Category Archive

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

Our internet access went out at our apartment last Wednesday, sending me into a dimension of pissed off I didn’t even know existed. And not that a lack of internet access is all that worrisome; when compared to quadriplegia, it pales. And significantly.

I know this.

But when in the midst of job / apartment searching and finalizing plans for the remainder of our stay here, a sudden, inexplicable lack of internet access is a big freakin’ deal. Especially when it is your sole form of communication with the outside world (we don’t have cell phones, the apartment phone doesn’t work and there’s no TV). And when viewed as the only self-controllable aspect within our less-than-ideal living environment consisting of a troupe of college-age Swedes content with living on the edge of such squalor that the health department is considering condemning the entire 40-unit buildling on account of their filth, and who are intent on getting ripped to the nines every weekend night and reaffirming for the umpteenth consecutive time that, no, the paper-thin walls of the apartment STILL don’t muffle your raucous 6 AM return and subsequent hour-long drunken recap of the night you just experienced, then, yeah, the lack of internet access suddenly became a big deal.

At any rate, after Al talked me down off the ledge, she kindly reminded me that, despite all my proclamations to the contrary, I—unlike Richard III—had no kingdom to give in exchange for a return of my internet access. Or for anything else for that matter. She then refreshed my memory of all the things for which I have purportedly offered my supposed kingdom during our visit thus far, thereby leaving me in no state to offer it yet again. These include (in no particular order):
• A clean apartment
• A normal-size shower
• Hot water that doesn’t cut out in the middle of said shower
• A clothes dryer
• A clothes washer that holds more than a pair of jeans, a sock and one t-shirt at a time
• A vacuum cleaner
• Thicker, sound-proof apartment walls
• A complete grasp of the Spanish verb structure and all its permutations
• Our own apartment
…etc, etc, etc, all of which, I felt at the time of utterance, were worthy exchanges for my imagined regal holdings.

Upon realizing that I, in fact, HAVE no regal holdings (as yet…working on that one), I was forced to reevaluate my position and clarify the real reasons we’re here, namely: the Prado, the park, the monuments, the food, the language, the sun, the culture, the friendly (though wrong-side-of-the-sidewalk-walking) people, the wine, the cheap (but realllly cold) beer, the history, the smells and the otherwise FREAKING AWESOME TIME we’re having. Could be worse, eh?

-bdmc

P.S.: Please note that all kingdom-worthy aspects are related to our apartment or its state, indicating my overall pleasant contentment with our situation in general. I think, as a 28-year-old veteran of communal collegiate living / previous study abroad experiences, I am officially done with living in student housing with other students. And not like I haven’t given it a fair shake. Now I’m just certain.

P.P.S.: The internet currently remains out at the apartment, nearly a week later, thanks to our oh-so-easy-to-get-a-hold-of landlady…get this: she gives us her land line and her cell number, but doesn’t answer her land line and the apartment phone only calls its voicemail…work that one out. Good thing nothing’s caught on fire. Come to think of it, that may be a great way to get her attention….

P.P.P.S. (and yes, I just went there.): We are spending the bare minimal amount of time (awake) in the apartment, so our actual interaction with aforementioned internet-less squalor is fairly minimal. The kicker is that when we WERE using the internet, it was late at night when we weren’t missing anything outside. Now that we have to forage for free wifi, it’s cramping our style a bit. That’s the only down side and the reason for a lack of recent posts…we know you’re all crushed.

Our internet connection in our apartment is broken right now, so it has been a little difficult to post. This weekend is a big holiday weekend in Madrid also, so I doubt we’ll be able to get anything fixed until next week. Today is the 200th anniversary of the uprising in Madrid against Napoleon’s troops. It’s the subject of one of Goya’s most famous works and a pretty big deal here, of course. MC and I decided to stay here for the weekend since we figured it would be somewhat like what it might have been to be in Washington, D.C. on July 4, 1976, and since we missed that one by a few years…

There are all kinds of activities planned throughout the city today and we are planning on going to three or four. Last night on our walk home we ran into what looked like dress rehearsals for one of the events. Plaza de Cibeles is completely closed down to traffic and they were rehearsing what looked like a story about two people during the uprising. There were tight-rope walkers and a couple of cranes that were used to make people fly through the air and lots of music and dramatic lighting. We left as they were getting ready to lift a giant aluminum woman into the air. Not sure exactly where she fit into the story, but she was very impressive-looking!

So for today, we’re going to try to study a little bit (I just started subjunctive last week! Aaah!) and then head over to see a few of the planned events. Hopefully our internet connection will be fixed soon and we can post a little more consistently. We have a lot of exciting things coming up, including friends coming to visit, a trip to Portugal and more trips to other parts of Spain. It’s hard to believe we only have five more weeks!

-cuptastic

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

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)

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

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

We love cities, and Madrid is a fantastic city. Having been deprived of some of the luxuries of urban living for so long, we are both fully enjoying getting back into the lifestyle: the ease of transit, both by foot and metro; the greenery interspersed among the historic towers of concrete and steel; the hustle and bustle of so many people, and, of course, the people watching.

Over the past two weeks, however, I have been watching those same people slowly drive me up the f*cking wall.

I am an ardent supporter of the lackadaisical Mediterranean lifestyle and fully embrace the tranquilo (basically: “slow it down, hombre”) mentality, but can’t these mellow bastards walk in a straight line and on at least ONE side of the road, sidewalk, grocery store aisle, museum hallway, metro staircase or other public venue? Being laid back doesn’t mean there can’t be SOME kind of order and regard for your immediate place in the public sphere. I’m not talking about going all German where they fine you €60 when you’re late for your ping pong club meeting*, but c’mon…

Case in point:
During a recent trip to the grocery store (throughout which I was plagued with a raging headache), I:
• endured 30 minutes of sheer pandemonium while every Spaniard in Madrid, it seemed, scrambled to get to the market before it closed. There was no order, no common sense, no thought as to whether a person’s individual actions affected another. It was as if a giant ant farm full of Spaniards had just been dropped from above and shattered into this market and they were all skittering about trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
• was nearly bowled over 3 times by people not watching where they were going.
• got caught behind some numbskull intent on reading every ingredient on the back of a shampoo bottle whilst standing squarely in the middle of the aisle, oblivious that he was prohibiting traffic in ANY direction.
• received glowering stare-downs from a bunch of old ladies who wouldn’t move so that I could get to the stack of shopping baskets—which, contrary to logic, were not at the front of the store, but nestled behind some register which took 10 minutes to find, and rather than move them to a more accessible spot, the 10 employees of the store were all intent on stacking yogurt in the cooler section.
Needless to say, we won’t be going back to the market anywhere near closing time. Learned our lesson.

Anyway, as I was bitching to Al about my experience on the way home from the market, I commented that I longed for Chicago and the American appreciation of personal space, walking on the right, etc., and speculated that things would be different once we got away from all these Spaniards. She was quick to retort that it’s not Spaniards, it’s people that drive me nuts.

Maybe I need my own island?

*True story: our German friend, Tomas, said that he was in a table tennis club and if you’re late for your match (by even one minute), they fine you €60. Zee beatings vill kontinue oontil morale eemprooves!

-bdmc

This post will be short because MC and I are leaving to do a little grocery shopping in a minute and then I have to spend the rest of the evening and tomorrow morning studying because I have my first test tomorrow! Everyone in my class is freaking out a little because none of us have been tested yet (except for the first day when they determine in which level you will be placed), but I don’t think it will be too difficult. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow whether I’m right.

Last night, MC and I went on a pub crawl with our American friend and our German friend. We learned that the concept of a pub crawl is very foreign to Germans. Based on our friend’s complaints, we’re pretty sure Germans like to go to a bar and stay there and don’t you dare try to pry that beer out of their hands until they’re good and ready. And why the heck would anyone leave a warm bar with plenty of beer to walk to another one? However, we managed to convince him to soldier on for the sake of cultural exposure. Truly, pub crawl is probably not the most accurate term for our evening because we basically just tried to find bars that would serve us food for free with our drinks. Unfortunately, we seemed to be in the wrong part of the city for those types of bars. At the last bar we finally got a little bit of free food, but unfortunately for MC, the first plate was shrimp (he doesn’t eat seafood) and unfortunately for us both, the second plate was liver (we think). The bartender called it “el estomago,” (though she looked a little unsure when she said it) but we think it was actually liver. It wasn’t bad, but a little too salty for my taste. And I’m pretty sure I saw the bartenders standing in the back giggling at us - though that could have been for a number of reasons. Oh well, I’m still alive 24 hours later. We also watched the Spanish national team beat Italy’s national team. I’m assuming that the game didn’t mean too much because no one seemed particularly excited about it. In fact, los americanos probably showed the most enthusiasm and our ignorance in the process. It’s also very confusing trying to talk to people about futbol because they assume since I’m American I mean “football” (as in American football) when I say “futbol,” but I sound like a stupid American when I say “soccer.” It’s led to some truly absurd conversations.

Saturday is our German friend’s last day and our British roommate’s/friend’s last day. We’ll be going after class tomorrow for one last night out with them, but it will be pretty tame because we leave for Segovia somewhat early Saturday morning. MC has been doing quite a bit of research on Segovia, so we should be well-prepared. We’re going with the school and are not really sure what to expect because the cost is so low. So we think they might just sort of dump us off in Segovia and say “see you in a few hours!” and that’s it. If that is the case and we end up being our own tour guides, we want to make sure we can make the most of it. Anybody have any ideas of places to go, things to see, what to eat, etc?

-cuptastic

So I have a sinking feeling that we’re in for a rude awakening in the next couple of days, at least from an educational perspective.

The way the class structure works, you take classes for a week or two, then on Fridays, there’s a test of your aptitude to determine if you’re fit to ascend to the next class. It seems most of the people here take these tests pretty seriously, as they are always studying. Al and I, however, don’t seem to fully understand the gravity of our impending doom. Rather than “study” (and what material to study, we haven’t the foggiest idea, as lesson plans here aren’t really…linear. Or defined—page numbers and topics are arbitrary, we’ve discovered), we are focused on applying our knowledge and expanding our skillset by real world testing: in the bars.

At any rate, Al has a test on Friday (I don’t because I take the short bus to the beginner’s class in the basement and they’re giving us a few weeks to stop drooling on ourselves before they ask us to write our ABC’s) and neither of us spend a fraction of the time studying that the rest of our roommates and friends do. Are we missing something? Or are we just that freakin’ smart?

I’m going with B.

-bdmc

Big Daddy here. I’ve had about 5 entries in various states of completion for the past week or so; I keep getting ideas of things to write about, start the entry with a witty title, then never get the time to actually take the concepts thru to completion. So in the intermission between the weird Easter procession / drum line experience we just endured and the bull fight we’re going to later this afternoon, I figured I’d take a moment to throw down some thoughts.

First, as of today, we’ve been here for one full week, though it feels like so much longer (in a good way). We’ve mastered the basics of Madrid including the metro, gained a rough understanding of the city and general location of landmarks and have found several satisfying tabernas where you can get a caña of cerveza (a small glass, maybe 8oz.) and a heaping plate of tapas for about € 2 (~$3.50). Three of those is a full meal at a ridiculously low price, even with the exchange rate in the crapper (gracias, Premier Bush!). We’ve made several fast friends, including an Irish engineer, a number of Germans, a few Brits, a French-Filipino-American kid, a disproportionately large number of Swedes (three of whom we live with), and an American med student from California with whom we’ve discovered many interesting corners of the city, including Madrid’s Short North (get this: assless chaps are just as in vogue here as they are in the States…fabuloussss!!).

Over the course of the past seven days, we have learned a lot, and not just in the language department, but also culturally and socially. The school is awesome, and we’re both picking up Spanish at a surprising rate, despite the complete shock and awe we experienced on the first day of class when it was like being on the Titanic of language, and we were in steerage class. They’ve made up for it, though, but hosting two get-togethers in the last week where they’ve covered the drinks: Monday night was the weekly welcome party for new students where the school buys everyone their first drink at the bar across the street, and Wednesday night, it was all you can drink cerveza and sangría (a red wine and liquor punch) at this bar called Los Ojos Negros (the Black Eyes–contrary to its name, however, it was pretty tame and hipper than expected. No fights, unfortunately.) for a two-hour block from 9-11 pm. In keeping with the lackadaisical Spanish approach to promptness, however, it went on till 1 am, with no complaint from us. Spanish beer, though more readily available and consumed in much larger quantities than I ever expected, is shit, but given that it’s cheap and in this case free, it’ll do. At any rate, being at a school where people WANT to learn AND gets you drunk? Now that’s study abroad.

Most students are older, it seems, and all of them truly want to learn, so there’s an investment in the classwork (versus the mandatory fun of high school Spanish). They hail from all corners of Europe, creating an interesting mix of people and opinions. At a little apartment party we had the other night, there were two Germans, two Brits, a Frog, a Swede and us, and we had a lively discussion about politics, language and the actual influence of American consumerism (it turns out it’s much less dramatic than expected, with at least European countries actively seeking out American trends and incorporating them into their own cultures with a local twist and virtually no resentment). We also learned that despite the impression that Europeans are so much more sophisticated than Americans, all students around the world still view their time at college as an opportunity to regularly get drunk. Some things never change.

So that’s the basics from the last week. There are some other observations I’ve been making that I’m hoping to aggregate into a list with regular updates. Stay tuned.

-bdmc

Our fourth roommate apparently returned from her two-week vacation last night (From what exactly do you need a vacation? The taxing few hours a day of Spanish classes? Really?).

She is very loud. This could get interesting.

-cuptastic

We just got back from a couple tapas bars and a chocolateria with our American friend. We realized that everyone thinks I (Al) am Dutch. At the first tapas bar (where you order una cana de cerveca for about $1.50 and get an entire plate of tapas for free) a group of people walked out and said “tot ziens” to me as they were leaving (I totally had to google that to figure out how to spell it. It sounded like “toe seese” to me), and after saying perdon a couple times, the guy switched to English and said they thought I was Dutch. I think they see (somewhat) blonde and tall and assume I am Dutch. (Crazy dutch b*st*rds - MC).

Also, an entire shop devoted to chocolate with a full bar? Best. Thing. Ever.

-cuptastic

I am catching up on some email and blogs today while waiting for MC to finish getting ready. We are going to look for a market that is supposed to be close to our apartment and much cheaper than a store that rhymes with Smell Courte In glase, which I consider to be a cross between two stores that rhyme with Farget and Carbucks. (Spelling is strange because I’m trying to avoid weird web searches and spam). Farget because it offers pretty much anything you could want (although at higher prices) and Carbucks because there are so many of them and you can find them right across the street from each other.

Our tour yesterday was very interesting and made me feel pretty good about my Spanish comprehension. Although at the end, they did about a half hour tour of typical Spanish taverns and restaurants and I was so hungry that it was a little hard to concentrate. I might suggest to them that next time they do the taverns at the beginning of the tour when everyone is still full from breakfast and the historical part at the end. It was extremely disheartening to spend so much time in front of these restaurants with such wonderful smells emanating from them while my stomach was growling and have to walk right on by.

After the tour we had lunch at a little outdoor cafe and then walked around quite a bit until finally ending at the park where we sat and soaked up the sun for at least an hour. (For all the foodies reading, MC and I shared a ham and egg dish served on top of potatoes fried in olive oil. I’m drooling just thinking about it right now). The park was beautiful yesterday and full of Madrilenos who had the day off for Semana Santa. (And, by the way, we’re pretty sure there was a little bit of exaggeration going on when we were told everything would be super-cerrado. There were tons of stores and restaurants open all over the city). I’m glad we spent a lot of time outside in the sun yesterday, because today is much cooler and rainy. Madrid is in a drought right now, so the rain is a good thing, but tomorrow is supposed to be down in the low 40’s and some people are talking about snow. I think maybe that’s another exaggeration, but we’ll see.

Tomorrow is Easter and we are going to try to go to a Procession that’s done in the city and I believe ends in Plaza Mayor. We have heard a number of different things about the Processions, but I’ll wait until tomorrow to explain them once I’ve actually experienced one.

Okay, on to the market and then to do some laundry. Don’t our Spanish lives sound so exciting?

-cuptastic

MC and I just returned home from class for the day and for the week because tomorrow is a vacation day! This week was Semana Santa in Spain, so as the director of our school put it, everything is cerrado (closed) on Thursday and super-cerrado (super-closed) on Friday. Tomorrow, instead of class, we are going on a tour of “Madrid de las Asturias“. It should be interesting because it will be conducted entirely in Spanish. We’ll see how much my comprehension has improved.

This week in class has been great. MC’s Spanish has improved dramatically, and I already feel much better about mine. Except for the times I remember how much I still have to learn. But we’re both enjoying our teachers and classmates a lot. And, of course, we’re spending an adequate amount of time in the bars because everyone knows that’s where Spanish is best practiced. I really wish we could avoid it, but we don’t want to waste our tuition by not doing our homework.

More to come from me this weekend, and to whet your appetite, I know MC has some entries in the works about socio-alcoholic observations. I’ll leave you all to decide what you think they might be…

-cuptastic

I submit the following for most bizarre St. Paddy’s Day ever. And that includes the one where Alex got yelled at by Chet and I lost my pants:

Irish bar in Madrid, surrounded by Spaniards, accompanied by a fellow American, a Brit and two Germans (none of whom could grasp what the hell was so important about the day) watching the locals scream out the lyrics to mid-20th-century American rock songs (think Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis) as covered by an Irish guitarist whilst the German cohort drunkenly convinces a Spanish kid to help him do his homework in the bar.

You espeaka Espanish? How you say ‘los’?

Ain’t no Finnegan party.

It does, however, combine numbers #89 and #72 on the list. (We are SO white.)

Oh, and then came the drunken “let’s compare cultures!” game that, apparently everyone plays. The German wanted to know more American swear words, and after listing off an impressive tirade of offensive language, all we had left to give him was “cocksucker”, which truly threw him for a loop. “Vat iss kock?!?” It didn’t take long to explain. And we learned it in German, but I forgot to write it down.

-bdmc

Let me fill you in in the minor details Al forgot. First: contrary to popular opinion, the British are NOT the most organized people on the planet. At least not at the airport. Aside from the roving ticket desks (there is no fixed counter for any airline), they also refuse to have a fixed gate for each aircraft, meaning you have to stand in the main lobby of the terminal and stare at the LED board until your gate pops up, usually 15 minutes before your flight. And conveniently, the board is facing perpendicular to the oh-so-comfortable lobby chairs so there is absolutely no chance that you can sit in said lobby chairs and view said board. Brilliant. Second, and in support of point 1, they really need to get that Terminal 5 up and running at Heathrow. The “take a bus to the check-in point, go thru security (again) and take another bus to the departing terminal while your luggage sits out in the pouring rain” idea leaves much to be desired. Third, babies screaming in Spanish for the entirety of a two-hour flight are just as annoying as babies screaming in English. Just so you know.

I can speak positive volumes about British Airways, though. Somehow that accent makes all the usually annoying things about flying more bearable.

-bdmc

We made it to Madrid! Our trip was pretty uneventful except for one missing suitcase (with most of my shoes!), but supposedly the suitcase will be delivered today. MC and I went to the school this morning to see which class we test into and the evil side of me couldn’t help but laugh the entire time because the test was written entirely in Spanish and I knew MC was lost. Luckily, he was laughing, too, and they placed him in the beginning level as expected. He did, however, understand quite a bit of the test, he just had to answer all the questions in English. I think he is going to do really well and advance quickly. Unfortunately, our classes were scheduled at different times of the day, but we talked to the director and changed my class so we can be at school at the same time. In fact, we are waiting at our apartment right now (hoping the suitcase shows up soon), and then heading back to the school for our first class this afternoon.

We actually got into Madrid yesterday and took the metro from the airport to our apartment. And then promptly decided that when we leave, we’ll be taking a taxi to the airport. The metro is very easy to navigate, we just have a lot of luggage. (And, of course, that was with one fewer suitcase than we’ll have when we leave). Since I had talked myself into thinking our apartment was going to be horrible, it’s much nicer than I expected. We have two shared bathrooms and a kitchen and living space. There’s also wireless internet access, so we really will be able to keep up with blogging and email. There are five bedrooms and MC and I have the only double. We have three roommates from Sweden who will all be here until July, and one roommate from England who will only be here for another two weeks. Luckily, the rest of the world is not as ignorant as the United States, so all three roommates from Sweden speak English. But there is still quite a bit of communicating in Spanish, so we’ll still practice outside of class.

I think I will join MC in napping a little before class. Normally I don’t like sleeping during the day, but maybe a nap will get me functioning better before I go and embarass myself trying to speak Spanish with a jet lagged brain. I’m sure MC will have his own version of the events so far once he catches up on sleep. More later!

-cuptastic