Shouldn't Everyone Be Inside, Paveando*?

This year, the last Thursday of November was a touch odd. For the first time in my life, I was not home for Thanksgiving, a holiday and time of year I always enjoy and look forward to. However, what was odd was not the fact that I was not home, but the fact that I forgot it was Thanksgiving. I forgot that all my friends back home were headed somewhere familial for the week, ready to enjoy their days off. Despite having Thanksgiving plans of my own, the fact that it actually was Thanksgiving sat somewhere at the back of my mind, still waiting for that jolt of excitement that would yank it forward. An excitement usually triggered by sitting in Logan Airport with a Starbucks coffee in hand, waiting for my delayed plane. No such excitement this year. I proceeded with life as usual on Thursday. I went to work and guzzled my daily coffee without a single thought of not being able to bake pumpkin pie this year. It wasn't until later that evening, as I was walking to Plaza Prosperidad, did the thought enter my mind. What are all these people doing outside? Shouldn't they be at home eating Thanksgiving dinner? That was when I realized I was not in the United States and the Spaniards les importa un pimiento** about Thanksgiving. Needless to say, it was a strange day. I felt a little disoriented.

The following day, one I usually spend digesting Thanksgiving dinner and then gluttonously eating the leftovers, I went to Segovia for the final group trip. Despite the chilly and rainy weather due to Segovia's mountainous location and the current time of the year, it was a marvelous day. Segovia's contributions to historical interest are the castle, which was the inspiration for Cinderella's castle, the aqueduct, the cathedral, and the church where Isabel I was crowned Queen of Castilla. The rest of Segovia consists of the same little streets and plazas--of which I will never tire--that the rest of the small Spanish towns embody.

Despite Segovia's Segovianess, the highlight of the trip was the multiple course, traditional Segovian dinner that served as a Thanksgiving subsititute for all of us Americans, struggling without a huge, loud, long meal. Except we did not get turkey; we were served cochinillo*** in the traditional Segovian style. Considering I ordered salmon because I do not eat pork, I was apprehensive about seeing a suckling pig, but the dish turned out to be a little different than the plump, crispy, porcine behemoth I had expected. The relatively small pig, with its head and appendages still intact, was flat because everything but the meat had been removed. Cochinillo is so tender that the tradition is to cut it with the edge of a plate, to demonstrate that it requires no knife, and then to break the plate to prove that the plate is ordinary. It was unusual, fascinating, and not as repulsive as I had expected. You cannot do that with salmon.

*turkeying

**don't care at all

***suckling pig

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It boils down to this: if you don't have a sense of humor or a sense of adventure, we will not get along.

Sargeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

On my way out earlier today, I heard clarinet next door (or downstairs, since I cannot tell the difference). A few minutes ago, I chanced to hear drums. Add that to flamenco and gospel vocals and the trumpet, and the vecinos* have got themselves a band. I'm cool with it as long as I can sleep at night.

*neighbors

P.S.-

Yep, that's my neighbor. Gospel Girl is also in the video. I, however, prefer this version:

Bank Search Yields Some Wonderful Things

How pathetic is it that I have seen more of Madrid in the last two days than I have in the last month because of the constant search for a Barclay's Bank? Colorful Malasaña, swanky Salamanca, the festive museum circle, glitzy Gran Vía, and charming Chamberí, I saw them all. As much as I enjoy traipsing through various Madrid neighborhoods, I prefer not to be bank hunting simultaneously, because the rule is that when you intentionally look for something, you are not able to find it. It happened with the pastelerías* and it happened with the bank, which, in my opinion, can go follar un pez.**

Despite my quejas,*** I did discover some wonderful things this weekend, so the bank did not ruin everything. Read, enjoy, and come to Madrid and check them out.

carrot cake-I love a good carrot cake, so when a friend said to me, "There's a café near here that is famous for its carrot cake," I didn't hesitate. It was not the best carrot cake I had ever tried, but it was delicious nonetheless, with a thick layer of cream cheese frosting dribbled with chocolate. The café also had a relatively big selection of teas, juices, and coffees. I had a white pear tea, served in my own little teapot. The atmosphere of the eatery was just the way I like it: artsy, cozy, smoky, and warm, with clashing, yet comfortable, couches. I don't remember the name of the café, but I do remember where it is, which is more important anyway, right?

holiday spirit-Although it bothers me that Madrid is decked out in lights and Christmas trees that aren't yet lit (it's not too early, is it?), I am excited about the day when the city decides to press the 'on' switch. It will be a spectacular view. Speaking of holiday spirit, kudos to Starbucks. The employees are wearing red and green, holiday cups are being filled to the brim with the seasonal drinks, and I swear I heard "White Christmas" playing at the museum circle Starbucks on Saturday while I sipped my post-Thyssen mocha praline latté and discussed The Beatles with my friends. The only thing that feels unnatural to me is the warm weather. I am not used to seeing Christmas lights and frosty window displays without actual frost.

Calle de Goya-Fluorescent lights illuminating the street? High-heeled shoppers bearing stuffed shopping bags? Sounds like my kind of world.

VIPS-Until last week, I thought VIPS was a phone company or a business of that sort. The franchise's exterior doesn't really hint at food, and I had never stopped to look inside, so naturally, I did not assume it was a café/convenience store that, get ready, carries Reese's Peanut Butter Cups! Madrid does not generally stock them in regular stores, so I was thrilled to see the reddish orange package resting on the candy rack by the cash register. As I was leaving with my newly found treasure, I caught a glimpse of President's Choice cheeses in the refrigerator. I'll be coming back.

*pastry shop

**fuck itself

***complaints

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

You know how after taking a fixed route at a certain hour everyday for a long period of time, you start seeing many of the same people? Or if you always take the 8am train, you notice the same people and, eventually, their behavior as well? It is not much different when you live in an apartment. Even if you never actually meet your neighbors, you get to know their habits and ways pretty darn well due to thin walls and open windows (and the fact that Spaniards are generally loud). Think of Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. His neighbors across the garden included the dancer, the lonely women, the woman who lowered her dog into the garden several times a day, and the murderer, of course. He probably had those nicknames for them, too.

After having lived in my apartment in Madrid for two months, I feel like I have gotten to know my neighbors well enough to tell you all about them and their colorful lives. I even have nicknames for all of them--just like Jimmy Stewart.

Gospel Girl-Gospel Girl is an American singer. I often hear her rehearse the same verse over and over. And over. She also blasts Whitney Houston whenever I am trying to nap. Once in a while, I can hear her speaking loudly on the phone in Ebonics. Sometimes I have to assure myself that I did, in fact, leave Chicago.

Pitingo aka Flamenco Singer-Pitingo is his actual stage name, but I usually refer to him by his nickname when complaining to my friends. At 11pm, I do not want to hear hoarse vocal undulations and dramatic, strumming guitar. I know Spain runs on a late schedule, but you're not the only tenant in the building, Señor* Perfectly Coifed Hair and Carved Biceps (I've seen YouTube videos). Also, it isn't in good taste to blast your own CDs for the entire courtyard to hear.

The Mother-Almost every night around midnight, the smell of tortilla española,** or some other fragrant delicacy, wafts through my open window. I hear the clanking of silverware and the family's docile speech, The Mother always insisting, "¡Cómelo! ¡Cómelo!"*** Typical.

Mysterious Trumpeter-Once in a while, I hear brief bursts of trumpet playing. It sounds like it is coming from the apartment next door, but sometimes it sounds like Pitingo's singing is coming from next door and he lives below me, so I don't actually know if Mysterious Trumpeter lives next door or if he is Pitingo. Pitingo, if it is you, 12am is not an ideal time for playing the trumpet! Jolines!****

The Buzzers-Every morning, and several times in the evening, the doorbell next door rings. Except it isn't a ring as much as a buzz, and every single time I jump, startled. I don't mind it much, except at 8am, when the stupid buzzer wakes me up, along with the elderly shouts of vengo***** that accompany it. Who is visiting you people everyday at 8am?!

*sir

**thick omelet with potatoes

***eat it

****jeez

*****I'm coming

Burrrrrrgos

As the bus sped down the highway, I looked nervously out the window at the brown Spanish landscape. Sparse shacks sprinkled the land. For a few seconds, I panicked. Was I going to spend the next six months on top of an unpopulated mountain?

Fortunately, as the clock neared 10:45am, a town appeared, its little buildings swallowing the bus in its Castilian stomach. I craned my neck to see as much as I could through the bus window. I saw European houses, all different colors, all old and cartoon-like. I was reminded of the Benelux region. A mixture of cobblestone and gray cement reflected the morning sun in the puddles left over from the earlier rainfall. People were just appearing on the streets. It was small, but definitely not as sparse and forlorn as I had expected.

Walking out of the bus station, I was greeted by a stately arc, decorated with statues and turrets. Typical Castilla León. It was as though the arc was saying to me, "Bienvenida a Burgos*" and ushering me into the heart of the city. Behind the arc, the Burgos cathedral towered majestically, its gothic splendor bathing in the November sun. The Burgos cathedral, La Catedral de Santa María, is the third largest cathedral in Spain. As the Spaniards like to say, it's muy impresionante.** I have seen many gothic cathedrals in my 20 years, but I never cease to be amazed by these ornate, colossal structures, built by human hands over centuries.

Burgos is an interesting and comfortable mix of the old and the new (where else are you going to see an antique, castle-like structure next to a Vodafone? Or bank headquarters in what looks like a medieval fort?), but the word that I think describes it best is charming. It's charming. The center boasts little streets and plazas lined with colorful homes--mauve, yellow, cyan, ivory--and various restaurants and cafés whose warm yellow lights are welcoming after the sun sets. Modern businesses rupture the antique homeliness, but it is 2009.

El Paseo de Espolón, one of Burgos' most beautiful and walkable streets, looks like a modern art exhibit. Chunky trees resembling ginger roots line either side of the street, their callused fingers reaching up to the sky. While some of the trees still sport some leaves, the majority is bald and exposed to the changing season. Leaves cover the ground, coloring it gold and rosy red. At night, the blue and purple lights illuminate the street, making it look like wonderland.

It's a far cry from Madrid, but Burgos, here I come!

*welcome to Burgos

**very impressive

P.S.-According to my friends, my pronunciation of Burgos is highly entertaining and Russian-sounding, hence the title of this post.

Things I Want in Life Besides Love, Happiness, and a Job in the Journalism Field

1. gold metallic Converse low tops

2. tan Burberry trench coat

3. new digital camera, because mine guzzles batteries by the dozen and the lense won't open without the help of my fingers

4. new iPod, because Biggles II seems to be reaching the end of his battery life

5. a Mac, because I no longer have the patience to deal with Windows and Elton is getting old

6. the ability to open my mouth and speak fluent French

P.S.-These are in no particular order.

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To hell with you, Spanish customer service!

If That Won't Teach the Kids Subjunctive, What Will?

Yesterday, in the middle of going over the American Beauty script in my translation class, my professor stopped and asked us, the class, quite casually, "Have we gone over 'fuck' yet?" Immediately, everyone's ears perked up, because what college student doesn't love palabrotas*? Especially when nonchalantly inserted into academic context?

The next twenty minutes were spent discussing various Castilian vulgarities--convenient, considering the fact that everyday I wonder how I would verbally fend myself against unpleasant Spaniards should the need arise. Fortunately, that knowledge has now been bestowed upon me, for the low cost of $50,000 a year. But I digress.

Tapping the list of tacos** on the board with the chalk, the professor said, "Now, remember, if it starts with que,*** it's always subjunctive because it's really supposed to be espero que.****" Swear words and a grammar lesson in one? I say sí.*****

In case you are interested, here are some of the lovely phrases I learned (and don't forget to never say coger un taxi****** in Argentina):

joder

vete a la mierda

que te den

que te jodas

que te folles un pez

*bad words

**bad words

***that (in that particular context)

****I hope that

*****yes

******in Spain it means 'to get' or 'to grab,' but in Argentina it is a vulgar term

Madrid vs. Paris

The Metro

The Madrid metro is clean, punctual, and every single platform has a counter that informs you how soon the next train will arrive. The Paris metro is not so clean, only a few stops have countdowns for the next train, and I saw multiple people hopping over the turnstiles. I've never seen that in Madrid, although it would be considerably easier because the Madrid metro does not have a turnstile and a swinging door at each thruway. Furthermore, while the doors on the Madrid metro do not open until the train has completely stopped, people hop off the Paris metro while it is still moving. I was waiting for the train to stop so I could safely get off, and the Parisians behind me got impatient and a little pushy, like New York drivers at a fresh green light. However, the speed of the Paris metro slows the Madrid metro down to a crawl. The Paris metro literally zooms from stop to stop, taking me through ten stops in fifteen minutes.

Eating Outside

In Madrid, a person eating on the street is seen as an aberration to society, with the exception of ice cream in the summer. In Paris, people galavant down the streets eating sandwiches, crepes, etc. I am so accustomed to never seeing food on the street, that I was legitimately surprised to see people in Paris eating on the street. And then I joined in.

Cold Weather

When the temperature drops below 60 degrees, the madrileños* don their pea coats. When the temperature drops below 50 degrees, the madrileños walk around in down coats and thick scarves. The weather in Paris was in the high 40s/low 50s when I was there. The Parisians did not look like abominable snowmen. They were wearing pea coats and trench coats because they, like me, do not believe that 50 degrees is cold enough to dress as though they are headed to the wintry forests of Siberia. For that same reason, outdoor terraces in cafés were not empty. People were enjoying their coffees outside in the chilly Paris air, coats and scarves included, but outside nonetheless. Terrace seating in Madrid is not even available anymore.

Staying on the Right

On escalators and moving walkways in Madrid, those who want to stand keep to the right so the walkers can walk through on the left. The Parisians spread out all over the place, barring those who wish to walk. In the airport, I witnessed some very confused Spaniards trying to walk down the moving walkway past a group of Parisians--without much success.

Creepy Men

I was a pretty big hit with all the creepy men of Paris, who appeared out of nowhere to tell me that I had nice eyes or some merde** like that. An old man clacked while walking past me. I was even addressed as vous*** by someone older than me. I was standing on a bridge, taking pictures of the Seine, when a man walked up to me and asked, "Comment allez-vous****?" I actually understood him, so it gave me even greater satisfaction to mumble, "Je ne parle pas français.*****" In Madrid, the only compliment available is guapa****** and no one in his right mind would use usted******* in such a situation. Maybe blondes are more rare in Paris than in Madrid and thus merit vouvoyer.********

*people who live in Madrid

**shit

***formal you (French)

****how are you

*****I don't speak French

******pretty

*******formal you (Spanish)

********to address someone using vous

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Coming soon: Madrid vs. Paris. Be there.

Paris, Je T'aimerai Toujours*

When one thinks of Paris, one thinks of love. Perhaps it is an old Parisian cliché, but it is true. No, I did not meet a dashing Frenchman who swept me off my feet in the three days that I was there. I met Paris itself, and Paris effectively managed to sweep me off my feet and leave me wanting more.

Apart from the very tops of monuments such as the Eiffel Tour and Notre Dame, one of the best views of Paris can be seen simply from the quai** of the Seine. Peaking through the golden foliage of the rustling trees lining the streets, you can see the waters, ruffled by the wind and current. Tour boats dot the Seine and people stroll down the embankment below. European buildings line the river, adding an elderly yet beautiful and elegant feel. The bank stretches for miles, as do the charming buildings, none of them identical.

Turning onto a bridge, any bridge, the city of Paris spreads out in front of you--vast and endless, interrupted only by the snaking Seine. On one side, the Eiffel Tower, pride of the Left Bank, rises above the Parisian immeubles,*** shadowing their grey classic roofs. On the other side, gothic architecture timidly yet prominently peaks out from behind the buildings, marking the Isle de la Cité and Quartier Latin.

The Quartier Latin, my personal favorite arrondissement,**** is a flavorful Parisian mixture of the old and the new, a microcosm of the city itself. Known as the historically intellectual neighborhood of Paris--it houses the Sorbonne--the Quartier Latin is like a little village full of narrow streets, tiny sidewalks, and old buildings that the musketeers probably hung out in. Among the various shades of brown, bright awnings and lit up bistro signs pierce through the monotone color palette. Ceramic flower pots stuffed with pink and red flowers nod to the street crepe vendors, outdoor cafés, and shoppers who traverse the bustling Boulevard of St. Michel. Even the occasional commercial giants--McDonalds and Starbucks--do not take away from the neighborhood's distinct character. Rather, they serve as even more hubs for afternoon rendez-vous.*****

Upon hearing that I would be going to Paris a few weeks ago, someone told me, "Be prepared to fall in love every ten minutes." I did. Parisian streets emit a certain je ne sais quoi,****** a character, an emotion. Paris is unlike any other European city I have ever had the opportunity to visit and it fills me with sadness that I will never have the chance to live there nor speak the language. Admiration, sadness, regret. Sounds like love to me.

*I will love you forever

**bank

***buildings

****district

*****meeting

******I don't know what

How a Bargain at H&M Made Me Homesick

"I like your jacket, where did you get it?"

"H&M, it was $5."

"The one here?"

"No, at home, on the Gold Coast."

"Oh, you mean home home."

"Yeah."

As soon as the words "Gold Coast" escaped my lips, my mind zoomed to North Michigan Avenue, like a projector fast forwarding through stills to get to the right image. I saw the Water Tower and the shiny, gilded, designer boutiques, their spotless windows gleaming in the sun. I could see the still, hot, summer air pressing down on the shoppers, as though I were suspended in the air, overlooking the area. And for a few moments, I was sort of sad.

Although I am used to being away from Chicago, and claim missing Boston more than the Windy City, it remains my home, and the sudden mention of "home home" made me realize that I sort of do miss it. Home contains a special kind of familiarity--the kind that has the ability to warm your heart. Whenever I chance to see pictures of Chicago, I smile, because it is always a welcome sight. The Sears Tower, the red CNA building, Buckingham Fountain, everything.

So where am I going with this? Nowhere, really. I just wanted to pay a little homage to the hub of the Midwest. I guess I really do miss it sometimes.

It's a Beautiful Day in My Neighborhood

The appetizing fragrance of tortilla española* wafts through my open window. The clanking of silverware and rapid maternal speech echo through the courtyard. It’s midnight. While I am ready to turn in for the night, the families that live in my building are just sitting down to dinner, their dynamics on display for everyone to see and hear. From another part of the building, I enjoy a different kind of performance. The flamenco singer who lives in the apartment below mine is practicing, his raspy voice gliding all over the scale, crooning Andalusian tunes.

The quiet, residential neighborhood of Alfonso XIII, more commonly known as El Barrio de Prosperidad, is a cesspool of a large variety of people from several different generations. Teenagers traipse up and down the streets, stopping at the shoe boutiques or electronics stores that pepper the blocks. They congregate near the large McDonalds across the street from the metro. Mothers walk alone or in pairs, pushing strollers or lovingly leading their well dressed, newly walking toddlers by the hand. Sharply dressed businessmen plow down the sidewalk, their shiny dress shoes reflecting the sun as they make wide strides, briefcases bouncing at their sides. The older generations stroll arm in arm, always dressed fashionably in dresses, woolen cardigans, and fedoras, brandishing their canes. The abuelas** chat while the abuelos*** discuss politics. Once in a while, a Real Madrid player can be spotted gracing the humble streets, or so my host mother tells me.

Although a completely modern neighborhood, Alfonso XIII emanates a comfortable, lived-in, familiar feeling. There are no big businesses in sight, only small stores and private boutiques. Hair salons and cafeterías**** abound—and are populated at all hours of the day. Walking to the metro every morning, I am accustomed to the delicious aroma of coffee and the sounds of spoons tapping the saucers and murmured exchanges between proprietors and customers filling the streets. Except for the dead of night, when the street lights are faintly reflected in the naked pavement, the neighborhood is always lively, despite its generally slow pace.

A mere 10-minute walk from the Alfonso XIII metro is the Berlin Park, which is a haven on sunny days. Birds chirp, laughing children chase each other, and runners run. The park’s entrance on Concha Espina boasts a modest fountain adorned with the unmistakable pieces of the Berlin Wall, engulfed in the trickling fountain water. Not much farther, the majestic Santiago Bernabéu Stadium towers over the street corner.

While the Alfonso XIII area does not offer chic shopping or swanky lounges, it does offer a first-class view of daily Spanish life. Walking down the neighborhood’s main street, Lopez de Hoyos, or eating lunch in one of the many sidewalk restaurants is a good way to pass a lazy, autumn, Saturday afternoon before getting dolled up and heading to the trendier districts for some evening entertainment.

*thick omelet with potatoes
**grandmas
***grandpas
****cafés

P.S.-I wrote this article for the My Metro section of the magazine I intern for. Every month, the section profiles a different neighborhood. The December issue will feature mine!

Mojitos and Transvestite Nuns

Getting off at La Latina was entering a different world compared to the modern, symmetrical barrio* of Prosperidad I had left ten metro stops behind. La Latina is an older neighborhood adorned with older, quirkier, and more colorful buildings, some of which don't even stand up straight. In other words: the ideal neighborhood for Halloween festivities. While in Prosperidad I caught sight of several H&M clad guys with scream masks walking casually down the street, in La Latina I was greeted by hoards of witches, devils, vampires, and other costume-clad folk ready to fiestar.**

Alice, the Queen of Hearts, and the Mad Hatter--me--made their way down the cartoon-like streets, in search of the bar. The inside was dimly lit and decorated with ghosts, spiders, spiderwebs, and jack-o-lanterns. If it hadn't been for the loud Castilian chatter (Spanish conversations are essentially competitions for the most powerful set of vocal cords), I would have thought I was back in the good old USA.

Despite the fact that many people questioned our costumes, I feel that we were original in the sea of all sorts of dead things. My glittery silver top hat seemed popular, considering people kept taking it off my head and trying it on, although I am convinced that half the reason people bothered to do that is because my head was conveniently at reaching level since I was generally below everyone else, being five feet tall. Some Irish guy was entertained by my teacup and kept asking me for tea.

The arrival of the transvestite nuns set the tone for the rest of the evening. I was very interested in taking a picture with them because their costumes were hilarious, so the inhabitants of Wonderland struck up a conversation, got a few pictures, and 15 minutes later, free copas*** as well.

Although Halloween is still a budding holiday in Spain, people dress up and get into the spirit as much as people in the states do. The main differences are that there are way less house parties, because Spanish social culture centers around public places, and there are absolutely no decorations anywhere. Walk into a bar on Halloween, and you leave the bland normal world outside and enter the demon underground.

...so when's Christmas?

*neighborhood

**to party

***drinks