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So let’s see…judging by the ‘blogstats’ thingy on WordPress dashboard, it’s been about 3 weeks since our last post…just despicable on our part.
We’re about eleventy-billion articles short…there was Barcelona and all of it’s magnificent Gaudí-ness; then Córdoba with it’s Candy Land-inspired mosque, and Granada, home of the Alhambra; then the horrors of lugging eight overloaded suitcases through the Madrid Metro, only to get two hours of sleep prior to landing in London’s Heathrow Airport (the 7th level of hell, btw, especially when you accidentally get stuck in the TSA screening line staffed exclusively with brain-dead mouth-breathing trainees intent on swabbing everything—EVERYTHING—in your carry-on, including business cards, forcing you into 30 minutes of rage-suppressing tongue-biting to the point you nearly pass out from the pain, just as an escape method). Then there’s the obligatory encapsulation post summarizing our experience and what we learned, what we miss, what shocked us, how the hell we managed to gain back all the weight we lost over there in three days back in the States, yadda, yadda, yadda. We could then go on to bore you about the discovery of $1600 worth of broken down cars in the driveway upon our return and the arduous necktie-laden schlepping through the steamy streets of Chicago in search of jobs and our subsequent jaunts from the north of M*ch*g*n to the south of Georgia and get everyone caught up.
But, there’s no time for that now. We have a family road trip coming up and must go pack for that. So, we just wanted to let you know that we have not abandoned you, dear readers, and will update more fully when we get to a static residence. Thanks for your patience and dedicated readership; we love your comments.
Anybody wanna hire a crack graphic designer and accountant tag team of fury? We’re available after the 4th…
-bdmc
So we all remember Mr. NoLoSiento, right? Well, he’s decided to exact his revenge (in addition to his elevator-lobby berating of yours truly) on us—and the entire building, for that matter—by redoing his bathroom. In any normal building, this would not be a problem, and would most likely go unnoticed by the other tenants of the building, but in cheap post-civil war Franconian prefab constructions, every mouse fart is clearly audible throughout the entire complex. Translate that mouse fart into the regular pounding of 20lb sledgehammer tearing down a wall, and that means that it sounds like a coal mine at blasting time in here.
Touché, good sir, touché.
-bdmc
We just now returned from a great long weekend spent with family friends in Barcelona (story forthcoming) to find our apartment (home to us, three wretchedly filthy early-20’s Swedes and formerly an 18-year-old German girl who thought that she owned the bathroom with the one functioning shower) in a state of disaster so foul that we are actually glad we only have four more days in it (and actually wish it was fewer). It is truly a sad state of affairs that our living conditions are such that they make us want to leave an otherwise gorgeous and perfect country…. If we had more cash and a better exchange rate, believe you me, we might actually consider staying here indefinitely….
Rather than bore / disgust you with the nasty details of said filthiness, I figured I’d give you a summary, using the process of going #2 (yes, I just said #2…Fourth Grade RULED!), to illustrate where we’re coming from.
Going Dookie in 5A: A Summary
01. Leave your bedroom and walk to the far bathroom near the kitchen because it is slightly cleaner than the other—closer—bathroom, which has so much muck built up on the toilet that the €10¢ piece that’s been sitting on the no-man’s-land between the tank and the bowl for at least 6 weeks has started rusting and fusing with the porcelain.
02. Try and bypass the kitchen, but still end up noting the sink overflowing with 4-day-old dirty dishes and pans on the stove encrusted with last week’s attempt at homemade Carbonara.
03. Enter the bathroom. Try not to touch anything.
04. Kick the filthy towel that’s been used as a bathmat for the past 11 weeks and is now so wretchedly filthy that dousing it in gasoline and setting it on fire is the only safe way to dispose of it (and even that’s not guaranteed).
05. Check that there’s TP (there’s usually not and unless we put it in there, it goes for days without being refilled…and they aren’t using the bidet…). If not, go procure some from private stash.
06. Test-flush the toilet. Will it work? Who knows! It’s toilet roulette, and the house (literally) always wins!
07. If it works, dust off seat (SEAT, not rim) to remove ass dander and other debris. If it looks questionable, pause, return to bedroom to procure secret industrial strength cleaner, return to bathroom and spray down toilet.
08. Wedge bathroom door closed. The handle doesn’t work, so do your best to ensure that it closes, but ensure that you can still get out when your task is complete, cause Lord knows you don’t wanna get stuck in there.
09. Initiate bidness. Be careful when sitting, however, as toilet rocks and you could fall off. Also take care too, that your pantlegs don’t drag on the floor as who knows what you may pick up
10. PUSH! The quicker the better. No time for reading. As you scan the room, searching for distractions, try not to be too disgusted by the crusty dust covering every nook and cranny or the giant hairball in the drain of the shower, which is just inches from your feet.
11. Complete the bidness and WASH YOUR HANDS! Oh, wait, there’s no soap! There should be soap, cause we just bought a new one a week ago and put it in there, but oh, it’s disappeared. Figure out how to unwedge bathroom door with minimal amount of handle contact, then race to kitchen, try to find spigot (which may or may not have already rotted through the decaying fiberboard countertop and fallen into the cupboard below), search for dish soap (if there’s any left) and wash hands.
12. Look for paper towels (which you also have solely supplied for the last 12 weeks) to dry hands. Realize dirty-ass roommates have used them all up and not replaced them, even though they’ve had four days to do so. Return to bedroom to use bath towel to dry hands.
13. Swear up and down that you are actually going to follow through with your plan to stage a grease fire that’ll burn down the apartment after you leave, but not implicate you as the culprit.
14. Double check that you have your return tickets and passport. Count down remaining days until return flight. Wish that you had won lottery prior to departure and money was no object such that you could afford a single apartment together. Leave apartment do go do something cultural to take your mind off the rash forming on your butt from shitting in such a wretchedly filthy apartment.
-bdmc
P.S.: State of filth of our apartment has been independently verified by our Tall, White American friends, two of whom have…uh…intimate knowledge on the subject of living in filth; even they were disgusted.
We’re taking a slight pause in the Tall, White Americans saga to relay this important message about Real Madrid, Madrid’s regal soccer team, as we are experiencing writers block on the TWA story and after viewing some pix we took, realized that the following story needed to get out.
Despite our best (and believe me, they were our supreme) efforts, we finally succumbed recently and went to Santiago Bernabéu stadium, home of Real Madrid, to both visit the stadium and later, to see a game. We don’t know if you’re aware, but apparently Real Madrid is the greatest team in the world at every sport, and basking in its glory and achievement is the sole reason this world and all its inhabitants exist. And possibly God, for that matter.
And that’s not hyperbole on my part; it’s more-or-less a direct quote from the numerous information panels within the Real Madrid Museum and Hall of Self-Gratifying Glory. A couple choice quotes:
“Real Madrid is the best team in the 20th Century, which is like saying that it’s the best club of all time: the best club in the history of soccer.”
“The European Cup would be meaningless without Real Madrid.”
Now, being rabid Ohio State football (the only football that matters, etymology be damned) fans (go to hell, SEC, you bunch of over-hyped weenies), we understand the tendency to over-inflate your team’s self-worth and impact on the game (thought it’s hard to beat 7 Heismans and 7 National Championships). This sense of self-awareness, however, seems to have bypassed Real Madrid. Nowhere in any part of the tour nor the game was there any sense that they could lose, have lost, or ever will lose, or that they themselves are not the reason for God’s existence. It was ridiculous.
Unimpressed.
The stadium, in a word, was cute. With a capacity of 80,500, it was so cute, in fact, that it prompted me to ask our tour guide “es para practicar?” and another friend to inquire “donde esta el estadio para los hombres?”. For being the team that invented God, it was a little underwhelming. The press room and visitors locker room, both stops on the tour, paled in comparison to the facilities of most NCAA women’s fencing programs, while the overall stadium was decorated in orange and blue, neither of which is found anywhere in the Real Madrid brand ethos (their colors are white, gold and purple). Makes one question where all the money goes.
Oh, that’s right, it goes to the overpaid players. Basically, Real Madrid is the New York Yankees of European soccer, which means they can pretty much buy anyone they want to virtually ensure that they at least get to the finals in any league in which they play. And when you consider that a large portion of the players aren’t even Spanish, it undermines their nationalistic claims all the more (not that US football teams are all Americans; there’s a Samoan and maybe Canadian or two in there, we know). Whatever is left over goes to provide the La-Z-Boy-like armchairs in which the teams sit on the sidelines. While lounging in them at one stop of the tour, another buddy leaned over and asked “why don’t our professional athletes have such comfortable equipment?”. It’s because our professional athletes are men. With the exception of pro basketballers. They’re princesses.
Alright, enough bashing. Every team has the right and board-mandated obligation to win games and turn a profit. So be it. Doesn’t mean we can’t laugh at them.
The game itself—which by coincidence was the last game of the Spanish La Liga season—was fairly interesting and passionate (at least on the part of the fans). Real Madrid played some podunk team and completely thrashed them, which didn’t matter anyway because they had already locked up the title a few weeks ago. The post-game festivities and presentation of the trophy was as ostentatious as the team that invented God would demand: music; a procession around the stadium accompanied by confetti cannons at each section; an hour-long multimedia presentation and summary of the season; and probably more, though I can’t say for sure because by that point it was getting on midnight and we’d been up for 2 days and were exhausted, so we left. Overall, it was akin to a Superbowl Championship presentation, for which I have equal disdain.
We (and by “we” I mean Al) did do our part to support the Team that Invented the Universe by purchasing 2 €45 nosebleed tickets (I will point out, however, that we were able to acquire these tickets a few hours before the game, at the ticket office, without a line, a fact that would never stand at an Ohio State game, regardless of the opponent; a truly disheartening anecdote that calls into question the true level of devotion of Real Madrid’s fanbase), a Champions scarf and replica game jersey (both for our nephew, who is, with out a doubt, being indoctrinated with this dreck as we type). It pained me to think that we were, in essence, actively supporting the European version of the M*ch*g*n Wolverines.
May God (should he be an independent creation from Real Madrid) have mercy on our souls.
Photodocumentation of our transgression available on flickr.
Final note: the fans (however deluded) were really nice.
-bdmc
Edited to add: I truly enjoyed the tour of the stadium and the game. The stadium does not have a bad seat, and the fans were extremely friendly and entertaining. The Real Madrid museum was completely charming in its unabashed self-glorification and I truly think I’m getting into soccer. I think BDMC’s post might have been influenced just a little bit by his love/hate relationship with a certain rabid Real Madrid fan-in-law we know
-cuptastic
Apologies for the long pause in posts; we know you’re crushed. As previously mentioned, a horde of our very tall, very white and very close friends descended on us last weekend and since then, we’ve been putting the Iberian peninsula through its paces. And it has been tremendous, yielding a veritable tome of mostly humorous anecdotes, some of which are recorded below for your imaginative pleasure.
The Iberian Interlude began last Saturday when we collected our chums at the airport at the buttcrack of dawn (an obscene part of the day which Al and I haven’t seen in nearly 2.5 months; it was sheer horror, especially with the 2 hours of sleep we managed to achieve between onslaughts of Swedish party outbreaks). After schlepping around and into hotels thru the rainy downpour—which, of course, started immediately after our friends arrived, continuing until immediately after their departure—we took some time to collect ourselves before enjoying our first of many Long Leisurely Lunches (L3’s from now on), after which we did a quick survey of the Prado. It was during this time we established the theme for our trip: “Waiting for Our Dear and Beloved Friend Adi Who Somehow Without Intending or by Virtue of Unforeseen Third-Party Actions is Curiously Late on a Number of Occasions”, or more succinctly, “W”Ad”ing”. It was always funny, however, and she knows we were just kidding…we hope.
Jet lag claimed two victims that night, while the rest of us went to get the other half of the group checked in to their hotel and catch up while we waited for our other friend—who had arrived earlier in the week and immediately went to Barcelona to meet an old roommate—to return (grammatic simplicity be damned!). Their room was cozy and well designed, though the door to the bathroom was clear glass. Made for interesting deposits.
Sunday morn found us at El Rastro, one of the largest flea markets in Europe, where you can find pretty much anything you could ever not need, with the exception of your wallet, which was probably ganked three stalls back by one of the sly and nefarious pick-pockets who frequent the area. We emerged unscathed, however, and came away with a cool etching of a toreador toying with a bull that will adorn some wall in our as-yet-undiscovered Chi-town apartment. Plaza Mayor was next on our list, where we got to see some of the San Isidro shenanigans, as last week was the festival in his honor as the patron saint of Madrid. It was after this that we ended up at the aforementioned cerveceria from which we were dishonorably ejected (again, for no apparent reason…still steamed over that one).
Following our dismissal, we headed home to pack, then journeyed to the train station to catch our night train to Lisbon. Due to an overestimation on my part of the amount of time it would take to get on said train (imagining it would be similar to the ridiculous rituals at airports), we arrived at the train station about 2.5 hours early (it says on the tickets you just need to be on the train 2 minutes before departure…must have missed that). Fortunately this gave us plenty of time to eat and drink at the terminal cafe (which, by the way, kicks the soy byproduct right out of the fried patties available at American transportation hubs: I got a real pork tenderloin feast with salad, bread and an icy cold beer and Al got half a roast chicken meal for about €14 total, which, even with the exchange rate, is fan-freakin’-tastic) before boarding. Despite our early arrival, however, we found ourselves experiencing Data Point Two in support of the blog title as Dear and Beloved Friend Adi suddenly felt the urge to go, necessitating a trip to the other end of the terminal that took so long that we barely made it on the train. Again, it was funny the whole time, right Ad?
The night train was great, and due to the graciousness of another pair of travelers, we were able to get everyone into two neighboring cabins, which, in the near future, would greatly facilitate our finding our bunks after stumbling back from the bar car several hours later. Needless to say, we spent most of our time in said bar car, becoming fast friends with the bartender, who, in his graciousness, allowed us to remain in the car as long as we wanted following its closing at 2a. Which, of course, we did. Till about 4a, I think…. Arrival at 8a sucked.
Post-arrival, and after a good looooong pee, we strolled the winding streets of Lisbon to find The Lisbon Lounge, quite possibly the hippest, cleanest, coolest, least Eli Roth-est hostel in the entire world. It alone demands a trip to Lisbon. We snagged a huge 8-person room for 3 nights for what amounted to $65/person TOTAL, including the fact that we bought out an extra bed to ensure that we got the whole room to ourselves (our American love of personal space knows no fiscal limit).
What ensued will be covered in another post, as this one is already ridiculously long, and although WordPress space is free, there’s no need to be gluttonous.
Will our heroes have a good time? Will they fully explore the cultural opportunities afforded by the city? Or will they just end up getting drunk together again like they always do? Tune in next time and find out!
-bdmc
We returned from Portugal on Thursday morning and since then have been going nonstop to make sure our guests saw everything Madrid has to offer. This morning the last of our friends left, so MC and I are feeling very lonely but so thankful they were able to come visit. We have so many stories to tell of train rides, hostels, soccer games, and a very special, educational post that will all have to wait a short while because……we’re currently searching for jobs. Aaaaaahhhhh!!!!!
-cuptastic
It’s a good thing we’re leaving for Portugal tonight, as, apparently, we have less-than-endeared ourselves to the Spaniards this weekend. It’s only Sunday afternoon, and already I’ve been berated by a VERY pissed off neighbor and later (in an unrelated incident) got less-than-courteously asked to leave the sidewalk bar at which we were sitting. Stellar.
It started on Friday night when our Swedish roommates decided to have an impromptu party which included floor-stomping sing-alongs to ABBA (how cliché!) that lasted till 3a, after which, they migrated to a bar, only to return just as loudly 3 hours later, just in time for us to get up to go to the airport to pick up our dear friends who had flown in for the week. Again, stellar.
After we returned from the airport, we happened to meet our downstairs neighbor, an older gentleman in his mid- to late-60’s while waiting for the elevator. He sidled up to us (at this point, we didn’t know who he was) and asked if we lived in such and such apartment, to which, I stupidly responded “Yes, we do.” He responded that it was “quite a fiesta last night” to which I replied, “yeah, I think it was, sorry”. Why I apologized for a party of which I had no foreknowledge, no part in coordinating, nor in which I participated, I haven’t the foggiest. Trying to appease, I guess. This appeasement strategy backfired horribly, as I was subsequently berated—long enough for the elevator to arrive and pass 3x—about how I can’t be sorry (or sorry wouldn’t cut it) as this was the third time this has happened and “you northern Europeans and Swedes and North Americans come over here and do things you wouldn’t do in your own countries”, and how next time he’s going to call the police and yadda yadda yadda, to the point that I: a) lost track of the number of points to which I needed to respond and b) lacked the speed of thought to respond to said points as I had only enjoyed 2.5 hrs of sleep the night prior, and c) even if I did have the speed to think of words, my vocabulary is unable to allow me to express that “It wasn’t me, it was my Swedish roommates, and PLEASE, the next time they piss you off CALL THE POLICE because then WE will get some sleep too!”
His torrent continued until the elevator arrived a third time, upon which he entered it, and subsequently encouraged us to join him. I’m not sure what drugs he was on at the time that made him think we would actually get in the elevator with a screaming geriatric, so I told him no thanks, we’d take the stairs. As we reached the fourth floor on foot, the elevator opened and he emerged, continuing to yell at us as we climbed the next flight and slamming his door with a building-echoing thud. Stellar still.
That was yesterday.
Today, after a decent day of touring and hitting the big flea market, Plaza Mayor, and Sol, we ventured to an off-the-beaten-path plaza known for its numerous cervecarias in order to get off our feet and enjoy a cold one. Though there were 7 of us, we found tables at the far end of a cafe line, conscious of our potential to annoy other diners and subsequently taking all pains to avoid such offense. After 2 rounds of ordering both drinks and food (IN SPANISH!) we suddenly, for no apparent reason, received the check—from a different waiter than we had had all afternoon—who subsequently waited over our shoulders until we paid up.
Now, in the States this is a normal thing; in Spain however, they generally wait for you to ask for the check before they bring it to you (which can be hours if you’re not aware of the policy), considering it rude otherwise. Caught off guard, and under the steady gaze of the waiter #2, we paid up, questioning the whole time what offense we were guilty of to cause them to essentially ask us to leave. Though louder than a twosome, we were much tamer than our capabilities: we were nothing but polite to the staff; we spoke only Spanish; we weren’t camping, as we continued ordering; it was a FREAKIN’ SIDEWALK CAFE and not some intimate high-end restaurant; and though our particular topic of conversation at the time of check-receipt was a tad racy, we took pains to mask it in code and exercise some degree of class (which is a lofty goal for this group). Our only assumption was that the stodgy-looking couple next to us bitched about it and since we weren’t speaking Spanish to each other, the waiters had no issue telling us to leave.
So, just to recap: I got bitched out by a very pissed off neighbor for the noise of someone else’s party, and then got kicked out of a bar for being American (cause, bet yer boots, had we been habloing in Español, they would not have been so bold).
So, I guess it’s a good thing then that we’re heading to Portugal this week. It’ll give the locals a chance to calm down and realize, “hey, those tall white Dutch / German / American (?) kids are gone and it’s still loud here…it must be those damn Swedes!”
A man can dream…
Irritated by my lack of fluency
-bdmc
That’s right, folks, I have once again valiantly surmounted the linguistic obstacles set before me and triumphed, scoring a class-high 91.5% on my most recent / second-ever Spanish test, enabling me to enter the coveted Level 2. It will be nice to look down upon all the tongue-tied imbeciles in Level 1 from my lofty throne.
Though the written part a touch difficult—it consisted of tests of our comprehension of 5 different verb tenses, including 3 past tenses (they don’t just “did” things in Spanish…they “did” things differently depending on when, for how long and whether or not it repeated…realllllly annoying)—I aced the oral section. It went something akin to this:
A quick post to say that we have reacquired internet access at the apartment and are now back in business. Let the bells ring from on high!
This technological miracle is just that, as it came not through any action on the part of our landlady nor with any technical assistance from the service provider. Rather, the system miraculously self-corrected after we decided, on a whim, to give it one more go. I can’t explain it, nor do I care, so long as it doesn’t happen again.
New useless posts and photos forthcoming (and fifth coming if we get around to it). At any rate, off to wander wikipedia, er, I mean study for my exam tomorrow…
hating Preterito Imperfecto,
-bdmc
Good news everyone! We just figured out (after 7 weeks) that the school (with all it’s free wifi glory) stays open late on Tuesdays (and I think Thursdays). That means we can once again torture you with unsolicited stories of our adventures! Yay!
But I digest. Here’s the real post:
This past weekend was a 4-day marathon of public spectacles in observance of May Day (the European equivalent of Labor Day, which basically means that all the French and German tourists on the continent flock to Spain) and the 200th anniversary the events of the 2nd / 3rd of May 1808 when Napoleon stormed Madrid (for no apparent reason) and the townspeople fought back, eliciting severe retribution by French troops the next day. These are the events depicted in Goya’s famous paintings, The 2nd of May and The 3rd of May 1808 (on display at the Prado. We saw them. Next to each other in a special exhibition. They’re HUGE. And super awesome. And no photo in any art history book comes close to doing them justice).
Overall the weekend was really interesting, as there were several events held throughout town to honor the anniversary (6, actually, hence the name of the weekend, 6 Goya 6). These included a free symphony concert in front of the royal palace (nice vista; made me long for my aforementioned royal holdings); a play involving gigantic marionettes (unfortunately we overslept and missed that one); and two bizarre interpretative presentations: one about the 2nd of May held in the Plaza Mayor consisting of a north African traditional band (presumably representing Napoleon’s Mamluk troops), juxtaposed against a series of junk bands mounted on truck beds, assumed to represent the rabble of Madrid; and another in Plaza Cibeles, which seemed to reenact the retributions of the 3rd of May, through the allegorical use of a pair of star-crossed lovers who lived thru the event. At least that’s what we could gather from the visuals, which, all bizarre weirdness aside were pretty cool. In the Plaza Mayor, there was a huge wheel mounted with pre-tuned guitars which was manually rotated around a stationery pick to produce a song…interesting; in Cibeles, there was a huge metal truss from which a number of people were suspended, all dressed in the white tunic and yellow pants of the hero of Goya’s painting, who were then metaphorically shot by a series of bright lights and machine gun sounds coming from the building behind them, leading them to writhe and wriggle in mid-air. Rather impressive. Oh, and there was a 30-foot tin foil woman who had a person sitting in her chest cavity that opened up to reveal him. We never actually saw the final production of the Cibeles show as we were at the palace, but we stumbled upon the dress rehearsal the night before and it looked pretty interesting. And we figured that was enough.
As cool as all these things were, the truly impressive aspect of the weekend—and of all the Festivals we’ve experienced so far—is the amazing speed and stealth with which the Madrid Department of Fiestas sets up and tears down the sets in the hours surrounding the events. For example, the Cibeles show had a huge 3-part stage, 4 smaller stages, a full light / sound show, 2 enormous construction cranes and a highwire strung between two adjacent buildings and anchored to the street below (not to mention the Aluminum woman and the truss of dead guys). All this went up in a matter of an afternoon and was torn down by noon the next day. Ridiculous. Same thing with the Real Madrid victory party: we walked thru the Plaza at 9p, there was nothing. By 1130p, there was a stage, 6 light / sound towers, a huge PA system and a dj, along with miles of retaining fence which closed off 3 main thoroughfares. And this achieved by a culture not renowned for its vitesse. Now that’s mindbottling.
Additionally, there were a ton of people out in the streets and general joyful pandemonium throughout, though the hordes of French May Day tourists all seemed a bit skittish, and probably for good reason…probably should have done your research, Messieurs…
Viva la Revolución!
-bdmc
