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Either the Spanish enjoy their meat rather rare, or they think Americans do (or maybe the Dutch? or Germans?). MC and I have ordered steak in some form or another (entrecot, solomillo—it’s hard to figure out what to order because I don’t even know cuts of meat in English) five or six times now and, of course, every time the server has asked us how we would like it cooked. I’ve never caught the exact words they use to ask, but we figured out pretty quickly what they meant. Unfortunately, we haven’t been sure how to answer in Spanish and so far every time we’ve gotten steak, they’ve basically just led a cow—still mooing and chewing its cud—out from the kitchen. It’s a little awkward.

Fortunately, because I’m all smart and stuff, after six weeks of having to ask the server (in Spanish!) to take the cow back into the kitchen and slaughter it and possibly give it five minutes on the grill, I realized I could ask one of my Spanish teachers (who was born here and actually knows the language) how to order steak. So for anyone who is considering a trip to Spain and would like to be able to order cow that’s already dead and cooked a little, I humbly submit the following:

In Order from Rarest to Most Well-Done:
• casi vivo (almost alive)
• poco hecho (a little done)
• vuelta y vuelta (turned and turned…basically rare)
• al punto (medium)
• muy hecho (very done / well done)

So upon further reflection and in consideration of the fact that they’ve got three different forms of rare, I think it is probably the Spanish that like their cow served living tableside, and not their assumption of American carnivorous tastes.

Vuelta y vuelta seems to be the default for non-Spanish speaking patrons. So basically, if you blankly stare at the waiter when they rattle off something after you order, you’re probably going to get a bloody hunk of meat. I must say, however, that because of my ignorance my tastes have changed a little since we’ve been here. Too afraid to ask the server to take the meat back and cook it a little more, I’ve just eaten what I’ve been served, and I think the Spanish might be on to something with this whole eating meat a little closer to its natural state thing. I figure that since I’m willing to eat beef carpaccio, I can eat rare steak, and honestly, we haven’t had a bad piece of meat since we’ve been here. So the above list is for your benefit if you’re making a trek to Spain anytime soon, but you might want to try the staring blankly strategy—so far it’s worked for us!

-cuptastic

I love Spanish ordinal numbers…

Driven by exorbitant train fares to—and a lack of available hotel rooms in—Sevilla this weekend, we made a last-minute decision to go to San Sebastián (Donostia), a small seaside resort town in the northeast of Spain, in the heart of Basque Country, instead (Donostia is the Basque name for it).

And to augment Cupalicious’ previous post: man, were we pleased with our impulsiveness.

View of the main beach from the northeastern hill.

Arriving around noon, we checked into our small but cozy, clean and cheap hotel room (which had great service, by the way, along with an exposed original stone wall in the room—cool) and set out to get some of the acclaimed Basque cuisine we’d been hearing so much about (the Basques are pretty fierce in all their cultural exploits: linguistic (Basque), political (ETA), culinary…they have ancient, secret and competitive gastronomic clubs where the all male members get together and cook up some wicked good super-hors-d’ouvres known as “pinchos”). We wandered around the maze-like warren of narrow streets of the old city before stumbling into their Plaza Mayor and finding a cafe with seats in the sun. Though we ordered what we thought was going to be sufficient to assuage our growling hunger, the small kebab of 8 pieces of grilled veal, the single croquette and plate of 5 fried calamari rings—though delicious—failed to fill us up. Especially after I accidentally dropped two of my 8 nibbles of veal on the ground while trying to de-skewer them. Oh well, the flavor of what remained was satisfying, the ambiance was nice and after a pair of cañas, I didn’t care. We ended up filing the void with a healthy helping of ice cream, which made it all better.

Note to Bruce: ice cream shops for miles. MILES! One right after another, and all with really good ice cream and supersized portions! Like these “smalls”…

We then took advantage of the 85°F sun-drenched day and went to the beach. The water was ice cold, but the sand was perfect, so we conked out there for a couple hours, subjecting the unsuspecting fellow beach goers to our shockingly white, Midwestern-winterized torsos. No complaints from us though, other than the fact that obscenely large northern / eastern European women should avoid the compulsion to bask topless. Good. God. Why are the boobs you don’t want to see always on display while those you wouldn’t mind gawking at are kept under lock and key?

Dinnertime found us in a great little tavern with the third-best steaks we’ve ever had, along with more ice cream and a nocturnal stroll on the pedestrian trail running along the seawall, crashing waves and all. Not a bad day all around.

Sunday was markedly colder and cloudy, which was fine, as we wanted to do some hiking around the hills of the city, which would have been brutal the day before. We ascended the eastern hill that borders the scallop-shaped bay, and explored the ancient fort and chapel at the summit. There was a great little museum inside the fortress with interactive films and exhibits documenting the history of the town, including a small 30-seat 1920’s style movie theater showing classic film of the city from the old days (the place has been a summer retreat for the well-to-do since Queen Cristina set up a summer home in the late 1800s, making the place a posh resort). That chewed up most of the day, and the remainder before dinner was spent strolling about, taking in the scenery. The second-best steaks we’ve ever had were consumed later that evening, topping off a very relaxing weekend.

So, long story short, and to echo Al’s thoughts: next time you’re in Spain, go to San Sebastián. It’s got everything: beach, forested hills, great food, ruins, cultural activities (theater, opera, holidays, etc) and ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream. It’s the type of place we could take our dads and they could adequately occupy themselves while we sat on the beach with our moms wasting the whole damn day drinking and talking.

Pix on flickr.

-bdmc

San Sebastian was just gorgeous. Go there. Now. Or if you want to wait until 2045, we’ll have our summer retirement home there and you can stay with us.

We stayed in a great little hotel in the old part of the city that was very close to the beach. The food was fantastic, the people were friendly and the city is beautiful. I am absolutely in love with San Sebastian. MC is in the midst of writing a post, so I’ll let him give more details, but I just had to shout my love from the rooftops for a few moments…

-cuptastic

As a departure from MC’s obsession with the way in which Spaniards walk (it is pretty insane, however we’ve received new evidence that it’s a Mediterranean issue and not a Spanish issue), we have a new topic to discuss: what the rest of the world thinks of Americans!

(I can hear the collective groan all the way over here)

I’ve had a couple interesting experiences in the past few weeks that have shed some light on the rest of the world’s opinions about the US and have actually made me feel a little bit better about international relations.

First of all, I, apparently, do not look American. Last Thursday, a Swiss girl from our school came up to me in a bar and asked me a question in German (after which I stared blankly at her for about a minute and a half thinking ‘oh, please, please, please don’t let my Spanish be that bad!’), and once we got the languages figured out MC asked her why she automatically spoke German to me. She replied that she wasn’t sure where I was from but that I don’t give off an American vibe, and she thought I might be German. So apparently I’m either Dutch or German depending on whether I’m sitting or standing. (I was standing when the Dutch tourists approached me and sitting when the Swiss girl approached). We were talking to her for a while when she said, completely unprompted, that she thought of America as a country of extremes. We have the fattest people in the world and yet so many people with anorexia or bulimia; we have such huge differences in political beliefs among citizens; so much of what the rest of the world sees comes from Hollywood so it’s rife with all kinds of extremism; and even our landscapes are extreme in the sense that our country is huge, our climate is varied and we have such extreme topography from the Grand Canyon to the Rocky Mountains to Death Valley all the way to Georgia’s Okefenokee Swamp. She then said that it was very strange to meet someone from the US who is just normal and like any average person from Switzerland or France or wherever. I wasn’t quite sure how to take that, but I think it’s a good thing. Mom? Dad? I’m officially average! And I’m out spreading my American averageness to the rest of the world!

A few days later in class, my teacher wrote “America,” “Holland,” “Portugal,” and “Russia” across the top of the board. (My class consists of, at the moment, girls from Russia, Holland, and Portugal, a boy from Georgia - that’s Republic of, not the US state - and a guy from England. That day however, it was only us girls in class). He then turned and said to me (in Spanish, of course), “Al, what are Americans like?” To which I choked a little on my water and replied, “What are Americans like or what does the rest of the world think Americans are like?” Basically, we were learning adjectives, so each person had to come up with a bunch of adjectives to describe people from their own country. Of course, as we got into the exercise, the other girls became more willing to give their own adjectives for what Americans are like. Among them were fat, loud, tall, patriotic, friendly, open, religious and proud. As we went on for each country we discovered a lot of really interesting things. My impression had always been that most Europeans are pretty patriotic, but at least in Spain and Portugal, that’s not completely true. The other thing that I’ve discovered is that WWII is still at the forefront of a lot of Europeans’ minds. I’m in class with girls that are in their early, early twenties who bring up WWII all the time when talking about relations between European countries. Once WWII was brought up during this discussion, the Russian girl said to me that she thought Americans were very proud because we had defeated fascism. (To which my first thought was, “actually most people seem to be more upset about the whole not defeating communism thing than helping defeat some fascism in Europe,” but decided to keep that to myself). I said that it’s very different in the US because we didn’t suffer like Europe did in WWII, so to us it seems like a long time ago. I think the men and women of that generation were proud to serve their country and proud of helping Europe, but we’ve had so many wars since then that the threat of fascism seems like something from another world and a completely different time period. (Okay, so I wasn’t so eloquent - I had to speak completely in Spanish!) I then went on to say that the current mood for a lot of Americans is actually shame because we’re embarrassed about the situation in Iraq and our imbecilic president and we feel like the rest of the world hates us. The response to this was overwhelmingly positive - according to all of my classmates and teacher there is too much history to just think of the current president and the mess we’re in. They know that a lot of Americans disagree with the war and when they think of America, they think of the people they’ve met from the US who have all basically been friendly, open, tall, and patriotic.

So in summary:

1) I don’t look American.

2) America seems like a big, extreme country to the rest of the world.

3) The rest of the world doesn’t hate us! Yay! (Edited 28.04.08 - Okay, I may have spoken a little soon on this way. The rest of the world doesn’t hate us, per se, but we do have a bad reputation. poop.)

-cuptastic

This post finds us once again revisiting the beguiling walking habits of Spaniards. As you can see from previous posts, this is truly a major point of concern for us; one which we are driven, if not to rectify before leaving this glorious country, at least to understand in greater depth.

Today we made a big leap toward the latter, as we had the revelation that the seeming unconscious tendencies of Spaniards to walk in quite possibly the most annoying ways possible are exactly that: unconscious. Rather, they are the result of natural selection induced by the Mediterranean climate and the physics thereby associated.

Allow me to rise out of my overly complex Hawking chair and speak frankly: basically, we figure it works like this: Spain is freakin’ hot for most of the year, right? What don’t you wanna do when it’s hot out? Move, right? Well, at least not rapidly. So that means for the last, I dunno, 10,000 years, Spaniards have been moving slowly so as not to break a sweat and stain the armpits of their very classy silk blouses, making today’s Spaniards really, really slow.

Now, if you recall from your 8th grade science classes—you know the ones that introduced you to physics through the then-seemingly-cool metaphors of the Spinning Bicycle Wheel and the Mousetrap Car (ok, Mousetrap Cars are still cool)—things that move tend to build up inertia and continue to move in the manner in which they started moving. And the faster things move, the greater their inertia, and hence, the more likely they are to keep going in the same direction (this is, of course, a very dumbed-down, graphic designer’s explanation of physics, and assumes that there are no forces acting to counteract the initial force). At any rate, the converse would be (other than a classic shoe), that slow moving objects are more easily diverted from their paths. Hence, rapidly moving Americans are able to maintain a steady course and speed down the right sight of the sidewalk, whilst slower moving Spaniards are subject to the same forces that cause the Spinning Bicycle Wheel of yore to wobble and fall over. Thus, slowly ambulating Spaniards are more prone to non-linear courses of travel, thereby resulting in their continual incursions into our comparatively straight vectors.

This phenomenon is exacerbated by the physics of mass and gravity, which, we have come to realize, helps explain the tendency of ambulating Spaniards approaching from the opposite direction to suddenly veer into us and attempt to pass on the right, while those traveling in the same direction will pass on the left with as little physical clearance as possible. As an additional result of the aforementioned Mediterranean natural selection yielding ever-more-slowly moving Spaniards, said Spaniards are also generally smaller folk, as smaller folk tend to not get as hot. That also means that compared to larger objects, they’re less dense. 6-foot-plus Americans, on the other hand, are, in the case of Al, very hot, and of me, very dense, which means that together, our collective mass exerts a fairly strong gravitational pull. The smaller, less dense Spaniards are helpless in the face of these physical forces and since their slow-moving speed precludes them from having significant inertia to avoid being affected by our mass, they are thereby drawn to us in one capacity or another.

To put it plainly, we’re just too damn attractive and they just can’t help themselves.

Now, if we can just figure out how their sense of scale became so distorted as to think that a mother, her child and a stroller can fit through the personal space between Al and me (which, although we ARE Americans, is only about 3–6″), that would complete our scientific analysis of the crowd behaviors of the Spanish. I’m sure additional time in the field will yield further clarification. Stay tuned.

-bdmc, Ph.D.

This past weekend was spent in the relaxing Mediterranean resort city of Valencia, due to our twin desires to A) see the third largest city in Spain, and B) get the hell out of our wretchedly dirty apartment and take a real shower where we weren’t afraid to accidentally bump our naked butts in to the wall and come down with some bizarre skin rash.

We caught the train on Friday after class, and although it was advertised to take 3.5 hours, for some unknown reason it actually took 5.5, putting us into Valencia at roughly 2:30a on Saturday morning. Upside: we weren’t in the smoking car!

On Saturday we rose around noon and headed over to the Mercat Central, a sprawling public market offering aisle after aisle of vendors selling all sorts of fresh produce, meat and seafood, all in a cool 1920’s modern style wrought-iron and stained glass building. After a “most satisfying repast” at an outdoor cafe in the courtyard of the market, we took advantage of the density of the old city, hitting all the major sites in only a couple hours. These included visiting: the Lonja, a 16th century neo-Gothic mercantile exchange built by the local silk merchants; the Cathedral, including surmounting the ridiculously tall Micalet, its Moorish minaret re-appropriated as a bell tower; the Ceramics Museum; the city’s oldest Horchateria, and strolling along the Rio park, which is the old course of the diverted Turia River, repurposed as a central green / park area. And since most of the monuments are only a few steps from each other, we ended up passing the same group of Italian tourists 4 times in different parts of the city. Weird

After such an exhaustive tour, we opted to take advantage of the general cleanliness of our hotel room and ordered room service and watched a movie. It was actually really good, except for the damn exchange rate. I swear, it gets worse and worse every day. What’s going on in the States that’s screwing that damn thing up so badly for us (I mean aside from that whole War on Terror quagmire thingy)?!?

Sunday was another gorgeous day (in contrast to the rain, wind and general misery experienced by Madrileños this weekend…hehehe), so we took off intending to go to the Aquarium part of the City of Arts and Sciences, a super-modern complex designed by Valencian architect Santiago Calatrava which looks like a cross between the Death Star and Sea Lab (I tried to take some pix of it, but the scale prohibited me doing it justice. It’s wicked cool.). We never actually made it to the Aquarium, however, because as we were leaving the hotel, it dawned on us that our return train to Madrid was of the 6-hour regional variety, departing from a station on the other side of town. Though we originally decided this would be a good idea, as it saved a couple of euros, we figured out that between the cab fee to get to the station and the misery of sitting in an uncomfortable short-haul seat for 6 hours (or more, based on past precedent), it wasn’t worth it. We subsequently had to go back to the train station and fix our tickets to get on the 6:50a train this morning. That chewed up the time that we had planned to spend at the Aquarium, and as we were walking up to the ticket counter (which took about an hour of walking around the complex to finally find…damn construction), they were shutting down. Oh well. We took it as a sign that we should go to the real Aquarium—the beach.

We sat on the rocky retaining wall of the jetty by the beach admiring the vistas for about an hour, after which, we opted to continue sitting by the beach, but instead of on a hard rock, we sought out a comfortable chair. In a bar. With cold, cold beer. This locale also offered us a good 45-minute game of “Guess the Nationality” of the boisterous crowd of Aryan-looking tourists across the way from us (we settled on Dutch).

Later on Sunday evening, as we were walking back to the hotel after a fantastic meal of paella in this dope little 8-table restaurant right next to the Cathedral’s bell tower, we were talking and realized two things:
1. despite the two bottles of wine we enjoyed over dinner, we were not in fact, drunk. Rather, our perpetual immersion in Spanish has rendered us linguistically handicapped. We’re not drunk, we’re just losing our English.
2. Valencia is a really cool city. It’s similar to Savannah, GA, but less rednecky and more cultured. It’s a beach town / college town, but with the size, cultural opportunities and industry to offset the potential limitations of your average beach / college town. It’s kinda like a tuxedo-print t-shirt. It can be formal, but it’s here to party.

-bdmc

Our house back in the States finally closed on Wednesday and the new owner took possession immediately (we’re still debating whether she really has ownership yet though…you’re welcome, Tom).

It’s a little surreal to be completely homeless. We had four great years there, replete with a near-total overhaul of the joint to the point where we knew each and every nuance of her ol’ bones; we were on a first-name / know-your-drink basis with the bartender of the local dive bar (conveniently located two doors down) and super-chummy with a squad of great neighbors (G.E.S. Forever! Rap Tor Lux Lucis! (coat of arms forthcoming)). But fate couldn’t be escaped and it would have happened eventually anyway. At least this way we got to blow the dividend check on world travel (hey, it’s better than our alternative strategy of a truckload of coke and taking over Client #9’s, uh, service providers…) Honestly, once the offer went in and we got past the inspection, it was pretty much a done deal in our minds; the closing was just a formality.

We have, however, been on the look out for the perfect replacement place, and we think we’ve found it:

Just kidding. That’s the Palacio Real in Madrid, one of the umpteen palaces throughout the country at the king’s disposal. This one is so big (it’s the largest in all of Western Europe) that it even has its own distinct climate zones: it was cold, windy and raining in the courtyard 5 minutes before this shot was taken outside the side door. Ahh, the power of an unlimited monarch.

-bdmc

The other day our teacher gave us some homework (los deberes in the vernacular), which included writing a summary of our ideal day, so that we could practice our time words and reflexive verbs (good lord, I feel like such a child…”Let’s use our time words!”). Anyway, she was extrapolating on the explanation and said (in Spanish), “For example, for me, I get myself up, I have breakfast with Brackpeet, da da dadda dah…”

When she noticed the entire class giving her a quizzical look she restated the sentence, this time with more enthusiasm (and yeah, that whole “speak louder and they’ll get it” thing isn’t limited to obnoxious Americans). For further clarification she turned to me and said (again, this is all in Espanish), “Or for you, it could be Anheleena Holee…”

Me (in English): Oh. OHHHH. “Angelina Jolie”! Si, Si, Si, I get it now (in a chorus with the rest of the class).
Wait, that means you must have been talking about “Brad Pit”.
You mean “BRAAAD PIIIITT”?

Teacher: “Si. Brackpeet!”

Me: “No (gesturing with my hands to emphasize the two words), Brad. Pitt.”

Teacher (now in frustrated English): “Oh, ok, fine: ‘Braaaaaaaaad Piiiiitt’”, augmented with an arm pump and an ‘Oh yeaaaaah’ (both uttered in the most nasal Midwestern American accent possible—the kind that makes Al sound like a dulcet-toned angel), and a glare at me that said, “See! Look what you made me do! You made me sound like a dumbass in front of the whole class!” She then blushed, gathered her materials with overwrought theatrical gusto and humorously stormed out of the room.

It was hysterical.

So today, we’re reviewing the homework and I used the wrong verb to describe watching TV and she corrected me, to which I responded, “you watch TV how you like, and I’ll watch it how I like,” tongue planted firmly in cheek.

Much to the glee of my classmates, she subsequently refused to answer any of my questions for the rest of the class.

At the end of class as the students were packing up their things she was asking who would be leaving this week and after confirming with the two who were, she turned to me and asked, “This is your last week too, no???”

At least I got 5 weeks out of the program before they caught on…

-bdmc

I’ve been pretty absent from the blog lately, mostly because MC spins a pretty good yarn and I don’t bring the funny quite like he does.

Also, I’ve had my nose buried in Spanish books because I have my second test on Friday and it seems as if it won’t be quite as easy as the first one.

We are, however, doing a tour on Thursday of the royal palace in Madrid and possibly going to Valencia this weekend, so I’m sure we’ll have some stories to share. The royal palace was the place where I had my first “holy carp!” historical moment. I was fourteen and it was my first trip to Spain. We were doing a tour of the palace when I looked down at the floor and it occurred to me how many people, famous or not, had walked in the same exact spot where I was walking. So many Felipes y Carloses, Hapsburgs and non-Hapsburgs had stood exactly where I was standing. I know, it’s sort of a duh moment, but you have to remember I was fourteen. And, it was the moment that got me really interested in history. So I always enjoy touring the palace and I’m excited for MC to see it for the first time.

We’re also in the midst of planning a trip to Valencia, so we’ll let you know if that happens. I have never been to Valencia and two very important people in our lives studied there, so we’re excited to finally see it. And, of course, I will let everyone know how my test goes on Friday. I know none of you will be able to sleep until then. Just try not to think about it.

Oh, and I would like to thank MC for giving me his disease. I went running this morning and for almost the entire run I was translating American songs into Spanish. Thank goodness I’ve been listening to Andrew Bird and not Hall and Oates.

-cuptastic

I don’t know why, but for the last four weeks, I’ve had nothing but crappy mid-80’s / early 90’s pop songs stuck in my head. And I don’t even listen to mid-80’s / early 90’s pop songs. Not only that, but while they’re up in there, I keep trying in vain to translate them to Spanish…to no avail.

Some examples:
• Rich Girl by Hall & Oates
• some crappy song by that Canadian girl with the French name…Avril something
• Paradise City by GnR (not exactly the worst thing ever, but after 35 times of only the first verse it gets a little old; thanks to Peter for that one)

and many more…

It could be because we don’t have any radio or tv here to distract us, or it could be that Spanish reflexive verbs are slowly driving me crazy and these are the symptoms manifesting themselves.

“Tu eres una chica rica y se has ido demasiado lejos, por que no es importante…”

Ayudarme por favor….

-bdmc

This weekend we took another trip with the school, this time to El Escorial and Valle de los Caidos, two historic sites about an hour north of Madrid. El Escorial is a 16th century palace / church / monastery built by Philip II as a royal vacation home / fortress in the battle to stem the effects of the Reformation, and Valle de los Caidos (Valley of the Fallen) is a monument / basilica / tomb built by Franco to commemorate both the dead of the Spanish Civil War and his own self-important grandeur. Judging by the /’s, the Spanish were big on multiuse buildings wayyy before multiuse was cool.

El Escorial was quite impressive, er, rather, somber. Built between 1563-84 by Philip II, a devoutly Catholic monarch who subscribed to the acetic lifestyle (he fancied himself a monk / bureaucrat / king), the complex is, in a word “spare”, especially by late Renaissance standards. It’s all gray granite and minimally adorned, though the interior architecture is very interesting and the lack of adornment allows the viewer to focus on the structure rather than the icing. Al dubbed it “Swiss Modern design for the 16th century” (This made me almost lose my sh!t. It’s so hot when she talks design to me). It houses a monastery, a pre-monastic boarding school, a huge domed church and the royal apartments, complete with gardens and a stellar view of the surrounding countryside. The whole thing is very austere, and given its size and uniformity, it stands in distinct contrast to other royal buildings, and when you take the site into consideration (it’s built amongst the ruins and detritus of over-worked mines on a desolate, wind-swept hillside), it’s quite foreboding, almost ominous. When you consider that it was created as a fortress of conservative Catholicism, forming the anchor of the counter-Reformation, it makes sense. The pictures will explain it better.

About 20 minutes from El Escorial lies the Valle de los Caidos, and it continues the severe sense of ominousness found at Escorial. Basically, the site is located on a heavily forested hillside, deep within a national park, and consists of a 2-piece monument: a huge underground basilica and a 152.4 meter high (so that’s like, what? 400 feet? Damn metric system) cross visible from the friggin’ Mediterranean. Not really, but it’s the largest free-standing cross in the world. The basilica is hewn from the solid rock of the mountainside, the front of which is an arcaded semi-circle that focuses in on a bronze door leading to the basilica within. Constructed thanks to the help of 20,000 leftist political prisoners “employed” by Franco over it’s almost 20 year construction (ca. 1940-1959), the basilica is enormous and if it weren’t for the fact that part of it was walled off and not consecrated by the pope, it actually exceeds St. Peter’s in scale. The space is really dark and gloomy and given the time it was built (late 30’s-50’s) it incorporates neo-Gothic / Art Deco styling, resulting in a creepy DeathStar / Batman meets Hellboy meets Jesus kind of flavor. It is in no way a joyous celebration of faith, but rather heavy-handed, fear-mongering militant Catholicism. The entryway is flanked by two imposing, soulless bronze Art Deco angels wielding swords, and deeper within are a series of faceless mourning figures, adding a further somber tone to the place. The main entry opens up to a large circular altar, on either side of which are buried Franco and his idol, Primo de Rivera. Above the altar is a 6-million-tile mosaic illustrating the Final Judgement, complete with angels, demons and tortured souls. A great place to take the kids. Below the altar is the mass grave of 40,000 Nationalist and Republican dead, over whom, a local monastery of Benedictine monks say regular masses. The site is a point of contention among Spaniards, as the echoes of Franco’s brutal legacy still haunt them; our tour guide (a 28-year-old teacher at our school) almost came to tears discussing his reign and broke her highly held personal rule and spoke in English in order to convey the gravity of the site. Combine this with the blustery, frigid weather and it was heavy shite.

Next weekend, we’re striking out on our own and heading to Valencia. Nice beaches, less depressing. Any advice on sites to see?

-bdmc

We had a small victory today: we finally got oncoming Spaniards to pass us on our left as we were walking down the sidewalk.

It is a bizarre phenomenon that, despite the fact that the Spanish—like Americans and most other Europeans—drive on the right-hand side of the road, they feel compelled to try and pass you on the inside (right side) when approaching from the opposite direction on the sidewalk. For the past four weeks, we have gone from gracious accommodation to disbelief that this activity wasn’t an isolated incident to stoic immovability to a subtle lateral tracking to the right, which today, finally forced the oncoming Spaniard to reconsider his approach and veer off to the left at the last minute. A small victory, but a key win in the challenge to bring some order to this Mediterranean chaos!

Viva la Revolucion!

P.S. These are the fun little games you play when you’re otherwise completely enamored with a country and a people. Whee!

-bdmc

Or at least I do 90% of the time, according to the results of my first ever Spanish test. Boom-shacka-lacka!

After four weeks of intensive study (or rather one of casual study and three of intensive drinking), our teachers surprised us on Tuesday with the news that we would have a test on Friday over all the material thus covered. And that included the rather complicated direct- and indirect-object pronoun stuff they flew thru on Thursday. Not that direct and indirect object pronouns are that difficult, but as an American kid learning English in the 80’s, they didn’t so much teach us this crap…it was all that post-hippie “the kids will figure it out from context” nonsense…thanks, jerks. At any rate, it didn’t seem to matter, as I took that test out back and made it my b!tch. Highest score in the class, too, I might add; and that’s only 8 points fewer than Al scored on the same test after 8 years of Spanish. All in all, I’m rather impressed with myself.

Cock of the walk, baby, cock of the walk.

-bdmc

(Let’s not forget who stayed up late last night helping you study…. -Al)

Madrid has been in a hot drought for an extended period recently, so much so that on the first day of school the director made a point to tell us that we need to be judicious with our water use. Well that all became a big fat lie this week, as it’s been cold and raining every day since Sunday, and it’s supposed to continue thru next week. I’m happy for the Spaniards, in that now they can continue washing their sidewalks every night with a firehose—as is their custom—with a bit more confidence that it won’t be the last time, but if we’re going to have to keep putting up with this crappy English weather, I demand that the English language follow in suit!

-bdmc

Today we had an unusually high level of interaction with the natives, specifically those outside the protective (and ridiculously slow speaking) bubble of our school. Reflecting on the linguistic onslaught which we narrowly survived, we came to some interesting (at least to us) conclusions regarding the Spanish language and those who speak it as their lengua materna. They are presented below.

Keep in mind that we are:
a) not yet fluent in Spanish, as such, all statements about the intricacies and nuances of the language are based purely on our limited exposure and subject to change;
2) liberal arts/ business majors and therefore not fully trained in the scientific method. As such, most the “theories” postulated herein are based on circumstantial evidence (although every one of them holds more water than the one about the earth only being 6000 years old. Now, that’s just ridiculous…);
d) not advocating one language as superior to another, but merely observing differences for the sake of discussion;
iv) paranoid about the things reader Spirit of ‘73 is going to come back at us with, hence these disclaimers.

Theory 1: Spaniards speak ridiculously fast because their language prohibits shortcuts, they use double negatives, and they lack the ability to speak with brevity in general.

Data Point 1: The Structure Prohibits Shortcuts
The Spanish language, as with most Romance languages, is very formulaic and regimented (in odd contrast to the people), such that there really aren’t any shortcuts to say most things. Additionally, there aren’t any contractions. Sure, that only means a few letters every now and again, but over the course of a paragraph, that makes quite a difference. Thus, the Spanish are forced to say three to four words to communicate something that, in English, one or two would cover. When you’ve got to double your output in the same amount of time, it forces quickness.
Examples: El Restaurante de Los Padres de Carlos, vs. Carlos’ Parents’ Restaurant (that’s a 50% savings right there) or los padres de mi padre vs. my dad’s parents (an additional 40% fewer words (I think…math was never my strong point, especially in another language). And it’s not just limited to parental descriptions.

Data Point 2: Double Negatives
They don’t not use double negatives. That’s just a-whole-nother kettle of fish adding complexity to the language, as it requires an additional three sentences to explain exactly what you mean by not not meaning something…. Again, the whole more words / same time issue.

Data Point 3: But Yet They Repeat Themselves
It seems that the average Spaniard in the course of conversation will actually say the same thing no fewer than three times, and not necessarily in different ways. And this behavior has been observed between Spaniards speaking to Spaniards, not just Spaniards speaking to retarded Americans. So if you work that one back, that means 66% of what is said is redundant. That means they’re cramming 3 words into a timeslot built for 1. That means that 2 of every 3 words is the same as the first one.

Have we made our point?

Data Point 4: A General Lack of Brevity
Within the 33% of the conversation that’s actually new information, we figure that only 30% are necessary to communicate the point. And that’s accounting for the English equivalents of “like” and like, stuff like that, and like you know, and such. That means that 70% of what is said is essentially conversational gravy and could be eliminated to reduce speed. That all works out to some kind of fraction that Stephen Hawking couldn’t figure out. Point is, all you need is the basic meat and potatoes of language, people: subject, verb. Done.

(The authors realize the irony of this last point, especially in context of some of the overly-loquacious entries in this here blog, but we’re not talking about us, dammit.)

Theory 2: Spaniards Speak Louder with People They Know Than with Strangers

This odd phenomenon has been observed in numerous cafés, restaurants and other such public places, and defies conventional expectations: two Spaniards who know each other will converse in a comparatively loud voice about topics you wouldn’t think they’d want the whole room to know about, while they speak with a waiter (or other stranger) in a relatively low voice about topics that no one would care if they heard. The effect of this phenomenon is that a room full of Spaniards talking to people they know gets really, really loud, making it almost impossible to hear the waiter give you the total for your bill causing you to stare blankly at him until he assumes you’re retarded and writes it on the napkin for you. Not that that’s happened to us…

Theory 3: Spaniards Appropriate Words from Other Languages and Do So Phonetically

The cool thing about Spanish is that you pronounce every letter, and each letter only has one sound. This makes it easy to learn, as you just assume you say everything you see. It also yields some interesting discoveries when you find a term that wasn’t around when Spanish was invented.
Examples:
esqui : ski (phonetically, that’s “eski”, which is basically how the Spaniards would pronounce the English word.)
béisbol : baseball (same as above)
and my favorite
champú : shampoo (there are no double vowels in Spanish, and the ch is as close to “sh” as they come)

Theory 4: Learning Spanish Will Cause You to Lose Your English Vocabulary, Making You Sound Like an Idiot in Two Languages

Ever find yourself in the situation where you’re the only native English speaker in a room full of ESLs and no one else in the room understands what the hell the teacher is trying to say in Spanish, but she knows you know the word in English, so she looks at you with that “How do you say this in English” look, but for the life of you, you can’t come up with “brochure”? No? Yeah, us neither…

10) Horchata. I can’t believe I didn’t mention it before. For a while I thought I might be the only person in the world who likes it, but I truly don’t believe I’m drinking THAT much horchata. I can’t be keeping an entire industry afloat, can I?

11) Rain. Contrary to popular belief it doesn’t stay mainly on the plains, so the madrilenos have been ecstatic this week because of the rain. In fact, yesterday there was a thunderstorm as we were leaving school and the director broke her own “solamente en espanol” rule to run around the school chanting “esta raining! esta raining!”

12) La escuela. Our school is great. The teachers are smart and fun and I’m really enjoying meeting students from other countries. There are not that many Americans attending the school, so it’s sort of our own version of this, but wow, it can be difficult to understand a Russian speaking Spanish.

13) Juan Valdez Cafe. Okay, it’s totally a chain and not very Spanish, but it’s close to the school, it has free wi-fi and they play American music. Albeit very strange and sometimes older American music, but American music nonetheless. Which completely takes me back to my days of being an angst-ridden teenager. I sit and study and listen to music from the early 90’s and get all melancholy because I’m a little homesick - if that doesn’t scream teenager, I don’t know what does.

-cuptastic

Our school excursion this weekend was to the Medieval fortress city / former Spanish capital of Toledo. Overall it was a great trip, though our overly tired state—the result of staying up waaay too late Friday night saying goodbye to our American friend who left early Saturday—combined with a pair of overly obnoxious, loquacious and culturally retarded German girls tainted this outing slightly. The city was inspiring, however, and we figure we’ll make a return trip by ourselves, when we’re more rested, more well-educated on the city and sans Ger-tards.

At any rate, our day began again at the crack of dawn, as we rushed thru the park with throbbing headaches to catch our tour bus. Our journey was soothed, however, by the early morning sounds of nature, namely the cooing of every pigeon in the park. Given that it’s mating season, we assumed they were all doing it, and that made us smile.

We made the bus, passed out, and awoke on a switchback road winding thru the river gorge on the edge of Toledo. The vista was quite breathtaking, as the city rose out of the craggy valley, with a high Medieval curtain wall surrounding the Alcázar, Cathedral and warren of clay-tiled buildings within. After pulling over at the scenic overlook and doing our best imitation of Japanese tourists (there was a busload of them there too, by the way, taking pictures of everything. And I mean EVERY. THING. Toledo, the gorge, their tour bus, the little snack shop next to the overlook, each other, gum wrappers, plastic bags blowing in the wind, you name it.) we rolled into town and made our way to the Cathedral.

The Cathedral, a French Gothic / Mudéjar style building in the middle of town, is unique in construction in that it has five naves (the main aisleways running lengthwise thru the church), a rare characteristic among Gothic cathedrals (most have three). Though impressive, I must say I was a bit underwhelmed (sorry, Señora). I think it was the fact that it had been turned into such a tourist attraction that the austerity of the place had been sacrificed to the point that it felt a bit like a theme park (Bienvenidos a JesúsLand!). It could also have been because I was exhausted, or it could have been because the fat, loud German girl in our group wouldn’t shut her shnitzel hole the entire damn time, making it nearly impossible to follow the Spanish explanations of our guide. In the words of Al, “that b!tch is making me think un-churchlike thoughts.” Just more support for my universal course on museum etiquette. At any rate, the Cathedral in Segovia felt much more “holy”. I’d be willing to go back to Toledo after researching it further, as I’m sure there’s unique features I missed.

All in all, however, it was still an interesting piece of architectural achievement, and the Rococo addition of the “Stairway to Heaven” (that’s what I’m calling it; I’m sure it has an official name, but I never caught it. Probably because the whole tour was in Spanish. Oh well.) behind the altar was impressive: lots of swirling sculptural movement and frescoes giving the illusion of people looking down from heaven. There’s also a window directly opposite the sculpture which illuminates a gilded dove in the center, suggesting an inner divine glow. It’s similar to Bernini’s Gloria for St. Peter’s in Rome, but a little less impressive, at least in my humble opinion (what can I say, I’m a sucker for Italian Renaissance / Rococo). The choir, however, was quite breathtaking, as it’s adorned from top to bottom with intricate wood carvings and reliefs showing a combination of the history of Toledo, the saints, the life of Jesus and a variety of beasties warning of the perils of straying from the faith. Even the bottoms of the seats had carvings. We also toured some of the back rooms and gallery spaces where it became clear to me where all the booty from the New World ended up. I don’t think there was a single item on display that wasn’t either solid gold or gilded and bejeweled to the point of ridiculousness. There were also a couple of hand-illuminated Bibles on display that were absolutely awesome. The type geek in me had the mind to smash the glass and make a run for the door, but the horde of slow moving Japanese tourists made me reconsider the facility of that plan.

After the Cathedral, we visited La Sinagoga del Tránsito, a museum housed in a former church / synagogue in the heart of the Jewish quarter. Originally built as a synagogue, it was later repurposed into a church, following the expulsion of all the Jews from Spain in 1492 by Ferdinand and Isabella, and has since been retrofitted as a museum of Sephardic Judaism. Interesting side note: prior to the expulsion, Toledo was a model of religious tolerance, with Islamic Moors, Christians and Jews living in relatively peaceful coexistence. Hence the city was a center of learning, creative arts and the other such cultural contributions of a peaceful existence. Apparently it was too good of an idea to just let it be. The museum was interesting, but again, all in Spanish, so I was a bit lost. The Mudéjar architecture though, was very intriguing, however.

The next stop was the Iglesia de Santo Tomé, where El Greco painted the Burial of Count Orgaz, considered among his finest works. It was quite impressive, especially when you consider his particularly Mannerist / Proto-Impressionistic / Expressionistic style in the context of his very precise Renaissance peers (think Caravaggio). Aside from this church, the town is literally covered with his work, as he lived and painted there for nearly 40 years, if my math is right. Though not a personal fan of his, it was still impressive to be so close to a work that I’ve seen in art history books for years; that whole “he stood right here” / living history kinda thing.

We then took a lunch break and Al and I found a nice little outdoor café where, if it weren’t for the need to get back to the tour bus by 4:00p, we probably would have stayed and “wasted the whole damn day.” I had a pretty good steak and Al noshed on some eggs and blood sausage combo. That’s the one interesting thing about Spanish food: you can have “breakfast” all day long, if you want, and it’s not like that crap at Waffle House or IHOP, but like the stuff your mom fixes for you on Sundays. Dee-lish.

Our final stop was the Monasterio de San Juan de los Reyes, a church / Franciscan monastery dedicated to the city by Ferd & Izzy (we’re on a first name nickname basis at the point) to commemorate the defeat of the Portuguese at the battle of Toro in 1476, and to serve as the royal burial place (remember that Toledo used to be the capital until Phillip II moved it to Madrid ). It was a very interesting building, featuring some of the clearest examples of the Mudéjar style for which I had been searching all day. The outside also featured manacles and chains anchored to the building, and I’m still trying to figure out their significance.

After this, it was a quick trot across the main access bridge across the Rio Tajo, where once again, the entire tour was waiting for me to finish shooting my complement of photos before getting back on the bus and going home. Once again I protested that if they didn’t have such visually interesting cities, I wouldn’t feel compelled to shoot them. In my defense, however, I: a) wasn’t the only guy on the bridge from our group; there was also a trigger-happy German kid with us (who also happened to have museum manners—a surprise) and b) I didn’t shoot the 600+ photos I did last weekend. Only 300.

So, long story short, Toledo was cool, we’ll probably go back, there’s some photos on Flickr.

-bdmc

So we had our first apartment party in years this weekend.

I say “we”, though, in actuality, Al and I were merely bystanders to the cigarette-smoke-infused and alcohol-drenched international clusterf*ck that took place in the apartment in which we’re staying. Having been away from the 18-21-year-old college house party scene for a while now, it was a little rough getting back into it, especially given that each of the 40 people whom we’d never met and were traversing the narrow hallways of our piso brought with them the added difficulties of a language barrier and a healthy misunderstanding of American culture (The hits in rugby—though hard—are NOT superior to those in American Football. That’s why they wear the pads. Otherwise they’d all be dead.). It was interesting, however, how quickly a few shots can soothe international tensions.

All in all, the night passed without major incident. We were, however, just slightly embarrassed by the duo of fine American lasses from American University in DC who managed to get completely plastered in record time, prompting one of them to attempt to determine what a bidet is for. She learned quickly that it is NOT for stomach bile. Even more frightening, her only slightly-less-drunk friend felt compelled to tell everyone at the party that she was studying foreign relations while bobbing and weaving like a woozy heavyweight fighter, her eyes focused somewhere between the chins and belly buttons of whomever she was speaking to. And we wonder why the global political situation is in such disarray. Nicely done, girls, your mommas are proud!

The party didn’t really get going till about 11:30p but then kept up till about 6:00a, much to the chagrin of our very angry elderly (presumably, for the sake of the story) Francoist neighbors who not only beat on the door at about 2:00a and told us to keep it down, but returned the next morning at about noon to finish the job. Given that neither Al nor I were the originators nor hosts of the fiesta, we felt no need to either: a) answer the door, nor b) clean up the 2 inches of liquor-and-beer sludge coating the majority of the floors in the apartment. Instead, we took off for Puerta del Sol to go shopping. Damn kids.

Through the course of our escapist afternoon, we did a little shopping, walked around the old city for a bit and happened upon a street fair in one of the smaller plazas featuring food from several of the regions of Spain. After sitting on a bench observing for a while, we moseyed over to a nearby cerveceria to continue people watching over a bottle of wine. Once we tired of playing “GTN” (Guess Their Nationality), we hit the bricks for the Plaza Mayor, where, despite our initial hesitation, we did the touristy thing and had dinner at one of the overpriced restaurants on the far side. The food was alright (again, even bad Spanish food is better than mediocre American chow), but the ambiance is where the money really went. Our server was great (I think he had the hots for Al, as he kept bringing over little tapas that he never charged us for) and there was a band of buskers playing jazz in the center. It was the first time that we did something slightly gratuitous, on the order of a vacation-esque event (being here for 12 weeks with a shitty exchange rate makes us a little hesitant to live high on the jamón), and it was refreshing.

Upon returning to our digs, we found it restored to its prior state (I won’t say clean, because it’s never been “clean”, it’s just that the sludgy accumulations from the night before had been sopped up). Better than the alternative, and we didn’t have to lift a finger. We made a pact to go to bed at a decent hour so that we could get up before 2pm and actually accomplish something today, which, through the power of wine and Ambien, I’m happy to report that we achieved. Up by 11am. Go us.

Wishing I had a front lawn upon which to sit and shake a broomstick at passing teenagers,

-bdmc

What I learned today: Nada and nata.

Nada as in “he swims” and “nothing” and “nata” as in “cream“.
All together now: Nada en nata o nada!

(Hey, no one’s making you read this crap.)

-who else?

So we’re taking another excursion this weekend to Toledo, the namesake of Al’s hometown and a little under an hour south of Madrid. It’s a wicked cool place, apparently, but since I’ve never been there, and the whole damn tour will be exclusively in Spanish, and I’m only on lesson 4.5 of a 20-some-odd lesson Spanish course, I’ve been doing some preparatory research with the DK Eyewitness Travel Guide to Spain and Wikipedia. In English.

The travel guide is great, but I find the call-outs to be a little thin.

Thank Jesús in all his dulce-ness there’s the good ole Wiki (and the unlimited timescale that the unemployed lifestyle provides). An hour and a half ago, I started there trying to figure out what the hell Mudéjar style was ’cause it’s been at least six years since I cracked an art history book (it’s basically Christian Gothic design with Moorish and Jewish influence as developed in and around Toledo during Islamic occupation of the Iberian peninsula, between the 700’s CE and the Reconquista in 1492. Geometric patterns, tilework, intricate wood carvings, etc. Hot stuff.) As you can see by the plethora (do you even know what a plethora eees?) of hotlinks, I was one again sucked in by the seductive power of the Wiki. I’m now reading about the Visigoths, ’cause after the Romans, they were the next conquistadors of Spain.

Once I get some real data and shots this weekend, I’ll give a more sophisticated and learned download.

I could probably add some more links, but that’d just be gratuitous, wouldn’t it?

-bdmc

“The gentle reader will never, never know what a consummate ass he can become until he goes abroad. I speak now, of course, in the supposition that the gentle reader has not been abroad, and therefore is not already a consummate ass. If the case be otherwise, I beg his pardon and extend to him the cordial hand of fellowship and call him brother.”

-Mark Twain

After an intense bout of homesickness this evening (spurred on by bdmc saying “wouldn’t it be nice to be sitting on our front porch with a beer right now?”) I arrived back to the apartment to find a full jar of olives, an almost full bottle of wine and some jamon serrano awaiting me. All helped to assuage the homesickness and also got me thinking about my favorite things in Spain. So without further ado, mi lista de mis cosas favoritas (in no particular order, and to be added to in the future):

01) Jamon serrano: kicks the crap out of prosciutto. Sorry, Italy.

02) Olives: they just taste better in Spain. (And there’s my white person statement for the day).

03) Walking through Retiro Park on my way to class: I doubt I will ever again have this beautiful of a walk to “work.”

04) And, oh yeah, “working” for three hours a day: okay, granted, this is specific to our trip and not completely about Spain, but not working beats the crap out of working.

05) The Spanish Language: it’s just so much more descriptive and flowery than the English language. Everything is just a little more beautiful/funny/interesting in castellano.

06) Four hundred verbs meaning “to lay down”: so you know how Inuits have about a thousand words for snow? The Spanish have about a thousand verbs that all basically mean “to lay down.” No wonder this is the country that created the proverb, “How beautiful it is to do nothing and then rest afterwards.”

07) El Prado, Thyssen-Bornemisza, Reina Sofia: We live in a city with three fantastic museums, not to mention other galleries and exhibits dispersed throughout Madrid.

0 The satisfying “thunk” of a cork being pulled from a €3 bottle of wine that kicks the living crap out of a $15 bottle of US wine. Now that’s the sound of progress.

09) Sitting in a bar or restaurant with friends and suddenly looking up and remembering that I’m in another country: it’s strange how quickly you start to feel like this foreign country is your own. That is, of course, until you try to pay your bill and the bartender asks you something in Spanish and you completely misunderstand him and it all goes downhill from there and then somehow you find yourself washing dishes for the rest of the evening. But for a short period of time, it almost feels like home.

-cuptastic

Since all good things come in threes (wishes, Graces, Stooges, Ménage-à-Trois..es), this is the third in a series of three posts on some Amero-centric topic. I don’t know what it is, but I’m on a Hispano-American comparison kick. I assure you, though, it’s only temporary, and this will be the last one for a while.

At any rate, we were out pub crawling again tonight in search of the elusive free food that intermittently comes with the beer (’tis a valiant quest: we’ve discovered parts of the city that aren’t listed on any tourist map), and as we were walking home, Al and I were suddenly hit with a wicked, undeniable craving for something sweet (damn munchies). We did a quick survey of our immediate locale, and realizing that there were no quick-rips around that would carry such vittles (side note, even in Spain, the quick-rips are run by Asians…”Hora!“), we caved and went to the one place we swore we wouldn’t visit while in Spain: Mc-F’ing-Donald’s (come on, it was RIGHT THERE and it was the only thing open…still…we’re so ashamed).

In an attempt to still honor our No American Fast Food Pledge (which for the purposes of this story now only includes burgers, fries and chicken), we settled on milk shakes, as that seemed the least culturally offensive. Unfortunately, milk shakes haven’t yet made the translation, so we agreed to split a McFlurry. (Side note #2: I’m personally happy to report that I’ve never had a McFlurry in the States, so in a way—to me, at least—it’s a Spanish…um…”delicacy”. Rationalizing, I know, but it’ll help me sleep better tonight.)

So we’re standing in the Mc-F’ing-Donald’s waiting for to order, and we both felt that something was eerily familiar (aside, of course, from it being a Mc-F’ing-Donald’s), and then it dawned on us: even in Spain, the Mc-F’ing-Donalds(es?) are staffed by South Americans and managed by white guys! It was surreal. As we were discussing this odd phenomenon on the way home, we decided that it would infinitely suck to make it all the way to Spain (which is a significantly more expensive and difficult crossing than that into Texas, even with the MinuteMen), and end up working at a Mc-F’ing-Donald’s.

What to do, what to do…(and DON’T say “Build a wall!”)

So between the facts that (1) the quick-rips are owned and staffed by Asians and (2) there even ARE Mc-F’ing-Donalds and (3) said Mc-F’ing-Donalds(es?) are staffed by South Americans and managed by white guys, tonight felt a very oddly American cliche. We’re hoping it’s only because Madrid is a newer city (by European standards), and very modern and pro-Western, and as such, feels similar to most other big Western cities. We didn’t get the American heebie-jeebies in Segovia—a smaller, older city—so we hope it hasn’t run rampant through the hinterlands. Our trip to Toledo (not Ohio) this weekend should give us another comparative datapoint. If they have a Wal-Mart, I’m going to kill myself.

Stay tuned.

-bleedingly liberal bdmc

It’s dawned on us that Spaniards, or at least Madrileños, despite all their civic and national pride, really wanna be Americans. This is manifested in their propensity for naming stores, restaurants, etc. for US states and cities. After two weeks, we’ve already found 10.

We’re going for all 50.

We needed a montage. Click it to see the full flickr gallery.

-bdmc