Good things 1,2, and 3

Between school, lesson planning, Fathom work, trying to talk to the parents and the Greg on a regular basis, and endeavoring to drag myself to the gym after work, life has been busy. So busy, in fact, that I haven’t had enough time to properly update my poor little blog. This makes me sad; I think about it all the time, and how much I’d like to stroke it and love it and titivate it into a glorious overgrowth of healthy, verdant prose… and then, of course, I realize it’s 12:30 a.m. and I need to be up for school at 7:00. Dammit. In any case, I wanted to bust out a quick update between Gijón reports part I and II, just to keep it all fresh.

It’s Friday morning and I’m sitting for the first time on my living room couch. In Spain buildings are high and streets are narrow, and though outside it’s quite sunny and the air is crisp, clean, cold, and split into tasty cubic slabs via insistent golden sunbeams, the street outside is still shaded and I’m noticing for the first time how beautiful the facade of the building across the street is. It’s yellow and cream, with gorgeous pilasters sporting fern and shell patterns at the top, dental molding along the roofline, small, somber faces in court-jester type hats above each window and elegant, botanical-themed terraces made of clean wrought iron.  I’ll have to sit on my living room couch more often.

‘Til this point I haven’t actually gotten to enjoy my Fridays off–I’ve always been running somewhere, doing something, traveling somewhere, or had specific plans. Today, though, I’m free to loaf as I please. Ali, visiting from London, is asleep in my room on a mattress on the floor (another one that was in the closet, which is not nearly as horrid as the one I slept on for a week; my God I wish I’d known that existed because I never would’ve had to buy one, but hey. At least she’s comfy) and I, a perpetual early riser (though today that meant 10:30 as opposed to 7:00–I’m still early compared with her!) am enjoying a cup of coffee, some yogurt and crackers and a mandarin orange. The mandarin orange is my favorite part of the meal not because I like it the best, but purely because I got it at the mercadillo (basically–gypsy market) that sets up shop in the gigantic parking lot beside my school every Thursday. Along with a kilo of oranges, a half kilo of apples, 4 gigantic chirimoyas, a ramo of on-vine tomatoes, a half kilo of amazing camporeal olives, a kilo of mangoes and 2 kilos of mandarin oranges. Don’t ask me how I got all that home; I’ll just say it was worth it–and cost me under 10 euros. That was good thing #2 of yesterday.

Good thing #1 was that I taught my star readers in both 2A and 2B a lesson on contractions. Miraculously, they understood it! After having done individual reading evaluations with each of my children I came to the conclusion that they had NO idea what a contraction was or how to reckon with it. First I explained the concept to them, explained what an apostrophe is and how it works in the context of contractions, and gave them some examples of contractions with their expanded forms. We then read a book in which there were four contractions. I asked my little Carlos, Miguel, Helena, Leticia, Servando and David to point out each contraction, then identify the expanded form. Golden. We then did a worksheet, just to reinforce what they were learning, and played a game of concentration with contractions and their expanded forms. For the last fifteen minutes I let them have computer time (for a second grader, easily as good as achieving one “get into heaven free” card for the afterlife) to play contraction games and quizzes. I gave them a little evaluation sheet at the end and, while they scores weren’t all 100%, they did so much better than I’d ever been expecting that I went through the rest of the day feeling as though I was flying.

But I wasn’t the one flying…

Ali was! Here’s good thing #3: Ali got in from London last night at around 8 and had reached my stop in Chueca by 9. Between excited catching up and laughter we ate kebabs and then walked around Madrid. When we finally got back to my apartment it was midnight and we did the typical middle-school girl thing where you keep meaning to go to bed, you’re both lying IN your beds, but you end up talking for three more hours, anyway. It’s so nice to have her here and I’m very grateful she came. I don’t expect to remember how to speak Spanish anymore, come Monday when she leaves, but it’s still cool. Tonight I’m introducing her to Talia and my friend AMber from school, and we’re all going to J&Js for the pub quiz, where Ali’ll be reunited with David and I will hopefully have a comfortable enough buzz from drinking cheapass booze at home that I won’t need to buy a 5 euro G&T. Yes.

All in all, life is good. I should probably get to the gym, get back and shower so we have some sort of DAY before us. Hasta pronto! I do promise the gorgeous Gijón photos are to come. However, if we’re facebook friends, you can just go see them there and forego reading my reportorial drivel altogether.

Gijón, part I.

So. My weekend in Gijón.

Disregarding the nearly 6-hour bus ride to and from, my weekend up in the North of Spain was fun, refreshing, and really just what I needed–some time out of Madrid and into fresh air and sunlight. Talia and I set out from Estación Sur in Madrid at 9 a.m. on Friday morning. At about 3:20 we rolled up to the station in Gijón, where Mark and Andrew were waiting for us, ecstatically performing what we would later learn was the ¨wipe the butt¨dance, complete with toilet paper collecting, rolling, and wiping. We just thought it looked hilarious–and so did the lady beside us. And the three buses for which they´d been performing before we arrived. Heehee.

Shortly after boarding the bus that would bear us to the piso where we were fortunate enough to stay for free, our conversation was politely interrupted by a very pretty woman wearing a golden nametag. She said, ¨Excuse me, but I couldn´t help hearing you–it´s been so long since I´ve heard English being spoken–where are you from?¨The nametag and the overpoliteness should have given it right away, and for Talia it did. It took me a little longer. She was a proselytizing Mormon out in Gijón, of all places! We had a relatively nice, sedate, and mysterious discussion with her before we disembarked and dropped off our bags at the piso.

 In short order, Mark and Andrew bore Ms. Stol and me over to a sidrería down the street which shall remain nameless, as I don´t think I even bothered to read the sign. Now–before I go on–for those of you who don´t speak Spanish, ¨sidrería¨roughly translates to ¨cidery.¨Yes. A place where cider is served. Strange? Well, perhaps, but not in Asturias, where sidra is the speciality! Sidra serving and sidra drinking is not merely serving, nor is it merely drinking. There is an art to it–or at least a very strange custom abou which I´m going to tell you and, rest assured, some of it is based on my inferences.

Step 1: Order una botella de sidra.

Step 2: The bartender brings a few incredibly, mind-bendingly thin glasses the size of your hand, out of which you will, presumably, guzzle the sidra.

Step 3: The bartender approaches the table, bottle in hand, uncorks, grabs a glass, and proceeds to lift the bottle up over his head while holding aforementioned glass at roughly pelvis-height, then pour the sidra in a long, splashy stream from above. About 60% of the sidra makes it into the glass, dependent upon your sidrero´s skill level. It looks something like this:

Did I mention that for the sidrero, looking directy at the alcohol he´s pour is strictly verboten? Instead, he stares off at a space on the floor somewhere–I imagine that it is to prevent the lecherous masculine gaze from tainting the tender flavor of the sidra whilst it is being aerated from such a height. Yes. Odd.

Step 4: Drink roughly 1-5 inches of sidra–rapidly! Bartender will now leave you with corked bottle and empty glass.

Step 5: Move to pour your second round of sidra in a decidedly less showy fashion than that which has been previously described.

Step 6: be chided by the barkeep and all in attendance for your bad manners–only the sidrero can pour.

Step 7: Wait.

Step 8: Wait.

Step 9: Wait.

Step 10: Wait

Step 11: Praise dios when your bartender finally hoves back to repeat the show. It´s all good fun, really! Though sidra, I think, isn´t worth allt hat fuss. It´s tasty, but a little bit like smelly cheese, gym socks and apples all blended into one liquid.

So that was our trip to the sidrería. We then went grocery shopping, where we bought a bottle of gin and tonic water, chocolate raisins, ice cream bars, and cereal. Post night-walk on the beach (across the street from our piso!) we consumed all of said groceries save the cereal and yogurt for the next morning. I played my first real game of charades, and then proceeded to sleep a glorious, GLORIOUS eleven hours.

Okay. The cool part of my trip (with pictures!) is to follow!

Get Gijón

Oh hey hi!

So all this weekend I’ve been with Talia, Mark and Andrew in one of the most unbelievably gorgeous  regions of Spain: Asturias. Gijón (at the very north of Spain on the shore) is the more specific locale, for any of you who are interested. I have tons of pictures and will write more as soon as I have the chance, but for now, as a warm up exercise for the forthcoming ocular ecstasy, take a gander at these pictures that aren’t mine:

Say hola to Gijón!

The hills are alive!

Some beautiful Asturian paisaje

Antics

I may as well come clean. From the moment I became a Madrid metro user I knew that it would come to pass eventually; the miracle is that ’til yesterday I’d escaped unscathed.

I fell down the stairs in the metro. Yes. I was that girl.

I could pretend that something calamitous happened to spur this klutziness. I could tell you that an old man mercilessly elbowed me in the gut, that an errant child dashed ‘cross my path down the stairs, or that a blind person’s cane popped out at me from nowhere. But none of that’s true. The simple fact is that I was rushing like the asshole that I am–racing, in fact, the woman who was three steps ahead of me if you want the real truth–and I missed a step. I saw my little brown, purple and yellow plaid Ked in slow motion as it flew past the intended step, meeting not with the next one down, nor the one after that. Before I knew it, I was plunging, surprised, down 5 steps in the Nuñez de Balboa station. By the time my ass humped over the fifth stair I was laughing hard, which made the situation much better. A passerby clapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I was all right, to which I only responded, “Floja, pero bien, gracias.” I grinned, rose stiffly up and walked on toward line 9.

Aside from a trifle of embarrassment and my left ass sporting a new set of bruises, I escaped from my tumble unscathed. For this I feel blessed. I’m choosing to look upon my little accident as a triumph, instead. After all, I knew a metro fall was inevitable–it was just a question of when. Theoretically, now that I have it behind me it shouldn’t happen again. Theoretically.

Dammit, I should go to bed.

And I have seven projects for Fathom on my plate, including writing a Wikipedia article on us!? omgwtfbbq!??!?

Now That I’m Less Surly…An Update

It’s been a while since I’ve updated and, sadly, I’m without a viable excuse. I can, however, confide that I’m feeling none too sprightly, witty, or effervescent of late, and I hate to translate such a mucky mood to a medium through which I (and others) can look back on my wretched, deplorably emo scribblings–and that, directly or indirectly, may have something to do with my absence from the blogosphere. So here. Now that I’m feeling slightly fortified by the glory of endorphins, and only 40% as blue as I was before my trip to Energym (my Chueca workout facility teeming with all kinds of spandex-clad otters and tanktop-wearing bears) I’m ready to make a small update. Joy.

This weekend was great, then incredibly shitty, then the shit, all in the space of about 72 hours. Unpredictability–revel in it! Thursday night, after a long week of kid-wranglin’, I met up with Ryan and his sweet wife, Emily, and my Spanish friend, David, at a bar called Taberna Encantada. As I predicted, armchair/Metro historian David got along tremendously with medieval history scholar Ryan, and we all ended up drinking and talking at Taberna Encantada (which was, indeed, enchanting with its surprisingly un-kitschy combination of decent house wine, strange wall murals, and musical selection of jazz, Spanish pop and American oldies) and then F.M. (a small dive bar featuring a poster of Samantha Fox, bottles of liquor that looked like they’d been conveyed directly from my grandma’s basement in CT, and a bartender wizened enough to have been 70 during the Second Republic). The night out was wonderful. The return home to a pot-smoke filled hallway and apartment to spontaneously call the deeply-missed boyfriend who was in the middle of a meeting and resultingly could not talk, then the come-down from an unfortunate ambient pot high (I don’t like weed highs, and have no interest in achieving one by just breathing my apartment but M, my RastaRoomie, leaves me damn little margin for choice) alone at four in the morning was not so cool. Unfortunately the not-so-coolness carried over to the next morning.

When I got stuck in a passel of spectators out for the Día de la Hispanidad parade. That sucked. Bodies were pressed in around me so tight I couldn’t move my arms and could do nothing but shuffle. For about twenty five minutes this was the case, until, that is, my pocket of people neared a clearing and started to move slightly faster. Desperate, the crowd grew rougher and suddenly I had a set of hands in the small of my back, delivering short bursting shoves over and over again. This was the last straw. I executed a passionate and irate aboutface to find an older Spanish woman wearing a black pillbox hat and an unappealing snarl. I scolded her for her literal pushiness saucily and effectively–in Spanish. Yes, I felt far better after putting her in her place (behind, two inches away and substantially lower to the ground than me).

My day continued to improve with an afternoon of Talia time and nearly three hours of walking around the city, first in Retiro (which is beautiful, if you weren’t aware) then later up to our neighborhood past Gran Vía. There we found a fair featuring cheeses, cider, condiments and baked goods from all over Spain. Happily, each of the stalls in the Plaza de Mella offered samples, so we passed through. Twice. That night we had delicious vegetarian food in Huertas and I came home early to cancel plans to meet up with friends at J&Js in favor of chilling quietly by myself–lame, but necessary in my ill-humoured and impoverished state. Saturday was extremely pleasant and involved eating a huge Cuban dinner with my roommates and their visiting couple-friends (who cooked some bangin’ Picadillo–little did I know ’til later that it was with my groceries, but let’s not go there), then wine time, 5 Kit-Kats, a bag of popcorn and hours of girly-dishing with Talia. Clearly, these are all good things.

Sunday dawned clear and bright–the perfect day for a trip outside Madrid. Enter David, his ancient black Audi and learner’s permit, and his two Italian friends, Lucia and Maria. We spent the day at La Granja de San Idelfonso, about 90 minutes’ drive North of the city, tromping around the grounds of what was once the summer home of the royal family. We ate lunch at a small cafe outside of San Idelfonso, in what looked like (and I’m relatively certain WAS) someone’s front yard, only equipped with some tables and an old chocolate lab, too. We ate greasy, delicious tortilla of just the right texture and I had a revuelto of champiñones (mushroom scrambled eggs). David’s friends are very nice and it was good to get out in the sunshine, into a beautiful setting and to explore an honest-to-goodness labyrinth (along with some truly fucked up looking scuplture. Please see the examples below).

The “Country House.”

The FrogMan halfbreed in the sadly waterless fountain:

And some intensely beautiful paisaje that puts me in mind of Vermont, strangely enough…

Today, Monday, was another lovely day with my second graders. That’s really all there is on my end for now. A real update on what the Madrid school system is like and what my experience with school actually has been is on my mind and on the bench for the next time I’m feeling ambitious. ‘Til then!

It is hard, sometimes, to come home alone in the dark to a darkened, empty apartment to a dark and solitary room and to wash my face and brush my teeth in a  dark and chilly bathroom, then curl up into a lonely twin bed. It is hard sometimes to have no sleek black cat purring and pressed against my hip and no one to stay up too late to keep me company or tell me they love me or kiss me goodnight.

Most all of the time I am satisfied and happy here, but sometimes it is not very close to easy for reasons that aren’t very close to large.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow will be brighter.

On Hope, and the capacity of public transportation to evoke said delicate feeling

Public transportation calls forth the spirit of hope in even in the most unfazed, unimpressable, starchily dignified or crisply hip urbanite. I know this because every morning for nearly an hour I ride the Madrid metro system, and every morning I see physical evidence of man’s abiding need to believe in a brighter future.

The Nuñez de Balboa station at 8 a.m. is populated by a widely variant cross section of humanity. Bored looking middle aged women do their makeup in the reflective glass that protects the giant plans of the city; distracted mothers grip tight to the hands of restive toddlers; grandfathers in cardigans and ties with necks turtled down into their collars peruse the many news rags circulated in Madrid at daybreak while businessmen wearing sharp looking suits tote leather laptop cases along with their air of causal superiority. They are all walking, all wide-eyed, all glazed, all absent. Their minds still hover somewhere between goosedown pillows and the first cup of coffee. Together they drift towards the platforms that will bring them to a fast underground train poised to shoot them out into subterranean warrens of concrete and steel closest to their destinations. They are bored an inattentive; they are alive but barely aware.

But then something changes.

The moment it arrives within earshot of a metro, the lazy channel of humanity surges into life and any vestige of the former downtroddenness, boredom or disinterest is swiped away by a clean, bright swath of that which springs eternal: hope. Slick young men in tailored suits dash pell-mell down subterranean hallways, exposing white socks with black shoes and dropping pockets full of Pez; wizened women with canes accelerate to a focused and threatening ramming speed; mothers with tiny, tardy children swoop them up off the ground and sprint, child gripped to hip, down the stairs where they will all, hopefully, plunge through the doors of the next fast train to somewhere just before the shrill blast of a whistle signals the door sliding immitigably closed.

But here is something that each and every turtled grandfather, slick young businessmen, weary mother and stylish Spanish woman knows: if you are close enough to hear the metro thrusting through the tunnel and anywhere but embarking upon the second or third stair down, nine times out of ten, you will miss it. You will tear through the hallways and juggernaut down the stairs, push past the weaker, slower, or miraculously unhurried ones to arrive at the platform just as the doors have sealed shut or in perfect time to hear the accelerating “chug—-chug—chug–chug-chug.chug.chug.chug.chug” and watch through the windows as the oilpaint faces of the lucky ones who made the train whiz by in an ever quickening current of indistinct color.

The people who are too far away to hear the metro, my expectant companions in faith and suspension of disbelief, also know. These people cannot hear the train. They cannot feel the hallways or the stair rails atremble, heralding the metro’s imminent arrival. They are still at least 6 minutes’ rush away from their respective platforms–and yet!–and yet they run. They run for an imaginary good they hope, and blindly expect, will be there when their rush is over as a reward for their hard work at arriving as quickly as possible. Their effort is, when regarded logically and from a distance, nothing short of ludicrous. Nine times out of ten they will rush and the train will not be there. The definition of insanity is committing the exact same act and expecting a different result. Nine times out of ten the sprinting businessman, the pierced punk, the old woman, will miss the train to which they run. Nine times out of ten they will, despite so much care, be required to sit and sigh and wait.

Perhaps, clinically defined, their hope would qualify them as insane; but there is something delicate, something beautiful, something that bears testimony to the human spirit and ever-present hope for a brighter future in this psychotic, subterranean scuffle. And there is something almost religious in the unconditional, blind faith placed in the metro’s projected presence. There is something devout in the single-minded belief that earnest hard work in the form of fast walking and strategic weaving will ensure something closer to a fixed, definite heaven than the transient limbo they’re in now.

And so they run. And they pant. Fat men get sweaty and children scream as their parents drag them down the hallway toward a metro that may or may not be there to take them to their doctor’s appointment or school or grandma’s house or home. And this is unifying–especially when you spill onto the platform in the midst of a large, unfortunate, panting crowd to a platform in perfect time for nothing but to witness taillights receding into a dark tunnel. This is when you look around, exchange a weary, slightly embarrassed shrug with the people panting beside you, wipe your upper lip and resign yourself to leaning against the wall and waiting six minutes for the next metro to churn through. There is something unifying in what everyone knows is most likely a futile attempt at actualizing a dream, and something beautiful in failing together and knowing that, regardless of how many times this happens, you’ll do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. And you’re insane. And you’re hopeful. And you’re wonderfully, undignifiedly, undeniably human.

A House Is Not a Home

I’ve been in Madrid for about five weeks now and have, in that time, lived in four different places. Finding housing in Madrid is as challenging as…

…as challenging as…

…as…

…well. It’s so challenging that I don’t even have a snappy analogy to describe the situation. As indicated in this post, by September mid0-month I had a piso, then I lost a piso, and spent a substantial amount of time squatting at the University residence where Fulbright orientation had been held, suffering truly ghastly culinary concoctions such as potato-fish mash. The residencia making it perfectly clear that I was no longer welcome in its walls (the Americans, it seems, wore out their welcome) I stayed at Jordan’s piso for 15 euros a day for about a week. I then spent a night in the home of Mr. Mark Fox, and then, only then, only on September 29thish did I make the final move to Calle San Marcos 39. I’m home now, and it’s even beginning to look like home. There is, of course, a backstory to finally getting here. This backstory involves a first showing for which I showed a bit too early and resultingly interrupted the schtupping session of the guy who used to live in my room. I think even now my face is turning red. I also balked at the 800 euro deposit which nearly persuaded me against taking the place. 800 euros on September 18th was more than 2/3rds of all the money I had; knowing rent of another 400 would be due October first was also daunting and nearly a dealbreaker. Ultimately, though, I liked this piso and its inhabitants so well and was so tired of searching that I walked about a third of the way down the block, then called and pledged myself as a roommate. That was within 5 minutes of leaving and saying I’d think about it. But on to the details that really matter: roomies, rooms, and delightful particulars.

I posted an ad (“Young English Teacher/Fulbright Grantee in Search of Madrid Housing”) on loquo.com as a last resort. By September16th I was forlorn and desperate for somewhere to live. I included a picture, a bio and a snapshot of my daily life, not expecting much or anyone wanting to live with me. Within an hour, I received an email from one V. No fucking way. “Hi, Caitlin” she wrote in Spanish, “in our search for a roommate I came across your ad and think we’d all get along well. We have a room for rent in Chueca…” wrote said V. V wrote that she is a graphic designer with a bachelor’s in fine arts, a masters in graphic design, and a doctorate (wtf!?) in fine arts from the University of Salamanca. Having had plenty of contact and outrageously positive interactions with my much-loved graphic designin’ Fathomites, I was immediately on board. We made an appointment. I hauled over to Chueca. The rest is history.

V is an adorable Spanish chick of somewhere between 25 and 30. With heels she reaches my shoulder. She’s sweet but feisty, talented and totally competent at everything she does, without being arrogant. I also suspect that with one more nugget of gold in that heart of hers she’d have every pirate still trolling the high seas after her ass for more reasons than pure pulchritude. V is generous and patient with my remedial Spanish and she has an infectiously upbeat personality. Long story short, she’s great.

M, V’s boyfriend, also lives here. M is THE good will ambassador; always talking, smiling, swinging around or piling up the long cornrows that V masterfully crafts for him herself, M is a good time. My one concern is that he has no boundaries about using my personal hygiene products and I’ll leave it at that. He spends almost all of his time here in the apartment, watching soccer on YouTube, playing loud reggae, smoking and sleeping on the couch. He goes out at night to play gigs, to DJ, and to catch up with his multitudinous friends. He is a mysterious but friendly creature with a warm soul.

My third roommate (yes–this apartment is QUITE large) is a Dutch guy named E. Somewhere in his early 30s, E’s my height, super athletic, super precise and super efficient at everything he does. He’s also extremely friendly, speaks five languages, is constantly milling around the house cleaning, picking things up, cooking, writing post-it notes to himself while singing in any of the five languages he knows (sometimes all), humming or whistling a merry tune. He cuts an impressive and respectable figure in his businessman-y outfits, but has all the humanity of a bohemian independent coffee-shop worker. He likes (and cooks!) good food and his cupboard in the kitchen contains about 600 different kinds of exotic spices and dark chocolate. It was the singing and the curry that sold me on Eric. He left just two days ago for a 9 day bicycle trip starting in the Atlas Mountains in Morocco and ending somewhere in the desert. Um. Badass.

The piso is also amazing. Located in the heart of Madrid’s fashionable, hipstery and extremely trendy gay neighborhood, living here means I’m surrounded by good shopping, good eating and lots of friendly neighbors in very tight tee shirts. I’m centrally located so I can walk to almost anywhere I want to be. Below you’ll find pictures, which is where I’ll leave it because I’m losing steam and have been wiped since my fifth class with 2nd graders today at 3:15. Bear in mind that all that was here when I got here was the worst mattress on earth and the desk without a chair; it’s still Spartan, but certainly slightly homier. Next paycheck I’m buying a curtain (so the lady from the University of Mexico in Spain across the courtyard who’s always on the computer with her headset can stop seeing me naked. Every day.), a cheap nightstand and a full length mirror so I know what I’m wearing when I blearily leave the piso for work every morning. The sweetass posters on my wall are Bosch’s triptych “The Garden of Earthly Delights” (hell is my favorite panel; it’s a Where’s Waldo for creepy grown up kids).

Below, behold the wonders. I have a home!

(This is a view from the door)

A view of my sick, chalk-full of storage closet and the desk from which I’m typing, all from the viewpoint of the newly comfified bed.

This is what I see out my window. This is how the lady from the University of Mexico sees me. Depressing view, but it’s quieter than the streetside.

My desk, with a chocolate pudding scented Ikea candle to combat the cigarette smoke that wafts in from across the hall.

The living room where M can usually be found eating, smoking, or watching cartoons. *cough*

Where the magic happens. And I’m talking about our amazingly energetic washer. More on that later.

More kitchen.

…and arguably my most important acquisition…

My sweet little one-shot espressoish coffee maker. Home is where the coffee and soymilk is!

All right, my dear readers. Thanks for bearing with me through as much of that as you could. I desperately need to drag my tired self to bed now. More interesting, better-written updates shall soon follow.

¡Por Fín! Fotos de “La Noche en Blanco”

If you’ve been following along (and I really don’t blame you if you haven’t been–I’ve been incredibly unreliable with updates), you may recall that a few weeks ago I attended an enriching and exciting nocturnal culture festival in the streets of Madrid. My highlights were an urban sound garden, mermaids in the park’s lake, swaying to the sound of tubas, and the cool and spooky Lite-Brite buildings. When I updated that evening I was forlorn and separated from my luggage, in which was lodged my camera cord. Camera and cable have been triumphantly reunited, and, as promised, you’ll see the fruits of their sweet union below! For now, photos and insufficient captions are really all you’re getting. I’m saving up my prosifying for an entry about my great (finally stable!) living situation!

The evening begins: Mermaids and their bodyslaves rowing them around in rafts on Parque de Retiro’s lake. In place of mermaids, some boats held tuba players, who blew soft, mournful sounds from their instruments. In the gloaming, it was eerie and delightful.

…as night fell, however, what was once evanescently spookylovely turned decidedly River-Styx scary. Going to visit Anubis in the underworld? I think maybe yes.

The night wore on with Mark, Charles and I tromping toward Gran Vía. On the way there, I happened upon this creepy photo op and couldn’t resist its morbid, Victorian Cemetery-ish charm.

Gloom, dust and gathering night renders and otherwise ordinary statue purely creeptastic.

Here is the urban soundgarden:

I’ll be damned if I know what was actually projected onto this building (in constant motion, mind you), but it sure looked cool.

And now, a shower. Hopefully directly after that an update (with photos!) on my new home on Calle San Marcos in Chueca!

A list of things I am too tired to flesh out.

So. I’m actually not dead. Cool!

Lots of things have happened in the past few days; lots of things I could write on extensively, but would probably be far more boring than necessary. So instead, I’ll abbreviate with some species of list to give you an idea as to why there’s been no update for a good week.

1) Friday: moved away from Jordan’s piso. Was rescued by Mr. Mark Fox on Friday night and had a grand old time eating falafel with Mark and Talia. Were later joined by Charles. Drank mint tea. Talked shit. Much fun was had. Spent night at Mark’s piso on strange cot contraption in his coordinator’s office (yes–he lives with his coordinator) because (hopefully last!) move down the street from Mark to Calle San Marcos #39 (my permanent digs!) was pending on the morrow. Said move actually impossible ´til 10 p.m. Saturday night. Day was spent well. Hung out with Mark, introduced him to manifold wonders of Regina Spektor, ate tasty bakery goodies, prepared a healthy, balanced dinner, then for two hours watched Mark clean apartment like veritable lysol-powered demon. Operative word “watched.” Lifted finger only to windex glass coffee table. Here here for being a sack!

2) Moved to said piso on Saturday night, 10 p.m. Alone. Discovered room to be unfurnished save desk with no chair, and most awful mattress in world lodged on floor in corner. Cried piteously in middle of floor amidst wreckage of suitcases, crazed mane of hair and drippy mascara. Was pleased and disgusted with self after five minutes of this behavior. Went to sleep. Awoke at 2:30, stiff and sore from said shitty mattress through which the floor can be felt. Proceeded to vengefully shop for mattresses on Ikea.com for an hour. Slept. Woke. Hated life.

2a) Still hated life, but shopped early Sunday morning for hangers, anyway. At least my closet is de puta madre (¨the shit–in a good way).

2b) Got coffee with Ryan. Hated life slightly less. Cemented notion that grad school will not happen in fall of 2008, but of 2009.

2c) Went to work. For days and days. Taught things. Read stories. Sang. Am basically circus clown. Times are good and “work” is more like “play.” ¨Play with very loud, unruly, impressively vocal and articulate Spanish pets, that is.

3) Spent three hours in Ikea last night with sweet, sweet, SWEET new roommates E and V. Bought mattress and lamps. Room is no longer uninhabitable cave. Need shelving; perhaps soon. Perhaps food for a week instead. Yes. Maybe that.

3a) Bought gym membership for one month because unsore hips and vanity are more important than both food and shelving. First day of gym is tomorrow. Joy!

4) Slept precious little. Every night.

5) Tonight: met Allie’s friend David, who is Spanish (Basque, actually) and INCREDIBLY sweet. Glad I now have a Spanish friend and that Allie was willing to share. Drank a G&T, ate corn nuts, talked Spanish cinema with Mr. Spanish Cinema himself and was lent a work of contemporary Spanish literature. Also got to pet a little orange cat. Happiness.

6) Talked to Greg far too little. Goddamn being busy.

7) Relapsed with the sickness. Awesome. Love sinus infections. Love coughing.

All told: am extremely happy. Have keys to Spartanly furnished apartment and place to call home. All things considered, very good, very happy, but very underslept.

For now that’s all. Tomorrow highlights/ponderings on the metro and its ability to evoke hope, and some other random tidbits. ALSO! Pictures of my new ‘hood and Noche en Blanco in either the next post or one soon forthcoming!