Before it’s a new weekend, the last one was…

(Aviso: this post was written, saved, and never actually posted when I wrote it some days ago. I thought I hit “publish,” but really, had pressed “save.” Ah-durrrr! Techtards, AWAY!).

Great! The weekend was great.

Hang on: I’d just like to take a moment from our regularly scheduled programming to direct your attention to the Madrid weather forecast for the coming days: between 55 and 60, from now through December 5thish. No. I’m not kidding. Not even one little bit. Oh, joy!

This weekend’s been a lot better than it could have been, and I have a certain special lady named Liz to thank for that. The only wonderful thing about duress of any sort is that it shows you who your friends are, and allows them to swoop into the rescue to be borne along on tea-dates, to provide tureens of popcorn and walks in the park and pleasant distraction. So Liz–if you read this–thanks for being my own personal little angel this weekend. <end laud/>.

Had a nice Sunday mornin’ with Talia to go scarf some tostas at a place situated smack inside the Rastro (easily as crazy as it sounds, but not if you go early enough), then coffee and a chat at Mama Inés where all the waiters are male and dead sexy, as is the well-dressed, well-groomed, fine-smellin’ clientele. And gay. (le sigh). Other simple pleasures of the day included a stroll around Retiro with Ms. Jurewicz, and a lot of good, old-fashioned ass-to-bed time.

AND, Amber returned from her Parisian weekend bearing a gift of fig—yes, I’m serious—delightful fig bodywash. Now I’m even less motivated to take quick, non-luxurious, less planet-killing showers, which I didn’t even think was possible. But summarily: tea, carrot cake, Liz, Amber’s triumphant return and fig bodywash all made last weekend a truly fantastic, estrogen-rich experience.

Whenever I stop to evaluate myself and my life at this moment, here in Madrid, I come to the immediate, inarguable conclusion that I am very happy here. Life is great. I will say only that it’s really too bad drama never ceases to pend, or isn’t somehow niggling at the corners of my psyche and well-being. Then again, I suppose I wouldn’t so greatly appreciate the good things if they didn’t constitute the calm eye of a stormy case of emotional chaos.

Fact: as my level of English comprehension and communication depreciates, and my Spanish one stays still, my posts are become increasingly more frenetic. I’ll work on that.

Thanksgiving Thoughts (a few days late)

I scribbled out the following directly after my trip to the mercadillo on Thursday. The Mercadillo is the market about which I’m always gushing; you know, the one that’s held, inexplicably, in the huge parking lot beside Vicálvaro’s infantile education school? I meant to transcribe my Thanksgiving musings here in a timely (and more coherent) fashion, but of course, didn’t, and you’re getting them straight, without edits.

The woman at the café calls me “jóven” and knows I need a café con leche before I even say it; consequently, I’ve been smiling since I saw her this morning. Last night: pies with my friends, lolcats on the blog tubes, laughing and sipping tea, funny voices and funny stories to the point of hilarity until around a far-too-late 1 a.m. festooned with flicks of pumpkin pie and candied walnuts. Today, one on one interactions with fourth graders and their shining bright eyes and cowlicks and accents and Spiderman sweatshirts, Pokemon cards, broken pencils and erasers to which they  britishenglishly refer as “rubbers.” Little 7-year-old Miguel’s smile,  first thing I see upon getting to school. Presentation of pumpkin pie to twenty untried teachers a rollicking success; Amber and I = American baking celebrities–now, we’ve to translate recipe to Spanish, metric units, then distribute to Vicálvaro’s staff. The smell of orange peels on my hands, and the sun is hot on my cheeks in strident spite of late November. Third grade remembers and loves me. María, brimming with dubious  blue eyed joy, wraps me in her arms and rests her head on my chest, does not let go for a long, long time. “Cuanto tiempo que no hemos visto!” she says. Amber and I explaining a Thanksgiving poem to embrangled fourth graders, share inside jokes over their heads literally and figuratively all class. Insistent little hands in the small of my back as I leave class–Patri smiles up at me “Where are you going?” she asks, “Will you come back to class later?” I tell her yes; she latches on and smiles up at me in an way that unnervingly reminds me, someday, I want children of my own. I hug her in the hall, stroke some shiny brown hair off her her forehead, and head out into the sunshine to buy apples, a glossy purple eggplant, olives that plop juicily into a plastic bag, a kilogram of oranges, a single onion to dress up my dinner. The olive man at the market recognizes me, tells me again that I’m betrothed to him for having once accepted a sample of camporeal olives. Children’s voices and jubilant shouts erupt from the comedor, preceding their clamorous and brightly clothed creators. The breeze is cool today, like liquid, and smells mysteriously of cedar. Today I will get off the metro three stops early and walk home from work in the sunshine, bearing fourish kilos of produce, just because I want to. I am alone, of course, for this Thanksgiving, but I am very happy. After only three months, I belong here, and I am thankful for Spain opening its arms to me.

So here’s the more coherent, dressed-down version of that riotous babble above. I got my act together in order to write it in an email to Greg’s mom:

For all intents and purposes, today would be the perfect day to get
depressed. Far away from my family and all familiar surroundings, I´ve
had plenty of opportunity to wax melancholy. Surprisingly, though, I´m happier than
I remember being in a long time. Of course I miss my family, but
there was a moment today after being reunited with the third graders
(whom I adore), after shopping at the open air market for a few kilos
of apples, a kilo of oranges, onions, some beautiful, glossy
eggplants, and a kilo of amazing Spanish olives–and only paying four
euros–, sitting out on a bench in the sunshine and feeling the sun on
my cheeks and the liquid-cold wind blow through my hair, when I
realized I was really, really happy. It´s strange, but I feel more
thankful today than I have on most any Thanksgiving past, when I´ve
had everything–the company of a loving family, good food, health and
success–for which to be thankful. Far away from home and the people I
love, I´ve realized what an act of trust it is for them to have let me
come alone this far, to keep in touch with me, to care even though I´m
an ocean away, and to give me their love regardless of where I´m
located on the globe. I am so thankful and so excited to be where I
am. I feel rewarded by my job and I love to teach; I revel in how
great it  feels to teach while earning the affection and confidence of
children who look to me as an embodiment of “America,” one that has
nothing to do with politics, war, poor politicians, hamburgers or
Coca-Cola. I´ve met some of the most wonderful people I’ve ever known
in the past three months, and am surrounded by a group of friends whom
I already feel as though I’ve known for forever. I am lucky, and I am
happy, and I actually–and this is rare–feel like I´m doing a good
enough job at being a human being that I deserve it.

So, I didn’t have a Thanksgiving experience with my family this year, and I’ve been unable to enjoy my favorite Thanksgiving leftover booty–turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce sandwiches–but our Fulbright Thanksgiving celebration in combination with baking pies with my friends, then sharing them with my school and roommates, turned it into one of the best Thanksgivings I’ve ever had.

There will be a weekend update tomorrow.

Also, I am enamored of the way in which Andrew Bird unabashedly adorns his musical stylings with merry whistles, barefoot tapping, and extended single-string picking. You should listen to him here. Come on. Srsly.

Also, this is totally necessary.

This got me through the past few lonely hours and a few hours of yesterday. YEAH it did.

God bless icanhascheezburger.com

Thought:

The only problem with being well-adjusted is that most other people are not.

A little updateage

My absence from the blogosphere is indicative of the fact that I’ve been living a life–a very FULL life–very far away from my sweet little laptop and internet connection. And it is very good. Very, very good. In the past two weeks I’ve been more social than I have in, oh, the past six months, so it’s been exciting, exhausting, enriching and rather hectic all at once. Amongst exciting social activities have been: coffee with a passel of Fulbrighters, one truly impressive dinner party at the apartment of Mr. Mark Fox, a veggie-filled dinner in with Amber at her luxury pad, a birthday party at a rented-out bar, a date for tostas and a mid-morning rastro scrum, and a Very Fulbright Thanskgiving, pictures of some of which will appear here soon’s I motivate enough to put them on flickr.

So, summarily: things are totally fantastic. I’m tired on a more or less constant basis, but even that I can’t complain about as the sleeplessness comes as a function of aggressively sucking every drop of goodness out of my days. Rock. I’ve found some amazing new friends here, even now–threeish months into it.  I’m fortunate enough to have found one of them in a fellow TA at my school. Amber makes going there a little less painful. And on that note…

School, aside from the hardships of dealing regularly with a slightly crazed coordinator, is going well and I’m looking forward to switching grades (I’ll be going from second to first) in the coming week. Excited, yes, and a little sad I suppose: I’ll miss my sweet little second graders like no other. In the past month and a half they’ve all become so very singular and special to me. For example, Ruben de Oliveira, who is allergic to wheat (that poor kid), has a smile that could light up the entire universe. Leticia is already a grown up; she comes complete with sass, confident swagger and burningly intelligent gaze. Miguel, easily my favorite kid, educates me every time I see him (see below), and told me that he wouldn’t like class as much without me there. Perhaps my most heartwarming case is Rubén García. Rubén, formerly a rough, tough bully who would hit other kids, disrupt class and generally wreak havoc whenever possible, could barely read in English the first time I sat down with him. Considering his classroom and social habits, I was totally unsurprised and unimpressed. The second time, about twenty days later, Rubén sat down beside me and read, willingly and from cover to cover, his little Golden Book. Then asked to read another for me. Then asked if we could share the reading responsibilities for another book. Then asked to take one home to read to his mom… and then brought it back the next day and asked for another. I was totally dumbfounded, so spent the next week reading with him, selecting more and more advanced books which he read with gusto and alacrity. I am absolutely in love with his perseverance and growth. Yesterday, sweetly enough, Rubén secretively waved me over to his desk. “Profe,” he said, “you know where is the fútbol field at the school?” I told him I wasn’t sure. “Well I have a game today. Can you come? I want you to come,” he told me, “you come with me after class and I’ll walk you over to the field! You can watch practice!” How touching is that? Sadly, last night my rollicking stomach ailments kept me from going, but I have a date with my little soccer player on the coming Monday. He makes my heart glow.

Miguel, my most favorite kid, delights me for different reasons. Unlike Rubén, Miguel started out as a stellar student of English and has only improved. Behind little blue glasses, his quick brown eyes miss absolutely nothing. He understands all of the higher level jokes in books, giggles, points out textual anomalies and has one of the most fabulous imaginations I’ve ever encountered. This fabulous imagination came into play when we were reading the amazing book “The Gruffalo’s Child” the other day.

Finding a barren winter branch in the story’s beautifully illustrated landscape, Miguel pointed to it, exclaimed, “it looks just like a coral! Do you know what a coral is?”
“Like, under the sea corals?” I asked him.
“Yes!” he told me, “those! Do you like corals?”
“Of course,” I told him. Satisfied with my answer, he informed me that he wants to study creatures under the sea when he grows up, (which sounds curiously like another sweet, winsomely nerdy, imaginative boy I know). Miguel then turned to me, all aflutter, “did you know that corals can fight!?” he asked me. I most certainly didn’t. “Well,” said Miguel, “corals have a little creature living inside of each tube, so as they grow and need more space, the creatures shoot out *pewpewpew!* and battle for space.”
A bit dubious, but totally delighted, I asked him, “really, Miguel? How do you know so much?”
Miguel looked at me as though I was absolutely absurd for asking, “Hombre!” he exclaimed (Spanish equivalent of “Dude! Come ON!”) “I saw it on a documentary!”

Something happened last Thursday that made me realize, suddenly and definitely, that I am a citizen of Madrid. I live here. I will live here until June next year, and the city, its people, and Spanish norms are beginning to rub off on me.

Because I had a very busy afternoon, I rushed home from Vicalvaro, ran to el Horno de San Onofre (an amazing bakery in Chueca) where I bought a loaf of pan Alemán (dark, German bread) for Amber’s and my dinner, and rushed off to my meeting. With my bread in my bag. On the metro. For a six block city walk. All the way to the gym. Back to my house. Back for a 15 minute city walk to Ambers, where the bread was finally consumed, roughly 5 hours later. I felt so madrileña. Everywhere you go in Madrid, you’re bound to see somebody walking around with a loaf of bread in a sack, jutting out of a purse, propped on a briefcase, etc. I’m beginning to blend in.

I’m also getting really tired. Feck. Field trip with the kiddlies tomorrow, and I’m so underslept. I’m off to bed now, but I’ll update a bit better as soon as humanly possible–though tomorrow may not be realistic as I’m baking a bushel of luscious pumpkin pies with Amber for my roomies, for school, and for Amber’s roomie.

Things

This entry will be a hodgepodge, so please don’t expect continuity. Thanks.

So. Some of you may already know that I occasionally tarry in ghostwriting. One items to which I apply my (quickly fading) English-language wit and wordsmithery is the blog of a 50-something Realtor in Somewhereville, Connecticut. Today, whilst researching topics for this man’s blog, I came across an advertisement for Litchfield County’s Monastic Art Shop Abbey of Regina Laudis Christmas Shop and Monastic Holiday Art Hut. Holy good fuck. And I thought I was having trouble with English?

Also. Would anybody but me like to see what a Monastic Holiday Art Hut looks like? Oh, you would, would you!? Really? Oh, splendid! Google Image told me it looks something like this

Two perverse things I’ve experienced/had foisted upon me in the past two days:

Perverse thing #1:

One of the things I love most about Spain around the holidays is that this country, as a whole, spares NO expense on decking the halls–or the streets. Streets are elaborately strung with vast, twinkling, l2-D light sculptures, featuring Christmasy symbols including (but not limited to!) hollyhocks, wreaths, glistening holiday bells, and more. Generally, they’ve all been outrageously pleasant to see at and I look forward to each new street with anticipation for what kind of delightfully festive holiday insignia might be ablaze.

And then yesterday happened.

On Calle Serrano over in the ritzy Salamanca neighborhood there is a strange, triangular, vaguely teepee-like structure strung above the streets. Bemused, I stopped, peered at it, paged through my vast mental repository of Navidad symbology and wondered, “what on earth might that triangular thing POSSIBLY be?” I then realized that the fantastical triangular holiday lightscape was not at all a holiday shape, nor did it have anything to do with the holidays. It is a big, triangular, larger-than-God ham leg. A Serrano ham leg. For Calle Serrano. Ha. Ha. Ha ha. Or should I say Ja. Ja. Jajaja. Really. This obsession with ham escalated to a level which is no longer entirely appropriate.

No. I mean it. No longer funny. Ahem.

Perverse thing #2:

My metro from school is boarded at least once, if not twice, a week by a sly looking man in a denim jacket and shiny shoes–a different man each time, mind you–wielding an accordion and a memorized version of “Hernando’s Hideaway,” which he plays poorly and with gusto for anywhere from one to four metro stops. He then expects to be paid for a rather shoddy rendition of said song on a rather shoddy squeezebox. All I can say is that if I hear “Hernando’s Hideaway” one more time I swear to God I’m going to snap.

A random moment from teaching, before I forget:

I’ve been doing individual reading sessions/evaluations with all of my second graders, in which I pretty much just make the cute little buggers read to me, correct their pronunciation, and then read a new book with them. Now that I’m into round two, I’ve sniffed out who can read in English and who can’t. Carlos, I learned early on, can’t. However, today he was speeding through “Dom’s Dragon” with alacrity and gumption. I was shocked. “Oh my God!” I thought, “It’s a nearly-Thanksgiving miracle! Carlos can read!” And then he got to the sentence that read “Do dragons have green eyes, blue eyes?” and enunciated very clearly, very confidently, not “Do dragons have green eyes, blue eyes?” but, “And here’s some of my face.”

Yeah. Carlos can’t read. The pilgrims didn’t do him any favors.

Another random tidbit:

This is snared from a conversation I had with Anthony today about the foos tournament for which my Fathom loves have been training and will attend on Friday. It is in NYC, and because he is now a suburban hipster with a chip on his shoulder, Anthony (soon to be a dad) has a grudge to settle. He plans to steal, cheat, and wreak havoc in all ways possible, including graffiti in the bathroom. He says:

amp: if i dont come home with a bag full of pens and post it notes.
amp: a black eye
amp: 3 less teef
amp: and a ‘ban’ from nyc
amp: i will be disapointed
me: Mr. Acock, you’re going to be the best role model/daddy ever.
amp: fuck yeah i will be.
amp: I’ll be like “kid, this is a rock, it doesn’t look like much, but hold it like so, and you can carve your name into glass.”

And holy shit, I love my friends here. Excerpts from two of the best emails I’ve received in at least the last 3 years of my life, both from Amber, who just got back from a weekend in Czechoslovakia:

Prague was FREEZING!!! but they had amazing english translations on menus such as the following fine print below all of the dinner options:

“meat noodle on your choice”

to which i respond:

on MY choice? really?? a meat noodle??

and then I receive this email. Written, and to be understood, in a thick, meat noodley, Czechoslovakian accent:

Lady:

This invitation you give to us reminds me of mashed potatoes. Music for me is like song which reminds me of love for you, lady. On this thursday I will be so much of the pleasure to in time of concert. Will you be of the pleasure of eating some food or of the dining with myself and friend other lady who is also very much of your liking?

In time we speak, on your choice.

I remain,
meat noodle

Life is so fucking good it isn’t really fair.

Friday, Friday, Friday! (and a little Saturday, too)

Although I’ve not embarked on any exotic/personally enhancing vacations this weekend, my slow little weekend in Madrid has been excellent. Friday kicked it off right.

I never posted about it, but on the Eve of All Hallows, Amber (my friend and fellow TA at CP Vicálvaro) invited me to a party in Goya at the piso of her friend, Liz. Amber had been talking up Liz to me for weeks, claiming we’d get along smashingly and simply had to meet. It turns out this was true. The party was great, and Liz is as fun, sassy, and lovely a person as Amber had promised.

She gained about 45 awesome points when, after exchanging contact information on Wednesday, I received a text that said, among other things, “how would you like to go to a Wilco concert for free on Friday night?” And so it was.

Liz, with friends in high places, was able to get us onto the guest list, so we saw Wilco in a packed venue (the Riviera in Madrid), for free–plus the cost of a few drinks, of course. The number of gyrating, jumping, head-tossing, singing Spaniards was absolutely astounding. I think Liz and I had both expected to be in the company of a passel of American expats, not a full house of Spanish men. And yet: there they were! Hundreds upon hundreds of Spanish rock fans/hipsters, singing along to all the words of all the songs that came out of Jeff Tweedy’s mouth. Pretty cool, if unexpected.

I have to say that Wilco put on a great show. Energetic, musically tight as hell and impressively enthusiastic through ’til the end, they sound essentially the same in person as they do on their records which, I happen to think, is always an impressive feat. When they played “Jesus, etc.” I thought of, and missed, Ben, but didn’t get my shit together in time to record the song and send it the boy who introduced me to Wilco. So sad. Ah, well. I got a few photos, which will have to suffice. Here’s one of the less shitty ones:

Maybe even better than the concert was the company. Meeting great new people is so exciting to me, and luckily the day was full of that. Before the Wilco concert, Liz and I exchanged a volley of emails in which she informed me of the Feria de Gastronomía in Plaza Santa Ana, and invited me to meet up with her and her friends at 3. I can never resist a fair that revolves around food, so naturally, I went. Liz’s friends, some of whom I’d met at the Halloween Party, were great, as was the fair itself. Here is a miniature feast for the eyes:

These baskets of herbs and spices are dealt out by the man you see behind the counter. Some are just spices, some are teas, and sometimes he makes an infusion custom fit to you, dependent upon your ailments or particular herbal hankering.

No Spanish culinary activity would be complete without a leg of jamón and a few hanks of chorizo. (shudder)

This little old woman in her Woodland-Creature-Delight booth was selling a few of my favorite things: big, thick slices of handmade turrón, pan de dátil, raisins, dried apricots, figs, dates, nuts and almonds covered in chocolate. I nearly lost my mind. To save it, I went home with a little portion of date cake. Mmm.

And here you see a variety of toothsome morsels, including turrón, almonds coated in various delicious substances, and of course, on the far side, almendras garrapiñadas, or, almonds coated in sugar and corny syrup, then burned in the thing you see below:

While delicious, the bag of almonds I purchased was nearly the death of me. Over the course of a few hours, I ate most of a (small) bag. That was a lot of sugar, and resultingly, a very queasy Caitlin.

Look at this beautiful spread of olives and other pickled canapés.

Gazing at them, I had two urges. The first urge was to stuff my head inside the bucket of camporeal olives, open my mouth and let them all rush in and. The second urge is even grosser, if you can believe it: by the time we’d enjoyed our fill of gastronomical fair (including liquids), I was in bad bladderly shape. I considered grabbing a bucket, skulking to the corner and doin’ my thang. But I didn’t. I found a McDonald’s instead. Yay for upholding hygiene and social norms!

And now, my favorite booth. Feast your eyes!

The caramelos sold here were absolutely divine. I purchased 80 cents worth, just to try, and had gobbled them from my purse within an hour or so. I went back to buy more to send to Greg, but whether or not he’ll ever actually receive them, only my willpower can decide. It was also because of this booth that I discovered I am now in love with black licorice. Never in my life would I have expected I’d willingly CHOOSE black licorice flavored things, but hey–people change I suppose.

Other culinary delights were a kebab stand, a booth from Asturias that featured sidra and also a wine fountain (and for some reason upon seeing this, I sadistically thought about how little Jesus would approve the blood of his blood spouting from a fountain), chorizo (spanish sausage) of which Liz couldn’t get enough, a booth with delicious Galician breads and cakes cooked in a huge, freestanding oven outside of the booth, and an Arab tea and pastry stand that also sold hookahs. The most prominent food supplier was the first booth featuring Galician delights such as you’ll see below:

This is Pulpo Gallego (Galician octoups) and peppers. What you don’t know is that I loomed creepily directly behind a vieja and zoomed in order to capture a shot of her pulpo. When she turned in response to my camera’s flash, I pretended to fiddle with my purse, then take a shot of something else, acted vaguely dissatisfied, pivoted on my heel and casually strode away. I decided that being creepy was easier than asking permission to photograph her feast.

And finally here are three of the five lovely women who comprised my excellent Friday afternoon company. Sadly enough, the others got lost on a mission for crepes and I never got a picture.

From left: Carolina (Shakira!? Liz’s roommate), Liz, and Amanda, the latter two who are part of the Middlebury masters program in Spanish.

So yeah. Friday was the high point of my weekend, but yesterday was nice, too. I basically walked around Madrid wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted, all day yesterday. It was freeing and it had been a long time since I’d gotten to be totally alone with myself. Was it depressing and maybe even a little lonely at some points? Yes. But was it also totally necessary? Yes, again. Walking around alone made me pretty forlorn for a certain boy’s hand to hold. Finding cool new things just idn’t the same without someone you love to share them with. Ah, well. 44 more days and I get to inundate Greg with all of the goodness Madrid has to offer.

I capped off yesterday by purchasing myself the most costly, luxurious present I have ever bought just for me. Strangely, I feel only a little guilty about it. My early Christmas gift to me is a pair of gold earrings from Turkey in the shape of a pair of birds with turquoise stones for eyes and accents. Why did I do it? I dunno, because occasionally I think I’m worth having nice things, and I worked hard all summer for money and currently do now? I’m conscious of the fact that I should probably feel worse about my splurge than I do, and that guilt’ll probably surface, eventually. Maybe I’ll feel crappy about the earring purchase sometime in the near future, but for now, I’m just enjoying how goddamn awesome they are. Please see below and you’ll understand.

That concludes this installment of Caitlin’s Useless Little Life. Until next time (whenever I actually have time again!).

Happy Mundanities

Despite a lingering cold and gross sinus pressure, life has been rather nice lately. Monday was all right, but Tuesday, when I awakened and simply couldn’t reckon with the notion of going to school with a ragged voice and throbbing head, was transient. There’s something about stealing a day off in the middle of the week that has always enraptured me and Tuesday proved a prime example of such. I stayed home, doctored my cold, did a good 4 hours of Fathom work, and then, when I was feeling restless from being inside all day, took a leisurely adventure walk two metro stops away from mine on my usual commute. From there, I found a beautiful, 20-minute walk home I can do every day which’ll afford me some great time to wind down and enjoy the invariably beautiful Spanish day after a long stretch of hours at the school. The route, down Paseo de la Castellana, takes me past the Biblioteca Nacional, which when turned golden on a weekday afternoon at around 4 p.m., is utterly breathtaking. The path is particularly top notch because it’s a gigantic boulevard with ample sidewalk space between the two lanes of traffic, lined by two thick rows of old trees. I am in love with it. Walking home that way on Wednesday and Thursday made me outrageously happy.

I’ve also had a number of really nice metro interactions this week, which has surprised me because people generally don’t speak to one another on the metro. So. Nice.

On Wednesday night I had dinner with Monica, Alex, Talia and Alex’s visiting friend Danny. We went to a delecatable vegetarian buffet restaurant on Calle Huertas, to which I also taught myself to walk (I love learning my city by foot!), and shot the shit, gossiped about the craziness of our respective schools, and generally had a pretty good time. That was also nice.

I’m also learning to value my dead hours between classes in Vicálvaro. I go for walks, sometimes with Amber, sometimes alone. I’ll sometimes get a coffee and sit and ruminate, sometimes just walk around the town instead. All in all, it’s a nice existence–busy, but nice.

My life seems to consist of eating and walking, I just realized, and while I’d like to allege that that isn’t at all the case…er… I suppose that…it.. kind of… is? THe walking is for enjoymen, but also to compensate for all the good eats in great company. I’m happy to report that I’ve been a superstar about making it to the gym lately, and in the next few weeks, with the gym being miraculously open six days a week because there are no puentes, I’m going to try to go every day. We’ll see where that gets me besides hip soreness.

Anyway–yesterday was fucking awesome, and I’ll post about it later this afternoon. But first! I’m off for one of those much-adored walks. I’ll be back. We shall parlay, and I’ll tell you about going to a gastronomical fair and a FREE Wilco concert with an amazing new friend, pictures included. Yay!

¡Hasta ahora!

Córdoba: Reflections.

As alluded to in the previous post, this is the sappy, overly introspective and emotive jeremiad about which probably nobody but me gives a rat’s ass. Seriously. If you keep reading you’re going to draw uncomfortably close to me, so unless you’re cool with that, go read the post before this one–there’s eye candy and vacationy reportage to be had. Okay? Okay. Consider yourself warned.

In all, my weekend in Córdoba was much more like a homecoming than a vacation. In Córdoba I felt more comfortable and confident in my Spanish than I have in my entire two months in Madrid. Being there recharged me and refortified me for life here in Madrid in a way I couldn’t have dreamt it would. I know now that I have a home close by that has nothing to do with people, funnily enough–something I thought I’d never find. I feel a deep connection to the place itself, to all of the twisty turny streets, to the muddy Guadalquivir river, to the color of the stones in the sunshine and to the sounds of the water in the fountains that hide in the around corners and alcoves of the judería. Equally strange is that I feel a connection to myself–past and present–there.

Going to Córdoba this weekend powerfully reminded me of who I am by making me remember who I was. My time in Córdoba two years ago was lived by a very different me, cleaved in two and wrecked by one person and circumstances I could have controlled, but didn’t. From September to late November I was one girl, from November on, completely another. The first me was the assertive, confident former-athlete who understood growing experiences and that change has to be seized and actuated by those who wish to see it incepted. This girl trusted to her competence, made friends easily, went out for walks in her own company and thrilled at the act of living, simply for itself. This girl is someone who closely resembles the one tapping out all of this sentimental, introspective, self-congratulatory bullshit far too late at night on November 6th, 2007. This girl doesn’t scare me. This girl doesn’t shame me.

The other, however, does.

The second version of me scares and shames me because she existed, but she scares and shames me more because as far as I’ve come, somewhere inside, I know that I’m still her. I know that I could be her again. This girl was a brokenhearted, serious, insecure twenty year old, totally thunderstruck and lovelorn for someone who she knew well could never love her back. She was full of a lot of self-hatred and confusion for too many reasons that had too much to do with herself and far, far too much to do with someone else. She strung her delicate pride and self-image entirely upon compliments and affection from one very confused, very admirable, but extremely egotistical, boy. When I think of her, and when I think of the events that created her, my skin starts to crawl and I wish I’d never been her. At the same time, though, without that her and without the him that shaped that miserable her, I wouldn’t be who I am now–and I happen to like THAT her a good lot. The girl I was in Córdoba from the end of November on was the most miserable, tearful, hopeless and angry little creature I’ve ever encountered. Thank God I can splice her out now and regard her as a separate entity, a very strange bridge in the chorus of my life.

In spite of–perhaps because of–that second girl I was, I like me a lot better now. As I took my solo adventure walk this past Saturday, passing through Plaza de Tendillas, then later stopping to watch the herons in the river, I realized that I’m pretty satisfied with who I’m becoming and what I’ve been in order to get here. I’ve come to a point in my life at which I no longer pine for anybody who doesn’t love and respect me–or at least appreciate me–in return. I am whole without someone else’s total approval. I have learned to defend myself, to stand up for my convictions, and to advocate for my heart and good sense in the face of inconsiderate behavior and inconstant affection. These are all good things. The more I thought about it, though, standing there by the river, the more aware I became that a part of me that was really raw and really alive went to rest two years ago in Córdoba, eked out slowly in tears and quiet grimaces and blame of myself for ever letting my emotions run away from me. Sometime in early December of 2005, I shoved my girlish delusions into a box and did my damndest to deny that I’d ever been naive enough to have them. By the time I boarded my plane bound for U.S. soil I’d donned a mantel of amused cynicism to protect my heart from ever being brushed aside in so cavalier a manner, ever again. But here’s my guilty admission: though I’ve doffed those dramatic weeds of mourning and realized that being totally immune to love and emotions is nearly as ridiculous as being overly maudlin, half of me wishes I still knew what it was like to be able to so deeply feel things. Since the last time I stood at the Guadalquivir and cried, I don’t think I’ve felt anything so deeply or so truly. I don’t think I’ve let myself and I wonder if I ever will again. I wonder if, now that I know how it feels, I´m brave enough to try.

Anyhow, going to Córdoba flashed a lot of memories before my eyes. So many, in fact, that I’d have plenty of legitimate reasons to dislike that city, to run from it and never go back. And yet I love it more than any other place I’ve known because there was so much good there, and there’s even more good now because of this weekend and because of this: I am still miraculously, wonderfully alive. Also, I am still miraculously, wonderfully equipped with a heart to break. (Hey! Don’t laugh!—for a while, the jury was truly out on that). Most of all, today, I am miraculously and wonderfully happy.

It’s about damn time.

The City of My Heart’s Delight

So! Pardon the wait!

I took the past four day weekend away from the computer and all of my modern conveniences in order to enjoy a comfortable, familiar city with some good friends. I’ve been looking forward to doing this very thing for months now, even before I arrived in Madrid. I’ve been actively fantasizing about the streets I’d amble, about exactly where I’d eat, about the coffee and tostas I’d smell, the alleys down which I’d retrace my own ghostly, two-year-old steps, and about the way the sunshine would look at 4 p.m. on the deslumbrent walls of the old Alcázar. This weekend I was in Córdoba. For the record, it’s settled now: it’s my favorite place in the whole world.

My trip started off inauspiciously. Between arriving to the bus station with only ten minutes to spare and being terrifyingly without a formally printed out ticket for which I had to dash through the station to fetch, I nearly missed the bus. I was then unlucky enough to be seated before a woman with the worst body funk–emanating from her stockinged, probably yeast-infected feet–I have ever encountered. All in all, though, save the waves of extreme nausea, I suppose the trip could have been worse. After all, I made the bus.

Olive grove by olive grove we drew nearer to Córdoba. I grew progressively more antsy and anticipatory; it was a bit like girding my loins to get a drink with an estranged lover with whom the prospect for romance might still exist. I’d been afraid that I’d built Córdoba up to fill an unimaginably grand space in my head and that when I touched down I’d find it to be a very ordinary city, nothing like the wondrous land of beauty and history I remembered. Upon arrival, though, I was comforted and realized that I had nothing at all to worry about. I stepped off the bus at 7 p.m. and even the air felt different–thick with history and that certain, special kind of Andalucian magic. I was overjoyed. It felt like coming home.

Our hostel, 75 euros a night split three ways, was affordable, comfy, and clean enough for me to ignore the spatter of something that looked like a mixture of wine and blood on the bathroom wall. Actually a  series of one and two-bedroom apartments complete with kitchen, bathroom, and living room with TV, Hostal Alcázar is run by a charmer named Fernando, who in addition to being a very typical Andalucian gentleman, surprised us all the second day by popping his head off the roof with “bonjour!” and effectively disembrangling a group of lost French tourists Talia was attempting to aid. There was also a mangey but adorable dog named Carolina. It was great. Alex lounged in the double bed while I shared a twin-bedded room with Ms. Stol. I slept like a rock all three nights.

I’ll save you a truly in-depth description of all events and briefly list and describe things in this post, which will free me to to provide another post of what I think are the more important parts of the trip: the experience as a whole, the reflection, and the exhilaration I’m feeling now.

So the itinerary looked like this:

Friday night, dinner of calamari, salad, and salmorejo and a trip to the long-missed Salón de Té, pictured here.

The Té de Mil y Una Noches was as delicious as ever and, shockingly enough, the owner remembered me from two years ago. How cool is that?

Friday morning was wonderful. We rose at about 9:30 and walked through sunny Córdobese streets to Roldan, one of my favorite cafés in the city. Roldan is also home of the loveliest tostadas I have ever eaten. I am so in love with these crusty satellites of toasted bread, olive oil, whipped tomato and salt that I took a photo. Good god that makes me hungry.

Friday afternoon was our date with luxury. I’d booked a reservation for three at the Hammam–an experience I was very sorry to have missed when I lived there. Amidst sexy, dimly lit rooms with beautiful stone walls and candles in every corner, we enjoyed a turkish-style bath with three pools of different-temperature water: tepid, hot and cool. It looked basically like this (no, I don’t know those women. If you want their numbers, you’re shit out of luck).

The tepid was comfy, the hot water was juuust right, but the cold water was the rudest shock to the system I’ve experienced since being splashed from the waist down by Connecticut river water in a crew shell one frigid March morning. Needless to say, my last two cycles through, I skipped it. The massage which came with the bath was nice, but Talia, Alex and I were in accordance that it could’ve used a little more elbow grease. I wanted my muscles tenderized, and they just got fairy-fingered. Ah, well. I have a boy coming in approximately 50 days for such purposes.

Friday afternoon we went to the Alcázar de los Reyes Católicos (the Castle of the Catholic Kings), and walked around old gardens and beautiful battlements. Here’s a photo.

Friday night brought a moment I’d been waiting for for a very long time: a trip to my favorite restaurant in all the land, Amaltea. The food was as great as I remember it being, and I made a point to tell the owner–a lovely woman who has personally waited on me almost every time I’ve been there–that her place is, in fact, my favorite restaurant in all the lands I’ve been to. It commandeered my table great service, lots of smiles, and a free thing of olives. Word. I’m happy to report that the mango apricot curry chicken is in fine form, for any of those who were worried.

After our scrumptious dinner we took a walk to the bend in the Guadaluqivir, then went to get a drink atbthe former Van Beer in ciudad jardín. We had really unremarkable sangría, and I discovered that Van Beer is now actually called “La Caña de España.” Hmph. Whatever. The sangría sucked, but my sleep that night was glorious.

As was the trip to the only place I’ve ever experienced a religious experience the next morning. I don’t know what to say about La Mezquita except that it’s one of the most deeply moving, magical spaces I’ve ever had the pleasure of entering in my entire life. If you want to know about it, google it or ask me. Suffice it to say that it was the most important mosque in all of Spain during Spain’s muslim rule. Myriad other mosques were built to echo its grandeur, and it was the first mosque to ever incept a room-sized mihrab for the Quran to reside within. It’s moved me to tears twice now. It got Talia this time. Mission accomplished.

Here is only a fraction of a fraction of the Mezquita’s interior.

After our trip to the Mezquita we attemtped to enter the Julio Romero de Torres (Córdoba’s most famous painter–here’s my favorite cuadro by him, called “La Chiquita Piconera”) museum, but ended up only doing the Museo de Bellas Artes thanks to a truly crotchety old Spanish man who gave Talia shit about her lack of passport.

After that Talia and Alex retreated to the sanctity of Hostal Alcázar for a nap whilst I communed with the streets of Córdoba, as I’ve been aching to do for nigh on two years now. A huge part of what I did with my life when I studied abroad was wander the streets and see the city, so my experience is structured by the borders of La Victoria, the Guadalquivir, and Ciudad Jardín. I followed my favorite walking route and saw all of my old favorite places, including this one, where a strange, wonderful thing that deserves (and will receive) its own post happened. It involved an old man, his life story, and me feeling like a character out of a short story. Stay tuned for the event. For now, though, here’s a picture of where it happened:

Two more wonderful things happened in Córdoba. The first was that I went to visit the residencia where I lived while I studied abroad and the owner, José, and his wife both immediately remembered me, hugged me well, inquired after my health and why the bloody hell I was back in Spain, and called me “hija” (Spanish for daughter). I was so delighted to see José–one of the kindest people I remember having met–and so sad to leave him when I finally walked out of residencia Alegría, that I cried in the street for a good five minutes. It was emotional and lovely. The second wonderful thing was that we ate David Rico ice cream (still the best ice cream I’ve ever had) and cooked a beautiful dinner together back at the Hostel on Saturday night. I made sangría, Alex chopped bread, and we constructed a gorgeous woodland salad with toasted nuts, dried fruit, goat cheese and other delicious additions.

I’m sure there’s more, but this is already a scattered, epic post that probably no one has gotten to the bottom of. Next up: more than summary–what this trip actually meant to me. It was actually a pretty impressive turning point, but if you’re uncomfortable with other people’s psyches (or mine in particular), I suggest you skip the coming post.