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How does one become a freelance editor?

Reunited: Sima and Confetti Goat Man

The title says it all. While walking through Plaza Mayor last night, I noticed all the street performers and immediately turned to search for Confetti Goat Man from my first day in Madrid. I found him!

P.S.-If you are devilishly confused, read this blog post.

El Greco's Toledo

The bus pulled away from the Paseo de Eduardo Dato at 9:30am sharp, full of students, some rubbing sleep out of their eyes, some bright eyed and bushy tailed--ready for the day ahead. The autobús* rolled down the highway, passing miles of brown, Spanish land and at some point crossing into Castilla La Mancha. Having skimmed the surface of sleep, I was awoken by the absence of the mild hum of rotating wheels. We had stopped at a rest area to stretch our legs and tomar un café,** although Toledo is only an hour and a half or so outside of Madrid. Having developed an affinity for Spanish coffee with hot leche,*** I walked cheerfully into the building. I was greeted by a giant room full of Manchurian souvenirs: swords, Don Quixote statuettes, flamenco dresses, etc. In the corner was a wooden bar with wooden bar stools, bathed in the piercing morning sunlight. Joining some of my classmates, I slid onto a bar stool and ordered una taza*** of coffee with leche. Cafés occupy every other building in Madrid, so I have grown accustomed to--and in love with--the aromatic scent of coffee and gentle symphony of clanking spoons as they are rested on the saucers. The combination of the smell of coffee and cutlery noise makes me happy. After the short stop at the best rest area ever, the bus cruised on towards Toledo. Before I had a chance to doze off again--I don't drink coffee for the caffeine--the bus once again stopped. Getting off the bus, I saw a view of Toledo that even the best words cannot describe:

Let's compare this to El Greco's famous painting:

Beautificious, no? Toledo is a charming little town, but I could not imagine calling Toledo my permanent home unless it was a neighborhood of a big city and not a city on its own. It is full of adorable little streets lined with stores: souvenir stores, candy stores, and modern retail establishments, the last of which stick out tremendously among the old buildings and general feeling of antiquity that Toledo embodies.

Toledo served as a crossroads for Christian, Muslim, and Jewish culture in the Middle Ages. Collaboration among the three religions and cultures is evident. The Toledo Cathedral, a Gothic masterpiece towering over the timid town, houses biblical art and decorations in Gothic, Classical, and Baroque styles. However, Muslim influence is also apparent in many of the church's decorative facades. Muslim style applied to Christian architecture is called mudejar. The Sinagoga de El Tránsito, a former synagogue turned Sephardic museum, also displays some Muslim influence, namely in the horseshoe arcs, called herraduras, and stucco etchings:

Although the majestic iglesia**** and the synagogue are prime examples of beautiful, medieval art, the artistic highlight of Toledo, for me, is El Greco's masterpiece, The Burial of the Count of Orgáz, which is the only reason visitors step foot into the Iglesia of Santo Tomé, a small church in the middle of Toledo. The painting is massive and strong, evoking powerful images and feelings. People crowd into the little room to see El Greco's famed obra,*****and I also stand there. I stare. I think. I smile to myself at the thought of such a small town harboring so much meaningful and historically important content as I make my way back outside into the Friday sunshine.

*bus

**to have a cup of coffee

***milk

****church

*****work

A Close Encounter With the Creepy Kind

Madrid is full of handsome men, no doubt, but it also has its share of egregious males. I thought it would be entertaining to share with you some of the lines I have heard around Madrid so far. For anything I write in Spanish, I will provide an English translation as well for you non-Spanish savvy readers. ¡Disfrútados!*

where: outside the Sol metro stop

when: around 10:45pm

who: Beth and I

hombre: Eh, ¿tenéis un cigarrillo?

me: No.

El hombre y su compañero se quedan un rato. Beth y yo nos miramos.

hombre: ¿Sois extranjeras?

me: Pues sí, somos estudiantes.

hombre: Tu español es muy bueno. Es muy claro.

me: Gracias.

Los hombres todavía están. Estoy un poco incómoda.

hombre (a su compañero, hablando de Beth): Ésta es muy alta. Ésta me gusta. (hablando a Beth) Entonces, ¿tu casa o mi casa?

man: Hey, do you have a cigarette?

me: No.

The man and his friend linger. Beth and I look at each other.

man: Are you foreigners?

me: Yeah, we're students.

man: Your Spanish is very good. It's very articulate.

me: Thanks.

The men are still there. I'm beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable.

man (to his friend, talking about Beth): She's very tall. I like her. (talking to Beth) So, your house or my house?

where: somewhere in Old Madrid

when: around 6:45pm

who: Dana, Beth, Katie, and I

man (brandishing joint): Would you like to smoke a joint with me?

Me: No, thank you.

man (walking away): Good luck! Have a fun day!

where: Club Joy

when: between 12:30am and 3:30am

who: me

creepy Italian (with accent): Your eyes are very, very good!

*enjoy

To Get: Una Lección de Lenguaje (traducción)

Una de las clases que tomo este semestre se llama Traducción a través del cine y el teatro. A parte de la oportunidad de traducir algunos guiones fenomenales, como los de Annie Hall y American Beauty (pásame el espárrago), tengo la oportunidad de comparar los matices gramáticos del inglés y español, lo cual es muy interesante para mí. Lo que captó mi atención era la diferencia entre los dos idiomas cuando hablando del verbo simple to get. Bueno, es posible que el verbo no sea tan simple porque en inglés se lo utiliza muchísimo. Mira:

to get (an object)

to get (a concept)

to get (a person)

to get into

to get out of

to get on

to get off

to get up

to get down

to go get

Lo entiendes, más o menos. In inglés, to get se usa mucho; es tu amigo mejor. En español, se substituye una palabra diferente para cada frase que en inglés significa to get. Aquí es la lista para que te disfrute y tenga tu propia lección de vocabulario:

to get (an object)-coger, obtener, conseguir, recibir

to get (a concept)-comprender, entender

to get (a person)-recoger

to get into (physically)-meterse, entrar

to get out of-salir

to get on-subir

to get off-bajar

to get up-levantarse

to get down-agacharse

to go get-ir a buscar

Me parece que inglés recicla más verbos que español, pero cuando se traduce inglés coloquial a español, resultan más palabras debido a todos los artículos, preposiciones, y pronombres del objeto directo que existen en español. Esto puede volver loco a alguien. Por ejemplo:

now that I think about it-lo cual ahora que lo pienso

kind of-en cierta manera

to grin and bear it-poner al mal tiempo buena cara

to fly away (to escape)-largarse volando

and what about me-y qué pasa conmigo

Es posible que mis ejemplos no prueben bien lo que quería decir, ¡pero créeme! Después de traducir el primer monólogo de Z en la película Antz, la versión española fue mucho más larga.

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Perhaps I should venture to explain. This blog isn't solely devoted to Madrid, so all of you faithful readers out there, cease the confusion regarding the picture of the Holy Trinity below. Thank you.

To Get: A Language Lesson

One of the classes I am taking this semester is called Translation Through Film and Theatre. Apart from getting the opportunity to translate some pretty awesome screenplays, such as Annie Hall and American Beauty (pass the asparagus), I get to compare the grammatical nuances of English and Spanish, which, for me, is fascinating. What really captured my attention was the difference between the two languages regarding the simple verb to get. Ok, perhaps it isn't that simple of a verb considering it has a plethora of uses--in the English language. Observe:

to get (an object)

to get (a concept)

to get (a person)

to get into

to get out of

to get on

to get off

to get up

to get down

to go get

You get the general idea. While, in English, to get serves as your best friend, in Spanish there is a different verb for each to get phrase I listed. For your enjoyment and personal vocabulary lesson:

to get (an object)-coger, obtener, conseguir, recibir

to get (a concept)-comprender, entender

to get (a person)-recoger

to get into (physically)-meterse, entrar

to get out of-salir

to get on-subir

to get off-bajar

to get up-levantarse

to get down-agacharse

to go get-ir a buscar

The interesting thing is that while English seems to recycle more verbs than does Spanish, translating colloquial English phrases becomes considerably more wordy in Spanish when you throw in all the necessary articles, prepositions, and direct object pronouns that can sometimes make you tear your hair out. For example:

now that I think about it-lo cual ahora que lo pienso

kind of-en cierta manera

to grin and bear it-poner al mal tiempo buena cara

to fly away (to escape)-largarse volando

and what about me-y qué pasa conmigo

Perhaps my examples do not prove my point as much as I thought they would, but take my word for it! After translating Z's opening speech in Antz, the Spanish version was mucho más* longer.

*much, way more

Calle Arenal: The Club Promoters' Lair

Party time is quite a big deal here in Madrid. While Americans scoop time out of their day to go sweat at the gym, madrileños reserve time to party. And if they are not the ones participating in the actual physical act of partying, they certainly do one hell of a job organizing parties. Bouncers, security guards, promoters, bartenders. They are the nighttime creatures that prowl until the morning hours. And prowl is the choice vernacular, as I learned last night. I walked out of the Sol metro stop yesterday evening around 10:30pm to a bustling Puerta del Sol. Although I am well aware of Madrid's late hours, part of me was nevertheless surprised to see so many people out and about. I met up with some friends and we commenced a stroll down Calle Arenal, in search of a cozy, cute café where we could pasar un rato* before the clock turned to zero (that means midnight, all of you AM/PM Americans) and the festivities really began.

Vividly recalling the chupitas adventure of 9/11, I attempted to steer clear of men standing in place holding cards and pamphlets in their hands. My attempts were in vain, because as soon as someone from our group did not manage to escape, more club promoters appeared out of the shadows. I am not exaggerating. They literally appeared out of nowhere and walked towards us, eager to shower us with offers and promotions. It was both hilarious and slightly creepy, because had they not been moving at their own pace and inflecting their voices, they would have been comparable to zombies. Club zombies on the hunt for females dressed for a good time: the horror movie event of the year.

Ok. So. After the café, a touch after midnight, we headed to Club Joy. Club Joy is sort of a big deal. People know about it. And after having been inside, I can see why. Although it is just a plain, stone building with a neon sign screaming the club's name on the outside, the inside is immaculate and plush. There are several levels, the top ones reserved for VIP attendees. The seats are black velvet cushioned couches. There are two bars. There is a screen at the front of the relatively big dance floor and lots of lights, strobe included. As it was student night at Club Joy, the place filled up rather fast, exceeding all appropriate capacities. The entire club--not just the dance floor-- was soon stuffed tighter than fish in a barrel. Talk about getting to know people well. There was no pocket of space to retreat to when accosted by, say, slightly creepy Italians, one of whom proceeded to give me my own personal disco dance, to "Saturday Night Fever", nonetheless! I thought of that lovely bar dance sequence in Airplane. Here it is, for your enjoyment (the Italians are pretty much the only interesting story from last night, anyway).

*to pass the time

Madrid Needs to Borrow the Big Citgo Sign for My Directional Convenience

I get off the train at the Moncloa metro stop and follow the morning crowd and the signs towards the salida*. I check my phone. It is only 10:30am; my interview with European Vibe Magazine is at 11:00am. Mentally shrugging, I climb the stairs up to the Tuesday sunlight, which is actually exactly the same as the sunlight on every other day of the week, and look around me. Not only do I have no idea where I am--considering the fact that I have never gotten off at the Moncloa stop--I do not even know which way north is. Or east, south, and west, for that matter. Back homes (Chicago and Boston), I orient myself using the appropriate body of water. Or, occasionally, the Sears Tower or Prudential Building, respectively. Here in Madrid, not only is there no body of water nearby, there are no tall buildings, so I simply have to learn. But I digress. Coming out of the metro station, I pick a random street and direction, praying that it will lead me to Calle de Fernando Católico 63, local 1 (I do not know what local 1 means in terms of the address). I quickly arrive at the realization that a)I have no idea where I am or where I am going and b)I am glad that I got to the neighborhood so early. And to think I was beginning to admonish myself for perpetually being early for various functions.

I continue walking, knowing that I either have to ask other pedestrians for directions or take out my embarassingly huge map, which doesn't really go with my Gap dress pants and Banana Republic sweater, and which wouldn't aid me either considering I do not know cardinal directions. To my right appear stores bearing the signs for the Universidad Complutense, which I vageuly know is somewhere northwestish. Shit. Maybe I am completely and utterly lost. After another block, I approach a woman walking towards me. ¿Perdóneme, sabe dónde está la Calle de Fernando Católico?** I ask, my nerves highlighting my American accent. The woman isn't sure. Next block. Same question. She thinks that Fernando Católico is somewhere farther, perpendicular to the street we are on now, but I should keep asking. I begin wondering if this street even exists. Several people later, a man overhears me asking a woman--who (surprise!) doesn't know the answer--and points me in the right direction. I walk two blocks, as directed, and hit Fernando Católico. Thank God. It's already 10:50am. Fernando Católico turns out to be parallel to the street I had been on originally. Thank you, Spanish man! Without you, all would have been lost! After a little more confusion regarding the local 1, I get to the European Vibe office at 11am sharp. Oh yeah, and the interview went swell.

*exit

**Excuse me, where is the street Fernando Católico?

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"Until the next technological calamity," I wrote in the last post. I was accident free for approximately 10 hours. This morning, I gave myself a minor electric shock.

P.S.-I'm fine.

To Enchufar* or Not to Enchufar?

There is no better way to learn vocabulary than continuously putting yourself into situations in which you cannot effectively explain yourself. Yesterday, upon my arrival at my alojamiento,** where I promptly forgot how to say "two," the first item of business that my señora, Tyta, wanted to take care of was ensuring that my internet functioned properly. I connected to the internet without problems. However, because I--embarassingly enough--have absolutely no idea how electricity works, I somehow managed to blow a fuse while trying to figure out the entire converter/adapter/plug situation. As soon as the converter barely tickled the outlet, there was a flash of white-blue light, accompanied by a clap. All the electricity in the apartment went out. Of course, I was mortified. So much for first impressions. Lo siento, lo siento,*** I kept saying as I ran around the apartment after the bustling Tyta. She fetched the landlord and, thankfully, he fixed everything. Tyta took me to a nearby electronics store where I could barely explain what I needed and quickly realized that I should have brought my converter and adapter with me for visual aid, since I couldn't produce complete sentences. Finally, the saleswoman said to me in English, "What do you need?" I was relieved. I returned to the apartment, retrieved my frustratables, and returned to the electronics store. I bought an adapter and in the evening, after much more electricity frustration that involved another visit to El Corte Ingles, I was finally able to charge my computer. Until the next technological calamity, I can live in peace with Facebook abundance.

*to plug in

**lodging

***I'm sorry

Vodafone Hell and Free Chupitas*

Day two in Madrid was a little more hands on. After a rather lengthy, but completely thorough and helpful, orientation at the Instituto Internacional, where classes will be held, we were let loose among the Madrileños--alone with each other and our Metrobus passes. The following events occurred in the course of the last seven and a half hours.

Adventure #1: Getting off at the Gran Vía stop, we got slightly lost because nobody had payed attention to the route on the way to the metro in the morning due to the presence of our Madrid-savvy staff, but found our way quite quickly and proceeded back to the hotel.

Adventure #2: The first order of the afternoon was to purchase cell phones. We walked to the neighboring Corte Ingles, Madrid's biggest department store.

It has everything. Because it has everything, there are several buildings that house different departments. Although I distinctly remembered entering a building with electronics on yesterday's attempt to obtain phones, I followed the rest of the small group of six into the building with cosmetics and lingerie. Try again. We walked around until we realized it was the wrong entrance. We walked out. The street we had been on seemed to have vanished...or we had left through a different exit. We walked back inside, past the security guards dressed in vibrant red blazers, and found the correct exit. Across the street, the electronics department welcomed us and we escalated to the third floor, excited about finally getting phones. I was suddenly very aware of the fact that I had no idea what I was supposed to do, so I looked at the available phones for a few minutes, trying to shake off the glances of the salespeople, not wanting to talk to them. I saw the phone I wanted, a 19E pre-paid LG phone. We finally got the courage to talk to the salespeople. Somos estudiantes y necesitamos teléfonos,** we said. ¿Qué tipos de planes hay?*** I know that I do not speak for just myself when I say that none of us fully understood the answer. We nodded, mumbled amongst each other, and asked about the pre-paid phone rates. There were two salespeople attending to us. ¿Cuánto cuestan los minutos?**** I really love Castillian Spanish, I think it is beautiful. It is a shame that I can barely understand it. After multiple explanations, we requested that the saleswoman write down for us the rules and rates. Major hubbub ensued. We finally all decided to get the same phones, only to discover that we needed our passports to purchase said phones. Thinking all activities that required my passport were done for the day, I had removed my passport from my purse prior to leaving the hotel, as had Dana. Fortunately, the hotel is located very close to Corte Ingles, so a 15 minute scurry later, Dana and I were back in the Vodafone department with our passports. We got the last two phones available and a new salesman who spoke English. Finally understanding all the answers to our questions, four of us returned to the hotel to figure out the phones and exchange numbers, only to discover that we had not been credited the 12E that come pre-paid with the phone. Disgruntled, we marched back to Corte Ingles. Upon seeing us yet again--the dimwitted Americans who supposedly speak Spanish but do not understand it--the saleswoman's face performed a maneuver that I cannot explain, but I know that she was not thrilled to see us. I was rather embarassed myself at that point, but explained to the salespeople our problem. Fortunately, I also understood the answer, so we headed back to the hotel again, exhausted but no longer disconnected from the world.

Adventure #3: Six of us girls had dinner in the Plaza Mayor: paella and sangría. Typical Spanish fare.

We had trouble understanding the waiter. Spanish skills are slowly deteroriating. Walking back from dinner, we stopped in front of Club Joy to discuss the possibility of going there the following week. As we stood there gawking at the cyan neon, a club promoter approached us and gave us passes for free entry to a nearby club. We thanked him, but lingered a second too long. ¿Queréis algunas chupitas?***** he asked us. Stupidly, I blurted out yes (I had heard about the free chupitas before, and, please, someone else be leader next time), so we followed the man to the nearby club, rationalizing that if it were sketchy, we would not go inside. The club itself, Cibeles Madrid, was not sketchy. It was small, but there were lights, booming music, and a well equipped bar. And we definitely got more than just a chupita. The situation was slightly awkward because it was completely unfamiliar to us, although it is apparently normal in Madrid. Downing our vodka orange sodas, we bolted out of the club, laughing at our odd luck.

P.S.-I would like to explicitly state that although it may seem iffy, nothing about the chupita situation was particularly sketchy or dangerous. We were in a bustling, illuminated neighborhood full of bars and clubs and we watched the bartender make our drinks for us.

*shots

**We are students and we need phones.

***What kind of plans do you have?

****How much do the minutes cost?

*****Would you like some shots?

The City Where Street Performers Wear Confetti Suits and Goat Masks and Cat Whistle at Passersby

Finishing up an after-dinner walk through Old Madrid's most populated and club/bar dense streets, the group was shuffling gaily through Plaza Mayor when several yelps and hoots emanated from a white tablecloth adorned table situated in the square. I had noticed the tables and the masks propped up in the holes cut out in the table. It wasn't until the shouting did I notice the masks move. Startled, I realized that these were men wearing face paint and shaggy wigs: street performers!

I was rather amused, considering I had never before encountered such theatre. I nodded approvingly and continued walking. My feet barely stepped through the ark onto the street when I heard a cat whistle. ¿Ya?* (yes, my thoughts come complete with upside down punctuation marks. batteries sold separately.) I thought disdainfully as I turned around, preparing to furrow my eyebrows. I did not see a sleazy Spaniard. I saw a mountain of confetti topped with a goat head and a hat. I giggled. The human current on the street pushed me forward, so I did not get the opportunity to photograph this fabulous creature. However, I have no doubt that Confetti Goat Man and I will cross paths again in Old Madrid, although I have to admit I am apprehensive of coming too close to him.

With colorful caprine thoughts, I finished my first day in Madrid. Now, I am sitting in my room--obviously--at the Hotel Regina in La Puerta del Sol, the heart of Old Madrid, thinking about my long, crazy day. At O'Hare, I cruised through security and spent the rest of my time prior to boarding watching the people at the gate, trying to decide who was British (I was flying British Airways). Spot the Brit, a lovely variation on one of my favorite games, Spot the Russian, which, by the way, I've also played many times today, at Heathrow and in Madrid. The flights from Chicago to London and from London to Madrid were rather uneventful, except for my excitement regarding various English accents all around me for twelve hours and my phone's impotence. Apparently, my beloved LG Shine and Europe are not amigos**. After dragging about 100 pounds of luggage from the baggage carousel onto a cart, from the cart onto a sidewalk, from the sidewalk into the trunk of a taxi, I was ecstatic to relax in the cool interior of the cab as I looked hungrily out the windows. In Madrid at last...and no idea how much to tip the driver at the end of the trip.

Upon walking into the hotel, Dana and I were greeted warmly by the BU staff, sent up to our rooms, and immediately dragged out again for a walk through Old Madrid. I didn't object; my excitement shoved my exhaustion out of the way and I enjoyed the mini tour through the tourist heavy part of the city, despite the heat (note to self: start learning Celsius). After the walk and a failed attempt to buy cell phones at Vodafone, we returned to the hotel, where I proceeded to almost set my room on fire due to a silly mistake regarding adapters. I was not aware that the hotel provides an adapter for those who may need it. Without thinking, I just assumed it was part of the general Spanish electric process. I plugged my computer into my adapter and that adapter into the hotel's adapter. Don't judge. We've all made dumb mistakes, ok?! I lay down to rest and began to dose off, so I decided to get up and set my phone alarm so as not to sleep through dinner. As I walked by my computer, I noticed that the battery was not charging, so I leaned down to fix the heavy adapter, only to realize that it was scorching hot, steaming, and releasing an odor of melted plastic. This has not been my day with electronics, what with my phone not working, almost setting the room on fire, and losing some pictures on my camera unexpectedly during the walk earlier in the day. Lesson of the day: technology and I are not friends! Hopefully, tomorrow's lesson will be something more Spanish.

*already

**friends