Spanish Games, Rage Walks and “Jell-O” Fish

So you want to visit Spain, you say? Well, naturally you do! Spain is a country of warm golden sunshine, sexy swaying greenery and delightful comestibles, not to mention plenty of fascinating history and a rather attractive populace. There’s only one thing you have to really, really know. What’s that you say? Is Spanish the sole requisite? No, my fine friend. While it might be very nice to be familiar with the native language of the country to which you wish to travel, it’s mostly unnecessary in Spain; you really need only one key, which I’ll reveal in just a moment. What you need, dear reader, is to be proficient–no, no highly versed–no! not that still–dare I say expert at a very special game I like to call by its highly technical name: Hurry Up And Wait. The key phrase of which I spoke before is very simple, and you’ll need to have it in your quick employ for the lines in which you’ll find yourself soon after arriving in Spain–probably at the airport: “Eres el/la último/a?” (Are you the last? [in line]).

(This is my life, basically, minus the…er… Afghani-ness)

As a native of neurotic New England, I myself am not a learned practitioner of this delicate, graceful game of poise and patience, but I’m learning. Or rather I’m being forced to play this demeaning and spirit-grating game.

In the past week I’ve spent no fewer than four hours in line at the Escuela de Idiomas Goya. And though I took the placement test yesterday and returned both this morning AND this afternoon to claim a spot in class, I’m still classless and OH, am I irritated. But let’s not talk about that now. Let’s talk about my delightful rage walk today.

Due to the clusterfuckery at the Escuela de Idiomas circa 9:30 a.m., a run-in with my school’s headmistress (not as sexy an encounter as it sounds) and a metro ride during which I was lodged beside the most noxious smelling man in existence (two days in a row now! How there can be two of them in Madrid that smell that awful and how, pray tell, they always end up next to me is one of the world’s great mysteries) I was a little, like a hemophiliac in a porcupine petting zoo. On the way back home today line 6 paused in the tunnels three times for about 10 minutes each. Yeah. I arrived home to find that someone had left the elevator door open on the sixth floor, which meant I couldn’t ride it up to the 9th. What did I do? I let rip a heartfelt “¡puta de madre!” kicked the staircase and started climbing. In case you were wondering, yes: I did indeed hop into the elevator on the 6th floor and ride three floors up. Fuming.

I then arrived home to discover that someone had eaten my bread, rendering me goat cheese sandwichless. Cool. That was almost the sandwich that broke the camel’s back, but I bucked up at the thought of putting my leftovers to good use instead.

By that point I recognized I was not at all fit for human company. I decided that, in place of staying home sulking in my room or inflicting myself upon the rest of the human race, I’d ride the metro to Tribunal (the stop for the language school, where I had to go in a few hours) and aimlessly walk around until the clock struck six. Which is exactly what I did.

Though I took to the streets itching for blood, by the end of my tromp my mood had been significantly lightened by a number of happy events. I discovered that my new piso (the one to which I’m hopefully moving this weekend) is startlingly near to Gran Vía. I then discovered that Gran Vía is startlingly near to Tribunal, which resulted in my full cognizance of the fact that my new piso is merely a few blocks over from not only what is quite possibly my favorite street in Madrid (Calle Fuencarral), but near to Talia, too! Not to mention my pad’s proximity to a pantload of sex shops, gay porn stores, dodgy looking clubs and truly delectable looking restaurants. My rage walk was turned  into a fullblown, breathless and effervescent adventure walk when I received a much needed 90ish minute phone call from a much loved boy named Greg. Wandering into a tea shop where I sampled a brew by the name of “Secrets of India” with big lumps of rock candy brown sugar for sweetener also helped.

The rest of the evening’s passed me by in relative ease and delight. I cooked Spanish eggs (nothing more complicated than eggs fried to a delicate pillowy tenderness in a bunch of olive oil) with pisto (er…roasted vegetable mash in tomatoes?) and some really glorious whole wheat bread I bought from the bakery down the street. I topped it off with my new fetish: greek yogurt which comes ready made with three of my woodland-creaturey delights (raisins, figs and hazelnuts). All that’s left to do now is draw a worksheet to go with the book I’m reading my primary schoolers on Friday (Called “My Cat Likes to Hide In Boxes.” The illustrations are nothing short of masterpieces) hop in the shower and settle down for my third to last night in my temporary housing.

Oh! Also, due to a worksheet I helped my 3rd graders with today, I rediscovered what “merlusa” is.

And consequently re-remembered that I ate it in Córdoba. And was resultingly nearly sicker than I felt next to the man who smelled like a mixture of Stilton, Listerine and bog.

That white stuff IS as gelatinous as it looks.

Contentment?

I like my life here.

I like having something of a pleasant, dependable schedule.

I don’t like waking up at 6:55 every morning, and I don’t usually like my 80 minute metro ride, but I like getting off at the San Cipriano metro stop and walking to school in the clean morning sunshine.

I like saying good morning to my kids as they line up to go to class.

I like being bombarded with dozens of little Spanish hugs every day.

I like reading stories about cats and make-believe creatures to however raucous an audience.

I especially like break time in the teacher’s lounge, which is like my own private class. I get to drink coffee, enjoy some “bizcochos” (spiced biscuits) and chat in Spanish to get to know my fellow teachers. I like being corrected for my subtle grammar slips and made to learn more every day.

I like walking out of school amongst a tide of children to the tune of the classical music they use to signal class changes and dismissals instead of bells. Yes–it is just as surreal as it sounds.

I like coming back to the apartment, making a little sandwich and washing a peach, and sitting on the balcony in the sunshine, if only for a little while, until the next thing I have to do for the day materializes.

Now I’m to go take my Spanish placement test for the classes in which I’m enrolling at Escuela de Idiomas Goya. Then I’ll have a fun night of manchego, baguettes, red wine and cooking tortilla with Alex and Talia.

Life is good. Really pretty good. That is all.

Simple Pleasures

I was talking to Jordan earlier and we agreed that probably one of the top ten activities for foreigners in Madrid is sweating.

From the moment I descend the stairs to the metro, well through second period, I am coated in a sheath of my own human dew. First it’s intolerably stuffy on the metros, to the point at which I often have little beads of sweat dripping down the side of my face (I know. I know that was appetizing. I AM the human salt lick. You’re welcome.) Then it’s either dank and close or ice cold in the tunnels, then windy as could be when I finally climb out of the metro. But then, if you’re me, you work up a sweat again hustling yourself to whatever your destination is for those ten to fifteen frantic minutes that you’re totally sure you’re going to be late. Yes. Sweating is certainly on Caitlin Schiller’s greatest hits list.

I may kvetch, but despite a now hour-fifteen long commute on moist and musty metros, today was a simple, good day.

Today in school I: 1) helped 3rd graders with English worksheets, 2) read a story called “Say Hello To Animals” to 25 rapt 5-year-olds, 3) showed my teacher blog (with games in the sidebar!) to my second graders. (If you care and want to see it it’s here.) At recess when they all lined up I was bumrushed by all of class 2B screaming my name and hugging me tightly around the middle. It was adorable. I’m won over. I don’t even care if they’re chatty and wipe mucous all over me.

When I got back I made myself what is becoming my cheap and delicious lunchtime special: whole wheat baguette, goat cheese, drizzle of olive oil and fresh spinach leaves. I then commenced to the gigantic balcony and read to my heart’s content, then stopped when my heart was content, which forcibly reminded me of how nice it is for book-reading to be non compulsory for the first time in four years. Mmm.

Also, Greg bought his tickets for winter break! He’s leaving on December 27th and staying through the 2nd. I’ll have my favorite boy around for immediately after Christmas and New Years! Needless to say, I’m elated.

After I fed myself some leftovers of the terrible, saltless dinner I cooked myself last night, Talia and I went on an adventure walk ’round the Palacio Real and Sol. On this adventure walk–pretty standard array of pretty buildings, tourists, and people smoking/pictures to come when I get the camera cord–I noticed three things (only two of which I now remember) that support my theory that Spain is a country preoccupied with appearances. Aside from the fact that most Spanish women (and even a vast majority of the men) walking down the street are dressed like fashion models, aside from the fact that every public building…well…looks good simply because it can, there’s this interesting thing that Spanish public works does to construction sites. Instead of creating an eyesore in the midst of an otherwise picturesque community, scaffolding is erected around the edifice under construction. Screens are then lashed to it, bearing a life-sized image of what the building will look like upon completion. The construction team then works behind that screen, avoiding pedestrians’ gaze and disrupting as little as possible the otherwise aesthetic perfection of the barrio.

The second reminder came when Talia and I stopped at Demontaditos for her to requisition herself some cheap, delicious supper. One of the women at the table beside us was smoking a cigarette and impetuously blasting it upwards into the air from between her perfectly rouged pink lips. As I glanced over, lungs aflame, my eye caught upon a warning on the back of the cigarette carton. “Warning: smoking ages the skin.” This is quite a different message from the US Surgeon general’s warning “Smoking causes lung cancer. Bitch, you gon’ die,” message borne on the sides of cigarette cartons I see at home. Why? I’m not sure.

Maybe appearances are paramount because Spain is a country with a history of concern for its dignity (and appearances, of course, support and promote (or defile) dignity)? Maybe appearances are important because for so long people survived struggling for independent thought and livelihood beneath a dictatorship by simply keeping up the charade that everything was “okay,” on the outside when it was everything but? (Spain is, after all, “la tierra de no hablar” (thanks, Professor Harrington). Could it be left over from Franco? The Potemkin village, “As long as it looks good on the outside, we don’t ask about the inside” mentality? Maybe I’m off my rocker? I’m not sure, but I do know that I should probably go to bed. Spanish level test on the morrow!

¡Hasta ahora, amigos! Voy a la cama por fín.

Weekend, Part II: La Noche en Blanca

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. While I promised myself that I’d be treated to some much needed sleep sans alarm clock, I awakened at about 9:30, unable to go back to bed again. Being as stores close earlier on Saturdays, I knew I should probably get up and grocery shop, buy bed linens, and do a load of laundry so I could sleep in said bed linens that night. I hustled myself over to “Día” the grocery store closest to Jordan’s place, and proceeded to buy 25 euros worth of food, including pasta, chicken, spinach leaves, a huge round of goat cheese, olive oil, onions and garlic, eggs, crackers, orange juice, yogurt and a few different kinds of fruit. It’s considerably cheaper to buy food here than it is in the U.S. which, when taking into account my pittance of a budget from now ’til the end of October, is a very good thing. For the past few days I’ve had goat cheese sandwiches on whole wheat baguettes with a drizzle of olive oil, a jar of pisto, spinach leaves and pepper. Pretty tasty if I do say so myself. I also actually cooked a dinner of pasta with chicken, sauteed onions, garlic and cherry tomatoes without burning down the house! WOOT! And of course, I’m becoming a master of Spanish olive-oil fried eggs. Slurp.

So after grocery shopping I trotted down to the bedding store and bought myself some extremely garish, extremely expensive sheets. Can anyone tell me why I can’t find solid colored sheets in Spain? You get a cookie if you do. These sheets will probably give me bad dreams–and they were easily the least of all the evils. Magenta, green, camo and gold, they’re plaid wonders that feel like they’re made out of cheese cloth. I kind of wonder if I got swindled, but whatever. At least now I don’t have to sleep on a bare mattress.

The rest of the day was spent quietly, doing laundry and hanging it on the kickass 9th floor balcony that’s bigger than the rest of the apartmen (also where I’m sitting now, attempting to get my pasty white ass some color and relax. With the number of pigeons flying overhead and dropping feathers on me, though, it’s slightly less relaxing than I’d imagined it to be). Next on the agenda was a nap to prepare myself for one of Madrid’s biggest art & cultural events, La Noche en Blanca.

La Noche en Blanca is described as a night when all the best offerings in art, cinema, and performance art convene in the country’s capitol for an event that lasts from 8:00p.m.-4:00 the next morning. Museums stay open all night with free admission, street performances fill main thoroughfares, and the sides of buildings are projected with artwork and light displays. You might also have heard of this happening in Paris and Rome.

So. Basically. For one night, downtown Madrid is converted into an art space–in theory, this is cool as shit. In practice? Overwhelming and disorganized. The streets were packed with more people than I’ve ever seen in my life and overcrowded metros resulted in cars stalled underground for half an hour with passengers passing out or vomiting because of the heat and closeness. I was lucky enough to avoid that, and though La Noche en Blanca had a number of not-so-hot reviews in El Día and other Spanish newspapers, I had a grand old time.

My night began at the Parque del Buen Retiro (the park I almost lived near–remember?) at the lake. Amidst thousands of people I finally located Mark, Charles and Jordan and we watched as 20 or so barges were paddled out into the lake bearing mermaids playing tubas against a backdrop of gathering night. It was eerie and cool, as it was supposed to be, and I have many cool and creepy pictures which I will post once my camera and camera cord are reunited (they’re at the new pad, waiting quietly in my suitcase). We watched the mermaids and tubas for a while, then parted ways with Jordan to head down Gran Vía into my future neighborhood–Chueca.

On the way there we were swept into a teeming mass of pedestrians, but our star navigator, Mr. Mark Fox, guided me and Charles safely through the crowd. We stopped by an Urban Sound Garden–a small park that was taken over by an artist who infested it with softly pulsing green, violet and blue lights, and strung boogie-board looking soundboard structures from nets overhead. These boogie board looking sound things broadcast bird song, soft chimes, and  opera music from above. When I walked below it I was immersed in a peaceful, soothing space, which, duh, was the idea. Really kind of nice. The final mindfuck was delivered by approaching an army orchestra in a sunken pit in front of a governmental edifice–pretty damn cool.

Mark and Charles had gotten wind of there being some sort of performance inside an Egyptian temple (yeah–a real egyptian temple!) around Chueca but, as we walked, it started to rain. We retreated to Maoz falafel shop where Mark and Charles downed delicious looking pitas, and I contemplated stealing a very expensive coca light until my conscience got the best of me and I paid. By the time we finished, it was pouring and all of us being in various stages of sickness and, somehow, not feeling the fiesta vibe, decided to turn back to Mark’s place (only a few buildings away from my future home!).

My night ended exactly the way I wanted it to.  Ensconced in the coziness of Mark’s piso, Mark prepared us mint tea, we ate Greek yogurt with hazelnuts and raisins, hung out with Mark’s Spanish roommate María Jesús and watched “The Golden Girls” on DVD. Yes. “The Golden Girls.” Mark sent me home in the cold armed with a sweater hand-me-down from María Jesús’ ex husband (sooo awkward!) which obscured my sex and kept me from being catcalled on my early-late-night walk home. In all, a sweet but surreal ending to an equally sweet but surreal night.

Pictures of the mermaids coming soon!

The weekend Part I: Moving (again) and Flamenco

So life has been crazy, as usual. I’m now installed in my second home of the month. I’m staying here at Jordan’s piso until Friday, at which point I am hoping against hope that I’ll be able to move into my place! If not, I’ll have to find a sweet, helpful soul with a large couch to last me through the weekend. Fernando (the guy that’s moving out of my future apartment) ought to have his keys by this weekend, but one never knows here in Spain–it could be another few days of transience for me.

Friday I had a fantastic adventure walk with Talia around her Bilbao ‘hood. We got lost in various Narnia-like Spanish stores that seemed to stretch back for city blocks. One was the equivalent of a US dollar store, the other a hipster’s paradise of a mini shopping mall called “El Mercado de Fuencarral” with sick clothes, a bar, a lounge area boasting free wifi, tattoo parlors, crazy hair salons, and shops with names like “Stupid Room” and “Fuck.” (Yes, it was indeed called “fuck.” No, I’m not kidding). Here are some pictures that only semi illustrate how amazingly cool/surreal it is:

Afterwards we got ice cream and then waited in line for me to turn in my application to the language school, where I’ll be taking Spanish for foreigners–probably at the intermediate or advanced level. While I’m at a pretty decent level now, my Spanish is clumsy and I feel that the opportunity to brush up on my formal Spanish in the classroom might do me a lot of good. I need to go take a “prueba de nivel” (test for level) tomorrow afternoon at 4. It consists of multiple choice, written and oral segments–it should be quite the shitshow. I’m actually a little nervous.

After that I met up with Jordan, who helped me schlepp my crap to his piso in Marques de Vadillo which is way Southwest of Central Madrid. Needless to say, it took me about 1.5 hours to get to school today. Thank God I’ll only have to get up that early for another 4 days… 4 because I forfeited one Friday off for having been sick last Thursday. Ugh.

Friday night I arrived to Jordan’s piso just in time to throw my things hurriedly into my room, brush my teeth, and fly back onto the metro to be at the Chamartín metro to see “Cumbre Flamenca” (which expresses the pinnacle of Flamenco, I guess?) . Cumbre Flamenca, which was presented for free thanks to funds from the Comunidad, featured Flamenco greats Pansequito (who has the most heroic mullet/bouffant hairdo I’ve ever seen in my tender 22 years) and Aurora Vargas, who played in the movie version of “Carmen” alongside Plácido Domingo.

The suave and sexy Pansequito and the truly sexy Aurora:

It was cool. It was very cool. There was, sadly, very little dancing as in traditional Flamenco shows which I’ve attended, but I do love Flamenco purely for its passion and its pain. The crowd seemed to love it, too. Ancianos and jóvenes alike showed up with equal enthusiasm, clapping, shouting, dancing along. There were screams of “Ooooopaaaa! Arriba, guapa!” and more for the entire night with unflagging enthusiasm. Check out the exciting marketing in the video below to see sexy glamour shots of the Chamartín station and the Flamenqueros.

So yes–it was great, but I must admit that when the show ended at 11:30, my sinus-infected self was more than ready to go home, which resulted in my missing out on what the Fulbrighters and especially Andy, Fulbright’s self-appointed tour guide–tout as the best tapas bar in Madrid. I, weary and with throbbing sinuses, returned to Jordan’s piso to discover with no little elation that Skype and all of my programs now work being as I’m out of the residencia!

That means, if you want, you can Skype me at slothinabox (she urged ever so subtly).

Next up, my strange but fun Noche en Blanca!

Naps & Snack Adventures

Sitting still and being easy on my body is so much harder than I thought it would be. After about two hours of re-packing in preparation to move my suitcases to the new apartment tonight and live out of a tiny suitcase for ten days, I worked up a powerful hunger. The result? I just took myself out for a snack.

There are little shops peppered all over Spain that say simply “Alimentación/Frutos Secos” which, directly translated, is something like “Nourishment/Dried Fruit.” Usually owned by the Spanish Asian subpopulace, these little holes in the wall hawk everything from soup to nuts–literally! “Nourishment/Dried Fruit” sounds misleadingly wholesome, doesn’t it? Misleadingly. Mmm. Key word misleadingly. In reality, these Frutos Secos shops sell almost everything EXCEPT one of my favorite snacks–dried fruit. They are, however, purveyors of one of my other favorite comestibles: ice cream bars. Today I bought a Magnum bar (yes–it’s really called that, Americans. Stop snickering) which came to me nestled inside a very posh looking bronzed treasure chest. Magnum’s current marketing campaign involves Eva Longoria in a series of seductive poses. Also, see this to understand the double entendre the Italian ice cream manufacturer is pimping.

The ice cream was delicious, needless to say, but what I found almost more delicious than the actual thing itself was the description on the side of the package, which I translated here because I obviously have nothing better to do with my time:

“Magnum Temptation. Submerge yourself in the purest pleasure. Break through the thick and crunchy layer of chocolate to discover what’s hidden in its interior… Savor its velvety Madagascar vanilla ice cream, let the crunchy California almonds covered in fine Belgian chocolate seduce you, and submerge yourself in its smooth swirls of caramel. Magnum Temptation. Let yourself be tempted by the purest of pleasure.

Yes. That is a description that’s way more than a little sexual, so maybe Magnum is an apt appellation after all. However, I did learn 5 useful new words:

Gruesa: thick

Capa: layer

aterciopelada: velvety

remolino: swirl

tentar: to tempt

And here is a terrifying pictorial representation of the magnum temptation in all of its velvety, swirly, thick glory. It pretty much hit the back of my throat like the rocket ship it looks like.

I also came out of the Frutos Secos shop with this:

Inside were the biggest freakin’ corn nuts I’ve ever seen, raisins, fried lima beans (better than it sounds!), honey roasted peanuts and other nondescript crunchy things. I’m saving them for later when I work up another powerful hunger after being (probably) sorely disappointed by another dinner of residencia Augustinus Nebrija fish mash.

On that note–I will get to cook for myself tomorrow night, or at least in the near future! Jordan’s (a fellow Fulbrighter) apartment had a vacancy ’til October 1st, when I can move into my own piso. Awesomely enough his landlord is renting it out to me for ten days at 15Euros a day–a steal, compared to what I’ve been paying here and what I’d need to shell out for other accommodations. I’ll get to spend some time with Jordan, teach him how to cook, and have a bed to sleep in for a while. All good things.

And now, to schlepp things to the new apartment with Talia! Again, universe (just in case you’re reading my blog, you amorphous, shadowy entity, you!): thank you for sending me such reliable, helpful, kind and enjoyable new friends (and ice cream!)

Now, a New & Improved Formula Featuring 45% Less Angst!

Last night I hypothesized that I might die, effectively having my respiratory functions cut off by a sweet sluice of mucous and swelling throat tissue. Had I been a patient on House I’m sure that they’d have intubated me…oh…wait–they do that to nearly every patient, anyway. (grin) So, I NyQuiled myself and went to bed because by ten p.m. or so, I’d decided that whether I lived or died really didn’t matter much. Needless to say it was very exciting to wake up today and to know that perhaps I can look forward to a more honorable, less gooey death in the future. Yay!

So–on to my medical adventure! This morning I sucked it up and actually went to the doctor of my own volition. I’d been balking for a few days because I was very afraid I’d be unable to effectively communicate in Spanish all of my medicinal allergies and symptoms. I’m very glad I went, though, because it turned out to be the most pleasant doctor’s visit of my meager 22 years.

Around 11 this morning I took myself to a clinic near retiro park. Wielding on a paper in the palm of my hand all of the Spanish translations of the antibiotics to which I am allergic and my panoply of glorious symptoms, I arrived at Calle Conde de Aranda 1 and was pleasantly surprised to find myself in an antique building, painted doctors’-scrubs green, with beautiful wainscoting, high ceilings, and a parlor of a waiting room that’d do the stuffiest of British nannies proud. To my relief, everyone there from the receptionist, to the Doctor himself, to the secretary spoke perfect English and took care of me right away. My doctor, a dignified and kindly old gentleman by the name of Marcos Brundhi, asked about my symptoms, took a closer look at me and said, “Ah. I see. You have everything.” Oh, said my internal monologue, oh. This is not news to me.

One diagnosis of an upper respiratory infection, sinus infection and (drumroll, please!) PINK EYE later, plus 150 euros dropped between the medical center and the pharmacy, I am back in the residencia. I’ve got three different kinds of medicine to take and a promise from Dr. Marcos that I should be feeling better in two or three days. It was a good experience, and though Ryan was sweet and willing to come with me to help translate, I’m glad I figured it out by myself. I knew I’d have to go to the doctor eventually, but I hadn’t expected it to be so soon after I got here. Upon touching Spanish turf I imagine my greedy body must have been gleefully chattering to itself “OOOH! New exotic diseases! Must. collect. them all!” Well me and my boatload of Spanish meds are making it give up its three hard-won players: Mucous Mutant, Sinusitis Superborg and Conjunctiva Crusher.

Anyhow, I’m currently doing my last load of laundry here at the residencia, then sitting back and taking it easy on myself. Post-lunch I’m going to try to pack up my things, being as I need to be out of here by tomorrow, and then prepare to schlepp my stuff over to my new apartment–the stuff that I won’t need for the next 10 days when I’ll be sleeping at another residencia across town, that is. Goddamn this has been an expensive month.

I’m feeling very lucky to be checked in on by some kind fellow Fulbrighters, doing passably well holding forth against occasional flash-floods of post-nasal drip, and, for once, taking it easy on my body. I’ll be around, skulking on IM today, so hollar at me. I know that you know that you want to.

Yuck.

I suppose, then, that this is the beginning of the beginning of becoming an adult. A break out of the chrysalis from solid support networks that leaves you deliciously free, actualized, uninhibited, yet solitary and vulnerable and uncertain–it would SEEM that that break is a step toward being an adult. Being an adult means ruling your own kingdom, it means following your gut rather than someone else’s edicts; it means making your own choices and sticking by them, even when they turn out to be far from perfect and slightly less than “right.” I suppose it also means that when you’re alone, when you’re sad and tired and sick and confused, you don’t have anybody but yourself. I’m realizing that now.

Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head

Mmmm. You know that adage, when it rains it pours? I’ve found at various points in time that there’s some truth to it. Suffice it to say that it’s figuratively raining here in Spain (My Fair Lady, anyone?). I’m not quite sure at this point that it’s pouring, but I can tell you that my ruby slippers are getting pretty wet.

Here’s an abbreciated version of what happened the other night when I was supposed to sign my lease. New friend Ryan escorted me and 900 euros, cash, (meep!) through three metro changes and a stop at Menéndez Pelayo 55. When I arrived at the piso, Laura was sweet as always and TIRED as always, and handed me a contract to read. I discovered that rent would actually be somewhere far more in the vicinity of 475 euros/month than the 455 I’d been planning on. 475 euros for a room that I found on the second visit has bureau nor desk and a closet outside the room because it’s so small that only a twin bed can fit inside, is astronomical. That was my bad–I was too eager and too relieved when I found something that wasn’t a total shithole. Equally, I don’t want to suggest Laura unfairly jacked up the rent, but I will say that she wasn’t as transparent with me as she could have been. The “gastos” (bills for water, gas, electricity, garbage, phone and internet) were substantially more than implied and I, after a terrifying day of orientation, balked. I got weepy, told her I needed a day to think about the contract, collapsed in a heap of tears back at the residencia and notified her the following day that I wouldn’t be taking her apartment.

On the same day I also discovered that, though perfectly sweet, the bilingual coordinator at my school (my BOSS) has NO idea what my job is–and may or may not know what hers is because she is so new. I feel awful for her because she’s obviously very frazzled and torn in a million directions, but at the same time, I’d kind of like to know what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing and have some assurance that somebody knows. Here’s how I discovered that everyone is as clueless as I am about what my role actually is:

¡Joder! (won’t find that’n in the dictionary)

So remember what I said about having a (great) place to live? Please, dear reader, promptly eradicate that lovely, cherub-borne, pastel colored, candy coated and yellow-cake flavored thought from your mind! I’m once again homeless and desperately looking.

More on (semi) homelessness, making more money than ordinary Spaniards who teach in the public school system and the awkwardness it breeds, and a horrible miscommunication with my school’s bilingual coordinator to follow.

P.S. I’m sick of being a nomad.