and taking in the architecture...

the views...

 

and the gardens...

 (you know just a stairway with waterfall railings)

Every corner I turned I said something along the lines of "I can't believe everything here is so fabulous. This city and trip is amazing."

Unfortunately in a 13th century stone palace there's very little wood to knock on. 

The original Granada travel plan was to stay 2 nights in a hostel and then save money by spending the final night dancing away in a club and catching the first bus back to Madrid. We had worked things out with the hostel so that we could leave our luggage at the hostel until the morning we had to leave. The only catch was that we needed our key to get back into the hostel that early for our luggage.

And of course I lost the key, foiling our glorious plan. 

Everything Happens for a Reason

So Phoebe "The Awesome Aussie" and I woke up on Saturday and realize we have no where to put our luggage, no where to stay, and no money to go clubbing all night. Plus I'm uber-pissed at myself for losing the key and our 10 euro key deposit. Stressed and exhausted, we consider our options. And then we just look at each other and know: it's time to leave Granada. As great as the city is I'm fairly certain that if we'd tried to stay out all night, with out luggage, until the 7am bus, we would have died. I'm sure it would have been an interesting death, but still not the ending we were going for.

Destiny/Fate

After changing our bus tickets (it only cost us 1.30 euro), Phoebe and I are looking for a way to fill our last few hours in this wonderful city. So while looking at the map we found it: Plaza de los Lobos. But I've gotten ahead of myself.

In those tense moments before I arrived at the bus station, Phoebe was convinced that I wasn't going to make it and that she'd have to go to Granada alone. The direct quote was "I was ready to lone wolf it up." This of course prompted a conversation about how we were two lone wolves that had found each other and formed an awesome pack (thank you Alan from the Hangover). So the joke became that we were a wolf pack on the prowl in Granada. For those of you that don't know lobo is wolf in Spanish. So it was fate, it was destiny, that our wolf pack should come to Granada and head to the Plaza de los Lobos and that said plaza should be covered with graffiti like this... 

Too Much of A Good Thing
Granada, you're freaking insane and I loved every minute of you. But there's a price for such awesomeness and for me it was a horrible cold. I've been all snot and sneezes since the bus pulled back into Madrid (TMI, I know) But I guess there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.

K Learns Spanish: Lesson 11

granada- pomegranate. Ironically didn't see a single one on the trip.

cazar- to hunt as in La banda de las lobas esta cazando. Siempre.

destino- destiny, fate

boogabooga- there is no direct translation into Spanish

Beer and Telemarketers

This past week I learned two very important ways to bridge interpersonal gaps: beer and telemarketers. Of course a large portion of my own belief system is based on the love and power of the former so this one was not a huge surprise. But the idea that telemarketers could bring people together seemed a little far fetched. Until this week.

So here's the story. For those of you that don't know I tutor two little Spanish darlings. They're a boy and a girl, five and seven years old respectively, and I tutor them in English one and a half hours twice a week. Although their parents speak English, they have strong Spanish accents and therefore their main concern for their kids is that they learn early and learn the proper pronunciation. From the best intentions... Needless to say it is very difficult to keep two kids engaged for 90 minutes at night while only speaking to them in a language they don't understand.

One day the little boy left the room for a minute and when his dad brought him back, he started sniffling and said in Spanish "But Papa I don't want to go back in there. I can't understand her. All she says is blah blah blah." Stern and well meaning their dad laid down the law and said that they were not allowed to speak unless it was in English or to ask me how to say something in English. Yeah, that went over well.

It's been over two months now and I think the kids are making really progress, but for a while there I was really concerned that the dad would fire me if his kids weren't speaking fluently by New Years. He just didn't seem to like me or the work that I was doing. So when he called me this week the day before my next tutoring session, I was sure he was going to can me. But instead he asked if I could help him with his English; he had an interview coming up and was out of practice. I said yes and feeling very stressed out about his expectations for the sessions, went to go tutor him.

The first day beer saved me. No, he didn't offer me a cold one and no, I wasn't wasted before I got there. We simply talked about his past work experience and it turns out that he used to work for a division of Coors here in Spain. Since I spent the last year working with reps from different beer distributors, we had a lot to talk about. And I was actually able to help him with the correct English terminology for the business.

On the second day I was only slightly nervous. I arrived at their apartment and listened to him talk about his past jobs and such. Despite the fact that he spoke fairly impeccably, I couldn't seem to get him to relax and the more flustered he got the more mistakes he made.

Cue the Telemarketer. In the middle of our session he got a phone call from Jazztel, a telephone company in Spain. After hanging up he came in and told me how much he hated those calls. Then I told him how my father did as well, but also liked to mess with the callers. I shared with him this typical conversation between my father and a telemarketer.

TM: Is Mr. or Mrs. Klambert home?

sidenote: Our last name is Klempert.

Dad:It's pronounced Klem-paire. We're French.

sidenote: We're not French.

TM: Hello, Mr. Klambert. My name is Karen and I'm called from (insert random company here). Do you have a few moments to talk about some of our exciting new offers?

Dad: Well the Dolphins game isn't on for another 15 mins so sure.

Then Karen will try and sell my dad something while he asks her what time it is in India, what the weather's like, her education, her life history. You know common telemarketer chit chat. His main goal is often to find out the callers real name, which of course they're forbidden to say. He's only managed it once.

This made the Spanish dad I work for bust a gut. Apparently he enjoys the similar games, when he has time. Most of their family accounts are in his wife's name so when they call and ask for Ana he'll say in a deep, raspy baritone, "Sí, soy Ana." Then he'll make up outrageous claims about his current long distance plan, like that they pay 3 euros a month for unlimited calls to anywhere in the universe. This leaves the Telemarketer with the awkward choice of calling him a liar or giving up the sale.

He was surprised that our calls come from India (the calls to Spain often come from Morocco and the callers claimed to be named Carlos or Juan) but it prompted a good bonding conversation. So I'd like to thank all the Karens and Carloses (Carli?) out there for possibly saving my job by choosing to have a universally annoying one.


K Learns Spanish: Lesson 10 


clases particlulares- tutoring sessions. 

crecer- to grow. As in La niña está creciendo a pesar de bebiendo mucho cafe. 

dejar- to leave (as in leave alone), to separate from or keep away from, to give up, to let (as in let the people get off the train before you get on the train). In general this word is pops up a lot and I always use it wrong. 

regla- rule. As in Para cada regla, hay una excepción. Incluyendo la regla de los bigotes.

Dia de Accion de Gracias

Understandably, the teachers at my school love weeks with American Holidays. The weeks of Halloween, the Super Bowl, Valentine's Day, and of course this past Thanksgiving week, they hand every class over to me and sit and grade papers while I show YouTube Vidoes and gab on and on about American traditions. While this requires very little of me, it becomes unbelievably mind numbing to repeat the same 50 min. lesson on the Pilgrims 16 times in 4 days. Plus there's really only so many times you can talk about Thanksgiving and family without becoming homesick. Add on top of that the looming fear I had all week that I might not be able to find any traditional food in Spain, and I'm not going to lie, but I was beginning to dread my first Thanksgiving away from home.

But then two packages (one from my mom and one from my roommate's) arrived. Boxes of stuffing, pie mix, slim jims (sidenote to my mom: while I appreciate the gesture, Slim Jims are not vegetarian. Probably not really meat though either), mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and a tofurkey all managed to dodge customs. After procuring some fresh veggies I began to believe that Thanksgiving was a-go.

Spain, however, decided to fight me and my American friends tooth and nail and repeatedly challenged us for our beloved day. Evaporated milk for the pies was nowhere to be found in the grocery stores. Screw you Spain, I boiled down my own milk and added polenta for texture. And so what if there are no can openers here? A sharp pair of scissors will do nicely.

 So with very few pans, a small kitchen, and about 5 determined cooks, me and my friends ended up with a pretty decent spread.

But now, for your entertainment....

The top 5 Thanksgiving Misconceptions from my students that peppered my week with a little humor.

5) About 1/3 of my students believe we eat chicken on Thanksgiving. And only about 1 student per class truly understands what a pie is. Since there is no direct translation of the word into Spanish, when asked what a pumpkin pie was, the kids described everything from a pumpkin cake to a pumpkin empanada to something close to an orangish donut.

4) That Pocahontas is nothing more than a Disney character. I know this isn't directly related to Thanksgiving, but I mentioned the braided Indian princess as a reference for a group of 16 year olds in order to explain who the Native Americans were. They all laughed and said "pero ella no existe."

3) I gave my students a worksheet with multiple choice questions about Thanksgiving. One of the questions was "What was the name of the Pilgrims ship? a) Pinta b) Mayflower c) Black Pearl" One student was convinced the answer was c).

2) There is no "holiday season" here in Spain. There is Christmas. There is New Years. There is Three Kings Day. But they are not grouped into one idea like they are in the US. Therefore when shown a clip of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade with Santa in it, there was a lot of confusion about what holiday we were actually talking about. I think one student even thought Santa was trying to steal the holiday away from the Tom Turkey float.

Sidenote: I asked my students what they thought of the parade and all it's over-the-top pagentry. One boy said "Only in America." Probably the most astute comment of the week.

1) At the beginning of every class I asked the students what they already knew about Thanksgiving just so I could get a sense of where they were at with the topic. In one class a girl that speaks almost fluent English raised her hand and said that Thanksgiving was a dinner that celebrated the English settlers' arrival in America and the beginning of their attempts to kill all the Indians and steal their land. Not 100% accurate, but not really false either.

K Learns Spanish: Lesson 9

arándanos- cranberries

Pelegrinos- Pilgrims

cosecha- harvest

ciénaga- bog.


Sidenote: be aware that most Spaniards will assume a bog is a bush that produces cranberries.

Ayer

I've often been told that I was born in the wrong decade. I wore bell bottoms throughout middle school, rode in a VW van instead of a convertible as a homecoming rep, and in protest of Bush's reelection burned the bra I was wearing. (Unfortunately for my sister, mom accidentally put Ali's laundry in my drawer that horrid November morning in 2004.) Furthermore it's always been my unreachable dream to see The Beatles in concert.

Yes I know, that became impossible before I was even born. But while you may say that I'm a dreamer, I'm not the only one and this past weekend it happened, I saw The Beatles in concert.

Best. Thing. Ever.

Granted the quality of my cellphone pic does these guys no justice. And sure it was only a Spanish Beatles tribute band that had to don bowl-cut wigs and felt mustaches to look the part, but I am convinced that these talented Spaniards were the closest anyone can get to the real deal now-a-days.

It's a distinct possibility that these guys can't speak a word of English (they sure as hell didn't let any slip between songs), but they could sing not only with perfect accents, but with the same tone and timbre of the original Fab Four. Which of course leads to the question: How does such a tribute band form? How do you know if you can sing like John Lennon? Do you train for years to be like Ringo? Do these talents organically reveal themselves over wine and tapas? Or does destiny bring liked minded men together (regardless of country or native language) to form kickass tribute bands? I (of course) have a theory.

But to fully explain the theory let me start from the beginning. First off the show was in a concert hall that has been converted to a discotec (yes they still use that phrase here). But not just any discotec, one known for its amazing dance floor, exorbitant prices, and high hookup probability. So you can imagine my surprise when my roommates told me that a 15 Euro Beatles tribute concert was being held there.

We were probably the youngest people in the concert by a good 15-20 years. Being from Florida, this is something I'm used to. However, I am not used to a 51 year old women that is clearly tripping on acid coming up to me and pointing out my youth and then insulting my dance moves. To her credit this women did have some killer moves. She did the running man to "I Wanna Hold Your Hand", cabbage patched to "Michelle", and head-banged to "Drive My Car". She alone was worth the ticket price.

But once my group of friends moved a little closer to the stage (and a little further away from the lady who had begun to check out the dudes in our group) I realized that it sounded like the concert was in awesome surround sound. Like the quality you'd use to watch Return of the Jedi. I turned around to see if we'd moved in front of a speaker. No, something better. We'd moved in front of a group of 30-something men singing along. They knew every song, every word, every harmony. Then it dawned on me: this was how these bands were formed. The guys behind me would one day become the guys in front of me on the stage. And when that day came, another group of gents would come to the concert and while singing along in the back, find each and form a band with. A beautiful circle of life.

K Learns Spanish: Lesson 8

bigote- moustache. As in: Los bigotes nunca son buenos.

vela- candle.

ayer- yesterday, where all your troubles seem so far away.

Segovia: Beauty and the Beastly Americans

This Saturday some friends and I went on a little excursion. Sick and tired of spending our weekend days hungover in Madrid, we decided to visit a magical little town called Segovia. And honestly before we boarded the bus, that's about all we knew about the town. I suspected that it was in the north and although my Spanish Fodor's book had 4 whole pages dedicated to the city, I hadn't (and still haven't) read them. Still I'm a big learn by doing gal. Here's what I learned, saw, or deduced from my visit to Segovia.

1) Segovia is baller!

Built on a Spanish hillside there are awesome views all over the city. After getting off the bus we headed for the first thing we saw: a giant Cathedral.

This required us to hike up a buttload of stairs and I quickly realized that Segovia isn't so much on a hill, but on the geographical formation between a hill and a mountain, a formation Merriam Webster has failed to supply me the word for. But once you get up there you can see forever. There are also old castle-like walls that go around the city, but let you climb up even higher (and possibly more safely) for photos.

2) There's this one corner in the town that when you turn all the sudden you see this...

Holy hell! Who put that there? Judging by the wolf-teet sucking statue of Romulus and Remus across from these Aqueducts, twas the Romans. Apparently the Romans made it all the way to Segovia and left these behind.

2a) One thing that constantly amazes me about living in Europe is people's ability to meld their modern lives together such beautiful and historical sights. I mean honestly, how do you walk past these things everyday and go to a crappy job without feeling like an immensely insignificant part of history? And nothing I've seen before has astounded me as much as these Aqueducts. People just walk past, staring at their iPods instead of them.

3) They eat a lot of suckling pig, or cochinillo. This pork is apparently so tender and juicy that the locals cut it with a plate, not a knife. As a vegetarian I did not partake in this traditional cuisine, but I did enjoy a nosefull of the aroma every time we passed a restaurant.

4) Disney based it's Beauty and the Beast castle off the Alcazar in Segovia. The bridge, the garden, the windows, the blocked off west wing, the woods where Father gets lost and attacked by wolves. It's all there. I'm pretty sure a candelabra talked to me as well.

And the best part is that you can walk around more of this castle than any other historical building I've ever been to. Nothing is in glass cases or really protected by anything more than a "No tocas" sign.

5) Never push your luck in Segovia as there is no wood to knock on. The town is made completely of brick (not that it did the cochinillo piggies any good). So as the day continued we began to realize how much we'd lucked out on our trip. The weather was one of the few nice days that Spain has seen in the past few weeks. The people were nice. The town was easy to get around. Transportation had been simple. There were even cute little gatitos running around to entertain us. Then there was dinner.

We found a great pasta place with super cheap food and sangria and had a nice meal. About half-way through another group of Americans walked in and sat at the table next to us. From the parts of their conversation that we overheard, it's a fair assumption to say that these were not nice people. Then when they left one of the girls went up to the waiter (who had been taking care of the restaurant all by himself) and asked him, "Do people make fun of you when you try to speak English?" The waiter said something we couldn't hear and the girl asked him again, "Do people make fun of you because you can't speak English?" The waiter answered in Spanish and the girl turned around to her friends and said "See that exactly proves my point," and then strutted out of the place.

Now granted I have no idea what this girl's "point" was or why she was even asking such a ridiculous question of a man in Spain, but as Americans everyone of us at our table immediately went rigid. We could tell from this girl's tone, posture, and ponytail flick that she meant to embarrass and talk down to this guy. And to think, until then I wondered why the rest of the world dislikes Americans.

K Learns Spanish: Lesson 7

moretón- bruise

constipado- Not what you think. It actually means to be congested from a cold.

tirita- bandaid

Sidenote to Mom: No I was not sick, nor did I fall down a flight of stairs this week. Rather it was health vocab week in my classes.

GoGos- As in the dancers. Still rockin it out around here. They've lost the boots though.

You Might Be an American If....

Last week was a banner week for this Americana; I was only pegged as an American twice before speaking a word of English. The first time it happened I was walking down an only mildly touristy street when a Nigerian man (he had to tell me this because I unfortunately can not deftly identify nationalities) tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hello, you are American, no?” When I asked him how he knew, he shrugged his shoulders and said with a questioning tone, “You’re smile. No European smiles like that.” I’m fairly certain I was not smiling while walking and listening to Nirvana on my iPod.

The second time, I was at Cien Montaditos, a restaurant that only requires you say a number to order. I’d like to think that during the course of my Spanish education I learned how to properly pronounce something as fundamental as numbers, but alas, apparently this is not true. The man smiled at me and said, respectfully in Spanish, “Where are you from?”

Clearly I still have more assimilating to do, but nonetheless this is a huge improvement from my first few weeks when people automatically spoke to me in English (which was always worse than my Spanish) or talked loudly and with grandiose gestures, something I thought only Americans were famous for.

Here are some signs I have learned for identifying (or avoiding being identified as) an American.

1) Speaking English- Duh, right? But it’s not just about walking into a grocery store and saying, “Where da ya’ll keep the cheeseburgers?” What I hadn’t realized until recently is that the human ear has evolved to pick out unfamiliar sounds. So even when a group of friends and I are in a crowded plaza speaking (not yelling) English, people are easily able to turn and find us because the odd words stick out more readily to them.

2) The Pitbull Inversion Effect- I’m sure there has been a time when you’ve heard a song featuring Latino rapper Pittbull around other people. Either in a car, at a club, or even when someone is singing the song because it’s stuck in their head. Invariably, when singing along, native English speakers know all of the English lyrics, but the moment Pittbull switches it up with some Spanish words. the singer can only sputter a few words and the rest turns into a jumble of unrolled r’s and vowels. The inverse happens here in Spain. So if you’re out a club shouting lyrics when everyone else is mumbling, chances are you’re American

2a) As long as we’re on the subjects of clubs… Having spent time in Europe before I already knew that they really can’t dance over here. Because of this all American dancers, no matter how well they can actually drop it like it’s hot, seem like Beyonce here. Therefore Americans can almost always be found towards the center of the dance floor, with the most eyes watching them.

3) Finding Safety and Comfort in Crosswalk Signals- As a rough guestimate, I’d say about a third of all intersections in Madrid have pedestrian crossing signals. When there is no signal, it is just assumed that cars will yield to pedestrians. Raised in a society that encourages everyone to look both ways without the green walking man, American’s will pause on the curb, lean way out to check for cars/alert them of someone crossing, and then wait until the car stops to go into the street. And they will also give a grateful wave and a nod to the car as they go past.

Interestingly, Spaniards seem to have as little comfort with crosswalk signals as we have without them. Americans know how to sense when the lights will change and will always be the first people to cross, without looking, when they’ve (officially) got the right away. Spaniards, however, will wait. Probably wanting to make sure the Green Man won’t suddenly turn red, inviting cars to hit the tricked J-walkers.

4) The Presence of Child-bearing Hips (or any hips)- Big-boned: I always used to smirk at this euphemistic phrase, but now that I’m in Spain I feel like it can have actual meaning. Relatively speaking, apparently any one from the Land of Free, Home of the Brave is big-boned. Everyone knows America is the most obese country in the world, but it would seem we also have different and larger frames. No Americans that I know here are overweight, yet when shopping we all have to buy larges, simply to get the seams to line up correctly on our shoulders and hips. Although I’m sure my height also gives me away (at 5’ 8” (no I still haven’t figured out what that is in centimeters) I tower over most of the population) I think it’s also the curves of my frame. Now if you know me dear readers, you are probably laughing. You’re aware of the fact that except for my rear, I have the body shape of a plank of wood. But compared to the slender ladies lilting around here, I’m a freaking Amazon with curves more dangerous than a Californian coastal road.

Note: This one can only be used to spot female Americans.

5) Crossing of the Arms- This was the first thing I noticed. I was waiting to cross the street (without a crossing signal) and noticed I was the only one around with their arms crossed. “Self,” I said, “this is odd.” Then I continued noticing it at other times: talking to people, sitting on the metro, standing anywhere. I was the only one crossing my arms. I asked other more Spanish-experienced Americans if they’d noticed this. They quickly informed me that here arm crossing is a sign of aggression. So while we cross our limbs out of habit, discomfort, or boredom, in Spain it’s kinda like… well like no gesture we really have, but it definitely signifies that you’re a little tee-ed off. However if you absolutely can’t keep your arms at your sides, one arm across the chest is acceptable.

6) Acknowledging the Existence of Non-neutral Colors- I read Cosmo, I know that this season earthy tones are in, but here that’s all they wear. Brown, black, grey, beige, camel, charcoal, taupe, dusty sand. I never knew there was another rainbow made up of such muted tones. If you throw in some purple, red, or heaven forbid a bright blue, they will know you’re an American.

K Learns Spanish: Lesson 6

podrir-to rot; podrido-rotten

calabaza- pumpkin
As in: La calabaza de Halloween ya esta podrida
(double word use bonus)

Note: This can also be used to refer to any yellow squash

ingresar- to deposit money

El Arte de Aparcamiento

The first time I saw someone park a car in Madrid it was my elderly landlord. So as he repeatedly hit the bumpers of both the car in front of and behind him with his European-sized SUV, my Florida upbringing and elderly prejudices kicked in. I assumed this was just a consequence of age.

But then I started actually looking at the fine work Madrileños do when parking their cars. Now as someone that has looked many a doubter in the eye and said "Screw you. I will fit my car in that tiny spot," I must say here they have it down to an art form.

Not only do the Spanish fit their cars into the tiniest spaces possible, but they also get liberal, if not creative, in their interpretation of the term "parallel park."

Enjoy these following exhibits of Fine Spanish Parking...

You can't see it from the photo, but this car is equally close to the one behind it.

I like to think that these few are artistic pieces affronting Spanish Society. Of course I'm unsure what it is the pieces are taking on. Perhaps they are speaking (or parking) out against the economic catastrophe created by the government,

or against conformity,

or simple against material excess by refusing to recognize these bricks that are clearly being wasted and taking a perfectly good spot.

And while 3 European cars can fit into a spot built for 1 American car and driver, this car covers 3 regular spots, proving double parking is double the fun.

Now dear readers, I'm about to share with you something I have never told anyone because society has taught me to be ashamed of this particular action. When I was 18, I got my first (of admittedly many) parking tickets. I was running late to work and saw an open spot on a one way street. Now I was coming perpendicular to that street and the spot was on the right hand corner. Although all the other cars were facing the other direction, I took the spot because in my mind I knew I could just back out of the spot returning to the non-one-way street without ever technically be in a traffic lane going the wrong direction. The Stuart Police Department disagreed. Now I know that I was not in the wrong, but rather in the wrong country.

SPD, you can send a written apology and the refund of my $10 fine to my address here in Madrid.

Now I give you the pièce de résistance of the Spanish Parking Art Movement. A parking masterpiece so treasured that when I tried to get a picture of it, a man came out of an alleyway and yelled at me to get away like I'd tried to take a tracing of the Mona Lisa.

Yes ladies and gents, that's car on a stairwell. And don't think that this is a one time thing, I pass this alley everyday and each time there is a different car descending (or sometimes ascending) those escaleras.

K Learns Spanish: Lesson 5

escaleras- stairs

parachoques- bumper. Literally translated as "for crashing" but apparently in everyday use and on the streets it means "love-tapping the crap out of another cars until the allow you to park between them"

topo- mole, of the animal variety.

vampiro- vampire as in "Buffy: La Cazavampiros".

Rookie Mistakes

Today, dear readers, I made several crucial travel mistakes resulting in probably the most awkward 20 minutes of my time here in Madrid.

1) I allowed myself to get so hungry that I was unable to think in my native tongue, let alone a foreign one.

2) I assumed how one culture interprets another’s cuisine would be the same in a third culture.

In America pizza means a few key things, namely cheap, available in a cheese only (i.e. nonmeat) variety, and single-diner friendly. So when I saw a restaurante labeled “Pizzaria” (not Italian, which of course can imply classier cuisine) I assumed it was the place was for me.

3) Despite my years of experience giving unconventional restaurant guests the “are you sure you want to eat here” look, I let a suspicious hostess lead me to a white tableclothed table for one.

After glancing over the menu quickly, and ignoring that I was the only one not at a table for at least 6, I realized I might be in trouble. I had 20 euros to my name and needed at least 10 for the following day so that I could open a bank account without taking more money (and thus accruing more fees) from my American account. A cheese pizza, a.k.a 7 Formaggi Pizze, cost 11.95 euros.
Luckily when I double-checked my wallet I found a tenner hiding in the folds. Reassured that I wouldn’t have to try to ask in Spanish if I could wash dishes to pay for my meal, I ordered the pizza and a glass of wine. While I waited for my food, the waiter brought out a basket of bread.

4) I ate some of the bread.

SPOILER ALERT: Those few bites cost me 2.35 euros. I’d forgotten that it’s only in America that bread and water come free with the meal.

5) I failed to look at the other tables to see how large the portions of the meals were and was too dumbstruck to ask the waiter.

Enter the largest pizza of my life.

This pizza is in fact at least 15in. in diameter. (sorry I'm not yet able to convert this to centimeters.)

No joke, this was Man vs. Food caliber. But no biggie, right. I can get a doggie back and eat the rest for dinner.

6) I didn’t know if Spain had doggie bags, let alone how to ask for one.

Calculating the possible cost of this meal in dollars I decide I’ll have to eat the whole thing and just stay stuffed through dinner. I considered sneaking some of the bread out in my bag, but my monkey-in-the-zoo appeal had everyone, including the waiter constantly watching me.

7) I let my nerves and discomfort as an outsider get the better of me.

As I began to cut the thin, crispy crust of the pizza this become painfully obvious. First off, the pizza was bigger than the plate it was on, making it structurally unsound for cutting. Flecks of oven-blackened crust began to fly everywhere like splinters from a wood chipper. Things only got messier as I tried to eat the slices and soon I was covered in crumbs and sauce. Wanting this all to just be over, I devoured the entire humungous, granted delicious, pizza in about 15 minutes.
Stunned, the waiter brought me the check. I discovered the bread charge and with an extremely tight waistband, I left the restaurant. With still 2 hours to kill before I had to be at my tutoring gig. I figured I might as well walk off the calories until then, so I took off in no particular direction.

8) I believed the myths about another country.

Probably the biggest mistake of all because just as I gave up the expensive seat/shelter my meal had bought me, it began to rain. In Spain. But not mainly in the plains.

Well played Spain. This round goes to you. But at least I wasn’t pick pocketed.

K learns Spanish Lesson 4

Vino tinto- red wine

Paragua- umbrella.
As in “Mira, una Americana estupida sin una paragua.”

Llaves- keys. Also known as the thing your roommate realizes she forgot the moment you by a large beer at a restaurant a 30 minute walk away.

Nabo- turnip

Un clavel para un cigarillo?

Today I am the big 2-4. Of course I awoke not only older, but also wiser thus allowing me to see Madrid in a new light. I would now like to share this new cultural awareness and enlightenment with you, my lovely readers. So here they are, some important differences between Madrid and the States.

1) In Madrid, Americans find themselves not saying that they are American or from America or even from the USA. We're from the States. Don't know how or when this was decided, but we all picked it up the moment our passports were stamped.

2) The schedule. Of course I was warned before I got here about the different way Spaniards divide up their day, especially in respect to gastronomical activities. Lunch isn't until 2 or 3 and it's the biggest meal of the day. Dinner doesn't happen until after 9. But what I hadn't considered was how this impacted other parts of life.

For instance, in school kids do not get a lunch break and in many cases schools don't even have a cafeteria. There's a 20 minute break around 11:30 were kids can grab a snack if they want. But just so you know they don't. They grab a smoke.

Also in regards to youngsters: This schedule isn't just for those in their 20's or 30's or without families. No, there are no bedtimes in Spain. 12:30 on a Tuesday night, you'll find little kids running around, out with their parents. Now, although I rarely had a curfew growing up, many of my friends did. I'm sure you or someone you know got into it with your parents about what an appropriate time to be home in bed was. You probably said something like: "But it's not fair!" And they countered with: "Only hooligans and miscreants are out that late!"
Well, Spain proves that children of all ages can stay out late and grow up to be fine upstanding citizens. Call your parents and tell them you've been wronged you.

This schedule also effects partying. Going out doesn't start before midnight. I guess when you're having dinner until 11, you're not ready to party until later. Of course this doesn't mean that they cram a night into fewer hours and still call it a night by 3ish. In most American cities if a bar stays open until 3am, that's respectable enough for us drunkards to agree to go home and chat or eat until we pass out. Oh no, in Spain it goes all night. Until 5 or 6.

Side Note: If you're ever feeling homesick in Madrid, it's best to head to an all night food stand around 3am. Guaranteed every American in a 4 mile radius will be there and you'll hear some welcome, albeit slurring, English. All the Spaniards will just be kicking it into 2nd gear, but us American's will be begging for our 4th meal and a pillow.

3) Which brings me to my next observation: drinking. In America, we're drinking sprinters. You know what I mean, power hours, beer bong, shots, shots, and more shots. The point to an American party is to get wasted and to do it quick. Of course this leads to an increased risk of party causalities (vomiting, black outs, pass outs) and we rarely all last until 5 or 6 in the morning. But we go hard and we go fast.
Spaniards are the freaking Kenyan marathon runners of the drinking world. Yes they drink, a lot, but they do it all night long. I have no quantifiable data on who actually drinks more over the course of the night, but I can say that here in Spain they're in it for the long hall. Therefore the concentration is rarely on getting plastered and results in a more level drunkenness rather than one spiked with ups, downs, and belligerence.

3a) Since in Spain drinking is more about the night than the taste, there really is no differentiation between drinks. You order a beer. You get a beer. There is no choosing a higher quality or cheaper beer. There is beer.

4) Dogs. Bitches are trained here. They're rarely on leashes and just walk or run after their owners in the streets. I even saw one pooch sit still outside a store for 20 mins while his owner was inside.

5) Smoking. Everyone smokes. Teens, mother's pushing strollers, even old men that can hardly hold a cane can still hold a cig. It's to the point that cigarettes, although fairly cheap in Spain, have developed a street value that I've never seen. Except maybe in the American prison system. In the US people will ask anyone to bum a cigarette. Here people seem scared to ask because they know how important they are. I've even seen a stressed out florist barter a carnation for a cigarette from a lady passing by his store.

6) Internet addiction does not seem to be as severe here. Yes they are familiar with most of the big internet sensations, but it can take up to 3 days for them to answer and email. And no one seems bothered by this lack of urgency.

7) Personal space. You rarely have it. Which at my height makes some conversations awkward. I feel like women here are literally talking into my chest like I'm wearing a wire or something.

8) Which leads me to...PDA. I have yet to find a Spanish translation for PDA, but I think that's because it isn't a social faux pas here, but rather a way of life. Everyone makes out. Everywhere. In the park, on the train, on National Monuments. All hours of the day, all stages of life. At first you think, how nice, how refreshing, a culture that embraces love. But that quickly devolves into ok enough with the soft core porn all ready.

9) Pokemon. Don't know if they just discovered them or if the Asian gaming franchise has had tremendous staying power here in Spain. All I know is that people still talk about them. A lot. Too much even.

Well that's enough knowledge for one day kiddos.

K Learns Spanish: Lesson 3

chupito- shot, like a shot of tequila

ligarse- to make out. As in: Por que toda la gente está ligandose?

el restaurante que tiene mujeres desnudas con comida encima de sus cuerpos y a las chicas los chicos les pagan para comer la comida de su piel. Es japonese.-
Loosely translated the Japanese practice of Nyotaimori. Or in this case an awkward question a 12 year old boy asked me in class today.

"Is there a famous Emily in America?" "Uh, Probably." "My cousin looks like her."

I have officially finished my first week of "teaching". I include the quotes because so far...well so far this is what I've done: I've been handed a lesson 30 seconds before class and told to just teach it. The teacher will then sit in the room and either take the chance to breath for the first time all day or simply grades papers. Other times I've been told to talk to the kids. For 50 mins. About anything. Just make sure it's English.

I've got a wide range of kids, from ages 12-17, with an even wider range of levels of English. Some are almost fluent. Others panic when I look at them because they're not sure if I've just introduced myself or told them that I've come from America to take over their homeland and enslave their families.

I've also encountered different levels of support from my coworkers. The department head has pretty much told me I can do whatever activities and culture teachings I want (again as long as it's in English). Another refused to speak English in a meeting with me and the other Auxiliar. All I really got from her rapid-fire rant was that she didn't agree (No estoy de acuerdo. No estoy de acuerdo). Whether she was pissed about our presence, our program, the general education system, or our existence, I'm not entirely clear on. Luckily I'm not teaching any classes with her.

All week I was reminded how much I love working with kids and teaching (and since they're synonymous here in Spain, talking as well). But it also reminded me how broken the education system is worldwide.

But that's a topic for another post. Instead I feel like I should take this time to apologize to my current idol, the person I'd have dinner with, if I could choose anyone, living or dead: Lady Gaga.

In one of my younger classes a girl asked me how to translate "Lady Gaga" into Spanish. Not wanting to go into the explanation of the idiom "gaga over someone." I just said that it didn't mean anything, Gaga's just a sound. Which started the following Abbott and Costello-esque exchange:

Student: So it mean nothing?
Me: Right.
Student: Nada?
Me: Um hm.
Student: So in español she is "Princesa de Nada".
Me: Well, no. And I think 'Doña' is closer to 'Lady'.
Student: Doña Nada.
Me (foolishly trying to switch into Spanish for more clarity): No, no. Gaga no significa nada.
Student (trying again): Ok. Que significa?
Me: Nada.
Student: (pause) Nada?
Me: Nada.
Student: Vale. Doña Nada.

So I apologize now Gaga if in the Spanish speaking world you become known as Doña Nada.

Other than that I have just a few observations from my brief time in the Spanish educational world:

1) Kids are pretty much the same worldwide. The younger students all want to be my best friend and will fight to the death to sit next to me or for the chance to ask me if I have a brother or sister. The older ones refuse to speak out of fear of saying something wrong and getting laughed at. And 16 year old boys are incapable of keeping drool in their mouths when a young, mysterious woman is standing in front of them.

2) As Americans, all our greatest fears about other cultures' stereotypes and perceptions of us are true. No matter the inquisitor's age or level of grammatical clarity I always get asked the following:

a) Do you know anyone famous?
b) Are all American's blonde haired and blue eyed? (I'm sorry that my recent cosmetic choices have perpetuated this belief.)
c) Do you like Spanish food? It is better than hamburgers, no?
d) Do you like Eminem?
When I respond by saying, "He's alright" the following follow-up question is thus prompted:
e) What about Two and A Half Men? It is much funnier with Charlie Sheen, no?
And the most disheartening:
f) Has Obama changed anything?
And all I can say without confusing them is, "He tries."

3) Unfortunately there seems to be an inverse correlation with the talent/merit of a Celebrity/Pop Culture phenomena and the rest of the world's ability to properly say their name. For instance most of my students have no trouble saying Hannah Montana, America's Best Dance Crew, and Justin Bieber. However it took me five minutes to decipher Green Day, Tim Burton, and Nirvana from a mash-up of phonetics. And when I told them my favorite movie was "The Royal Tenebaums" they didn't even try to say it.

Side note: I do find comfort in the fact that worldwide Biebs illicits the same response. 12 year old girls screech. 12 year old boys groan. 12 year old class clowns sing "Baby" and dance in their desks.

4) If you're in a developed country, people still find it odd and disturbing that you grew up on a dirt road.

K Learns Spanish: Lesson 2

vaqueros- a) jeans b) cowboys
Yes, this means Vaqueros llevan vaqueros.

fregadero- sink

trenza- braid

coleta- ponytail
coletas- pigtails

Side note: For a fun parlor game, grab your nearest Spaniard and try to explain to them that pigtails can be both braided and unbraided, and either way they are still just called pigtails, not braids.

Los días primeros

I arrived in Madrid lost. Physically and metaphysically. As soon as I got off the plane I saw mountains and thought, "Huh, mountains. Didn't know those would be there." I really knew nothing about the country or city I'd be living in. Except that they speak Spanish here, albeit a form of Spanish I'm not very familiar with. All I knew about Madrid was that it wasn't where I'd been. Despite popular opinion, I didn't move here to go traipsing around Europe drinking wine and smoking rolled cigarettes like some new millennium Bohemian. Honestly I needed an escape (A 23 year old feeling lost, without a direction for her career, love life, or general future? Recession or no I recognize the cliche). I could've gone to any city, any country, or any dimension. It wouldn't have mattered to me, because honestly I didn't really know where I was or where I was going in the first place.

And then I got here and I really was lost. After careful calculation, I realized my fist week here I spent, on average, 20-30% of my waking hours lost. My maps, my Spanish, my sense of direction, were all failing me. Needless to say I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of running away to a country blind.

But meandering around Madrid somehow felt right. Like I was supposed to be there. Hippie Dippie, I know, but I believe in fate (at least in the "Choose Your Own Adventure Sense", where each decision, each moment of free will, sends you to a different page, but a page that's already been written nonetheless). And all the sudden things started falling into place.

I met great people at my hostel; fellow world wanderers and lost souls.
I found a great apartment. The room may have previously belonged to Thumbelina, true, but it comes with some awesome roommates, including a Irish-loving Spaniard with immense patience for my falty Spanish, a fellow vegetariana, and one of the most laidback, yet observant dudes I’ve ever met.
And I’m writing. Again. Finally. Sigh.

So everything seems to be falling into place.
K Suerte.

K learns Spanish: Lesson 1

Que mono- How cute!
Literally translate it means “What a monkey.” Apparently the primate look is in here in Spain.
See also ponerse mono- to get cute or dress up.

Patosa- clumsy/klutz. See K.

El Chino- As in Voy al Chino.- A cheap general store (that has everything) and is run and owned by Asians.
Note: Un Chino does not have to be run by Chinese people. Here in Spain all Asians are aggregated into the same group, los Chinos. Less than politically correct, yes, but this also makes the phrase a great way to recognize Americans. If they hesitate/feel uncomfortable using the phrase El Chino, chances are they feel racists saying it and grew up in the politically correct society of the US of A.