Weekend Forecast: Loafcakery.

I had big plans for productivity this weekend. Big plans. I swear I did. Like most good intentions, however, those big plans for productivity have devolved into various movie-watching (primarily ecstatic enjoyment of Juno, which I highly, HIGHLY recommend rushing out to see at your earliest possible convenience), cooking lots of things including, but not limited to, homemade applesauce, and delightful, nearly death-defying workouts on the stairmaster. Honestly, having the kind of weekend I have doesn’t feel quite as rewarding as the one I’d planned might have felt, but it’s still been pretty damn good. I did, at least, apply to teach at some private schools in the coming year. Score one for the good guys.

So here’s the haps. Happily, I am finished with first grade. I modify this announcement with the word “happily” mostly because I’ve been sick since beginning my stint as their teacher, and because wrangling first graders has been one of the most exhausting–I’m talking more exhausting than a 2k, people–endeavors of my 22 years. I enjoyed them: learning about them, studying their personalities and devising clever tactics to incite them into having some level of enthusiasm for English. I enjoyed teaching them and band-aiding them, offering them new vocabulary words such as “apricot” and “beluga” and hugging them when they fell on the playground. I was also absolutely thrilled when, about a week ago, they began as one body to speak in English, voluntarily and well. These things were great, but quite frankly, ’til Thursday, not really great enough to outweigh my jubilation at having finished with them. Thursday, however, made me realize how beautiful my time with them had been. Something magical happened on that last day, something that rekindled my belief belief in the goodness of children’s hearts and, in more general terms, the human soul. Here’s what I wrote in my Moleskine on the metro ride home directly after, because I’m now an addict to list making and recording warm, fuzzy memories (thanks, Greg).

Some days this job sucks. But some days, like today, it is truly magical. I thought I’d be met with total indifference when Eli and I announced to the class, busy with their pseudo-pointillism sea creature art projects, that this would be my last day. But no. There came instead scrams of “Caitlin! ¡No te vayas!” “¡No puedes ir!” and such. I nearly went down under a mobile hula skirt of keening, hugging, shouting and near tearful children. “¡Te echamos muchísimo de menos!” they assured me, grasping tightly, alternately grinning persuasively and pouting. As a going away present they gave me their art projects, starting of course with the ever-thoughtful little Miriam. I was her as a child–chubby, tuniced & legginged, quiet and smart–few friends, lots of people who wanted to copy off of me. As usual, Miriam’s lead was followed by all of the other children, and I’m going home with 2 kilos of oranges, a kilo of setas, a kilo of green apples and 22 sea creature art projects in my bag.

But then they massed, barricading the classroom door to prevent me from going. “Profe,” said Tere with a devilish, sharp-chinned grin,”ahora no te vas a salir!” I and Eli were forced to wheedle and push through children for a good five minutes before I could go, and then when I finally did, who but Christian, devilish little Christian, Christian who shit in the toilet, shoved in all of his colored pencils and flushed, who never does his homework, who steals shit constantly, who doesn’t want to learn, clamored out into the hallway, careening toward me, yelling “Profe! Profe!” In a truly cinematic show of intuition, I dropped to my knees and he catapulted into my arms, hugging me tightly around the neck. Eli, screaming for him to come back to the classroom, finally succeeded, but not before Georgina did the same as Christian. Just when Eli and I thought Christian and Geor had been successfully corralled and I assumed it safe to head down the stairs to the metro, Christian broke away from the classroom again, hugged me one more time and then hightailed it back to class. I’ve been smiling since roughly 3:45.

So kids are cute sometimes, little matter the mucous with which they come stocked.

I had a nice moment with my roommate, M, today. I forget sometimes that he is a musician, thus affected by music and lyrics. I also forgets sometimes that he understands some English. Since watching Juno I’ve been buzzing around the house singing “Anyone Else But You,” because a) it’s precious, and b) it reminds me of Greg a little (okay a lot). But anyway: while making apple curry chicken burgers I was singing it, despite the fact that singing a duet alone is kind of awkward. M said to me, “I like this song. The feeling is beautiful.” (yes–in English!) Surprised, I stopped stirring my pan of apples, onions brown sugar and curry, stared at him and blurted, “really!?”
“Yes!” he said. “Love someone for who they are. It’s beautiful, man.” He followed this with an emphatic nod and a huge smile, then began to hack ham off of the dwindling leg. M may be a stoner, and he may leave hamscraps all over the house, but you know what? Homeboy’s got his priorities in line. I guess it makes sense that my educated, successful, sexy and talented little roommate V is still with him. (:

Anyhow, Thursday was great. Though the sweet goodbye given to me by my first graders helped, it started earlier than that. I have a theory as to why, and I call him Harmless High Five Boy. I’ve known HHFB since October, when first he approached me one bleary metro ride morning, held up his palm, and commanded “choca!” (hit it). There is clearly some sort of mental impediment bogging down HHFB, but he has a heart of pure gold and there is a reason he has a superhero-like acronym in my mind: because in my mind, he is.

HHFB prowls up and down whatever line 9 metro car he’s on, approaching total strangers, holding up his hand, and very seriously instructing them to slap him five. I wish I knew what his criteria for high-five adminstrators might be, but I can’t possibly divine it. He chooses the old, the young, the pretty and the very ugly. He chooses the sleepy and the caffeinated, the distrustful and enthusiastic. He does not seem to discriminate, but I do notice he pointedly picks some and not others. He gets me about half the time. Our first high five, I have to shamefully admit, was one of which I partook with a good deal of distrust and suspicion; I waited for the AIDS infected needle to shoot out of his sleeve (so what if I’m an alarmist conspiracy-theorist!?) or the handful of boogers to be transferred to mine. Neither ever came; only a customary good morning high five reached me, from the hand of this glasses-wearing, backpacked Spanish wünderkind. I was bewildered and generally happily amused after he walked away. Now, whether or not he high-fives me in the morning, I always relish seeing the fear in people’s faces evolve into vague amusement, to confusion, then to eventual pleasure as he prompts them “choca!”, high fives them, then shuffles off to his next unwitting candidate. I can also honestly say that every morning that my day begins with a sighting of or a high five from HHFB is the harbinger of a good day.

Other (brief) things (because I desperately need to sleep):

I’m becoming a good (and inventive!) cook. Chocolate cookies tomorrow? Perhaps yes.

I totally blew my “4 sets of 10 real pushups end-of-January goal” out of the water today by pumping out 6 sets of 10. I’m an Amazon. Yes I am, and YES it feels damn good! More on how I’m a subtle gym-terrorist coming soon.

I’m leaving for London on Thursday night and will be there, visiting with Ms. Ali and enjoying a glorious introduction to both Notting Hill and Bath (Oh, Jane! I’m coming to see where you lived!), ’til Sunday morning.

Something wonderful that I can’t really reveal for witness protection reasons will come to pass on March 31st. If you’re curious, you can ask me, but I won’t post it publicly. I’m too excited for it to be fair.

This is fucking brilliant.

Okay. More tomorrow. Too tired to function now. The sleepz! so I leave you with this:

I love this.

A delightful Song.

You know what I don’t love?

Needing to study the subjunctive.
Needing to study for the GREs.
Needing to figure out my future for the next year.
Deciding whether that future will be in Spain or the United States.
This is not a good day. (gulp)

Oh–HAI! I can has updaetz?

So uh–howdy! Contrary to popular speculation/fear/fond hopes, no, I’m not dead. I have, however, been busy as all get out.

Let’s see. This week, totally fuera de mi contracto, I taught first grade alone for two days. Let’s just say that by breaktime at 11:00 on Tuesday, suicide really felt like an appealing option. My voice was so ragged by the time I left that I couldn’t speak. They are animals, and I am no dog (or hyena)-whisperer. What’s more, the “apoyo,” or “support teachers” who were supposed to be in there chilling with me to help impose order (really, THEY should have been teaching the class) were of utterly no help; especially turtle dame and walrus man. Both older and accordingly old-school Spanish, they turned their backs on my class, hunkered down in the back, and graded papers whilst I tried to contain a swirling maelstrom of sound, color, action and general devilry in a sack of structured English/science lesson. It was great. I almost cried when I got home. Luckily, by some act of God, day 2 of Alone and Unafraid was better. I’m not going to go into details, but I will say I only considered offing myself once in the course of the afternoon. I did, however, just barely contain myself from swinging the extremely violent Alejandro around the room by his little blue froggies and slamming him into the trashcan so he would stop beating poor Teresa. I repeat: they are animals. ANIMALS!

In happier news, come Thursday I tramped through a mysterious animal parade complete with eagles in the grip of military men, seeing eye dogs, cages of pigeons, pretty shaggy ponies, cats, and ducks in order to get to San Bernardo. Why did I do this, you ask, and was I actually on acid? First of all: no. No drugs induced this vision and Noa and his Arc were nowhere nearby that I could see. The dog and pony show was real, though what purpose it served I couldn’t possibly tell you–I even googled to see when St. Francis’s day actually is, thinking that could be a likely guess. WRONG! The parade will remain a myster, I suppose, but my reasons for battling through it shall not! I made the parade trek in order to see my dear, sweet Ms. Hall, who is finally back from the estados unidos. It was a joyous reunion and she, Liz and I chatted, cooked, and otherwise caught up ’til late in the evening. I missed her horribly and with her reinstallation at The Palace, Madrid feels more like home.

Plenty of other notable things have happened between now and the last time I updated. Here are a few: Mary Catherine was here for a splendid 4 days of visiting; I ate phenomenal soyflower gelato for the first time; booked tickets to see Ali in London for the last weekend in January; baked Amber the ugliest birthday cake in the world (no picture included, thanks), and in part due to aforementioned soyflower ice cream and cake have made new resolutions to kick my ass at the gym after this overly extravagant month of wining and dining. It’s going to be absolutely badass and a fun challenge. I might even try a spinning class. With that said: if you have great workout song/album suggestions, please post them here; I’d be appreciative beyond expression. Also, if you have an awesome ab workout/move, let me know. I’m looking for ways to keep it fresh.

Random spurge: so after reading some buzz on the artist St. Vincent., of Sufjan-y background, I decided to give her new album, Marry Me, a listen. Being someone who loves Sufjan and has some SERIOUS affection for the mournful-voiced female vocalists (gangsta nods to Rachael, Regina, Feist and HopeForAGoldensummer), I was expecting to be amazed and enchanted by what the disc had in store. Sadly, it’s all so *almost* right that, as a whole, it’s maddeningly wrong. Lyrically, it’s a mildly pleasant clusterfuck. Musically, it vacillates between too complicated and too spare. Still, vocally promising–the woman is owner of some undeniably glorious dulcet tones. I was not delighted to have my new music hardon totally deflated. boo. Thank goodness my wimmenz Claire and Page Campbell and Deb Davis didn’t disappoint me in the very least with their new release Ariadne Thread. Just go. Listen. Go listen and fall in love like I did. Drink something sloe and strong, weep just a bit, be touched, and then go buy their CD. Get started. I mean it. NOW. I adore them, and I want them to be able to eat.

And now, I leave you with one of the few things that substantially tempts me back to Hartford, despite snow, cold, and the prospect of living at home for a year while applying to grad school.

Back in the saddle

I’d just finished explaning puppies and mammal birth when Georgina beckoned me over with her pudgy little chorizo hand.
“¿Profe?” she inquired very seriously. “Profe. Ven. ¡Ven!” (which, for those of you who don’t speak Spanish means “Teacher? Teacher! Come here. Come here!) Like the dumb, dutiful slave I am to these devilish six year olds, I lumbered over and leaned near to her tiny, blue-eyed face.
“Yo sé tu secreto,” she said quietly, looking gravely into my face.
“Mi secreto?” I asked her, brow furrowing. What secret do I have that she could possibly know, I wondered, growing suddenly more nervous. Had the receipt from The Blue Bunny Tienda Erotica slipped from my wallet and into the virginal, unwitting backpack of some little Spanish child? Did I rip one before making it to the bathroom? Was there toilet paper stuck to my shoe afterwards? What?
“Si,” Georgiana said, nodding and beginning to smile, “tu secreto. Nerea me ha dicho.”
So this was a secret Nerea, the creepy, hyper-sexual 6-year-old in my first grade class “knew.” My eyes narrowed.
“Siiiii, Georgiana?” I said. “¿Y cual secreto es este?” (Yes, Georgiana? And what secret is this?)
“Que,” Georgiana began, suddenly coy with a smile playing at the corners of her mouth and blue eyes widening. “Queeeee…¡que los Reyes Magos te han traido un novio!”
I stared at her for a moment before bursting out in laughter, “Si, Georgiana,” I told her, “los Reyes Magos me han traido mi novio de los Estados Unidos.”
Georgiana and Nerea exchanged an intense look across the classroom and tittered. I just walked away, shaking my head and smiling. I still have no idea how they found out, but whatever. Now my whole class thinks that the Three Wise Men “brought me “a” boyfriend for Three King’s Day. Ja ja fucking ja. I mean, doesn’t everyone love mystical handouts? Apparently my little children do. (:

So. As you may already have ascertained, today was my first day back to school from vacation (also known here in Spain as “bakachons” *wink wink*, Ms. Amber). It began inauspiciously: I spilled rather unattractively onto the line 9 metro this morning as the doors closed and, sweating (also rather unattractively), set to stalking against gravity and momentum towards the front of the train, hoping to get a seat. Instead, I stopped dejectedly to lean against a centrally placed pole upon coming to grips with the truth that there were no seats available. Loosening my scarf and palming perspiration from my face, my gaze happened to catch on the visage of none other than Nawaf, a teacher in the bilingual program at my school. He waved shyly, looking rebuffed and sorry. It then dawned upon me that, hey, there may indeed have been a reason I’d felt like someone was tugging on my sleeve back there. I sheepishly endeavored to smooth things over by saying hell, but the end result of this effort was the most constipated Spanish conversation I’ve ever undertaken in my Spanish speaking career. Sensing things going from bad to worse, I made my escape by mumbling something about wanting to find a seat, walking away, and collapsing into an open booth near the front of the train. This was not, however, before I’d nearly eaten it, tripping over a slick businessman’s polished mahogany shoe.

In fact, now that I consider it, my morning began even more inauspiciously (and earlier) than that. 1 a.m. saw me writhing in bed with a menstrually-induced migraine. A timeless-feeling thirty minutes later, I rushed to the bathroom and slid into home on my knees, making it to the bowl just in time to upchuck a delightful whorl of tzatziki and chickpeas into the porcelain depths. I don’t suspect I’ll be eating at Maoz for the next few weeks, but I did feel better after fifteen or so shaking minutes in the bathroom and two Excedrin Migraine pills. Today’s been a little better aside from a slight migraine hangover and the conviction held by both I and my jeans that I belong in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Anyhow, the rest of the day was fineish–rather what I expected. There’s still no lack of mucous in first grade. Christian’s golden mullet is even more resplendent than it was in 2007, which I’m sure comes courtesy of negligent parents and an unwillingness to sit still for longer than 40 seconds. It was nice to see Eli, Ana, and Araceli–and my fellow TA, Felicity, too. Not nice enough, however, to keep me from wishing I were still on vacation.

I know not how it gets to be 11:40 and I’m still not asleep, but before I go, here are a few thoughts:

There is a convenience store in the Nuñez de Balboa metro station where often I’ll stop to buy an energy drink or some licorice drops. Every time I make a purchase there, I drop the contents of my change purse on the floor and into the gum rack. Every time. Without fail. Could it be a self fulfilling prophecy at this point, or could there really be some sort of magnetized field that calls my wallet forth from my hands and forcibly prises the change from its depths, refusing to stop until my 1 and 2 euro coins are buried deep in boxes of strawberry-lime Trident Splash?

There is a certain spot in front of my apartment, near the planters where weekend partygoers piss, where I drop my keys at least thrice a week. Again: self-fulfilling prophecy or magnetic force? What the fuck? And am I really that clumsy? On the upside… I may have just discovered the locus of my constant Spanish sickness and it has nothing to do with 1st grade mucous…

Okay. Bed. More when I’m less snippy.

Think Happy Thoughts

In addition to worrying about my family and updating the Ghost blog, I’m pensively listening to Eef Barzelay’s “South American Lullaby” and reminiscing, sappily, over this.

I wish that I could jet backwards in time to Monday. And I really don’t give a rat’s ass if Greg has a problem with my ecstatic plastering of his mug (and fine Schiller-engineered haircut(please ignore that I royally botched that sideburn)) all over the shiny surfaces of the internetz, either. *titters/clicks heels whilst executing expert hitch kick*

God, I need to get a life. Life-getting, I presume, will roughly coincide with going back to work on Tuesday and rejoining my little community.

Oh, and Bethany! I have plans to respond to you tomorrow, when I’m less sleepy and likely to be trite or unhelpful. (:

(Gulp)

Pardon me while I wax terrified…

Tonight I’ve been doing research for the blog I ghost-write. I felt a frisson of dread run through my entire body as my weary brain passed over this:

Crude oil prices have hit the $100 mark for the first time, and have hovered near there since. That’s more than twice the price of crude only five years ago. Heating oil prices will be higher almost immediately, and consumers will face $4 per gallon gas in less than two months.” (Blanche Evans, Realty Times, 4th January 2008)

$4 a gallon for gas? I can hardly believe that this is real.  Call me selfish and micro-concerned, but all I can see is my poor mother stooped over our dining room table, resignedly writing a check for what must be the most astronomically, bone-chillingly high energy bill she’s ever seen, and the resulting stress and tears. With energy costs this high and job loss sure to follow suit, I can hardly imagine what my poor parents–and most of the Americans I know (the majority of them middle class and doing the best they can, which is rarely enough)–are going through. I am worried. I am distantly afraid, and every time my brain begins to wrap itself around what a mess is brewing I feel it back away from that murky cusp and clamp down on the here and now: my green comforter, my mother’s visit in March, the fact that school starts next week and I will be paid at the end of the month.

My God, am I lucky here in Spain, making a paycheck that may not permit me to spend lavishly, but allows me to pay my rent and electricity and internet bills, to go out to dinner with my friends and pay for groceries, movies, and the occasional splurge at H&M. My poor American compatriots. I am afraid for the United States. Most of all I am afraid for my mom and dad. They are getting old and getting tired. Neither one of them can afford to work more than they already do, and the likelihood of either one securing higher-paying work at this point is unlikely. Jesus.

I’ve never been a religious person but I feel like now might be a decent time to start applying to a higher power for some divine bones to be tossed in the general direction of North America. Though, considering the  level of unconcern with which we’ve treated our planet, our lavish consumption of unrenewable resources and the general havoc we Americans have wrought upon our environment and our fellow man, I’d totally understand if not the smallest of heavenly wishbones could be spared.

Roscón? Paging Roscón. Roscón to aisle five!

Días de festivo here in Spain mean two things: one, that there is some sort of religious celebration or holiday going down, which means no work or school, excessive merry-making and usually some sort of pastry treat tailored to the particular holiday. The second thing that a festival day means is that everything–and I do mean EVERYTHING–will be closed, and sometimes for more than one day. For those of you not in the know, el día de los reyes magos (also known as Three Kings’ Day) falls on the morrow and everybody, in preparation for shit to be closed down, is at the grocery store buying holiday foods such as the resplendent roscón de reyes seen below:

Because everyone needs a Three Kings’ Bread (and other comestibles with which to sustain their family for two days),  Carrefour was as packed with an assortment of grumpy and loudly complaining souls as I’d imagine the first layer of the underworld would be. I could have been one of them, but instead had a really interesting, enjoyable conversation with a 60-something Spanish woman who decided I looked friendly. Decked in an orange scarf, mid-length black coat and bright blue earrings that matched the bright blue eyeliner hovering in surprise about an inch above her actual eyelids, she looked a bit like a toucan transported to the Arctic Circle.
“This bread used to be 40 cents, you know” she told me, proffering her bag of melba toast in my direction, “they’ve raised the price to 60 cents!”
“That’s a shame,” I answered. “Everything’s getting more expensive, eh?”
“Oh yes,” she told me. “Much more expensive. I don’t know how we’re going to live soon.”
“I believe it,” I told her, “It’s like that in the United States–where I’m from–as well.”
Her eyes widened–the levitating blue eyeliner pulling back to reveal an even more shocked looking countenance–and she smiled with dawning glee. “You’re American?” she asked. I nodded. “Well you’re very pretty,” she said, looking my sweatpanted, unmakeupped self up and down as if she were impressed that Americans could, in fact, BE pretty, “and your Spanish is very good! What are you doing here?”
I told her I teach English at a bilingual school in Madrid, to which she clapped her hands and said, “delightful!” She then asked me how I feel about the primaries and who I wanted to win. I told her “Obama,” without hesitation, and she grinned.
“Oh, so do I! I read the newspaper this morning and it had an article on Barack. What an interesting background!” She proceeded, then, to tell me the story of Obama’s lineage and then to expostulate upon how she believed Obama would be the best thing for the United States. She then summarized Obama’s political platform and expressed her general approval. Overall, she was very, very knowledgeable and very, very friendly.
“You must vote, you know” she said to me gravely as I placed my items on the belt, “it’s important.”
“I know,” I told her, smiling, “I will. Don’t worry,” to which she only stared at me and grinned, nodding in approval as I handed the cashier my eleven euros.
“I’m from Madrid,” she said by way of leave-taking, “But I feel more like a world citizen. It’s important to keep an open mind to all of the people you meet. You might learn something new! It’s been very nice to talk to you. Good luck with everything!”

We parted ways wishing happy Three Kings’ Day to one another and I smiled my way back to Chueca. Usually, discussing the United States with an older Spaniard means nothing but a headache and a constant defense of a country to which you may have pledged plenty of allegiance but hadn’t realize you loved. Because I had to defend nothing–just listen to contented approval–my interaction with this woman was a really welcome change. I hope I run into her at Carrefour again someday. I’ll be looking for the zany bright blue eyeliner.

In other news, there is… well… no other news. I’ve been painfully boring. There’s been some gymming and grocery shopping. Internet movies and phone calls via Skype have rounded out my days. I’ve been walking around Madrid missing Greg, but I suppose that’s to be expected. Day-to-day existence just isn’t the same (and, dare I say, isn’t quite as enjoyable?) without him holding my hand.

And a Very Happy New Year!

It’s been a shamefully long time with no update; of my blog-delinquent status I am fully aware, and by way of absolution can only tell you that I loaded my sweet visitor (one Gavelis, Gregory S.) onto an Amsterdam/Boston bound plane yesterday at Barajas and the preceding days had been very, very full of such things as walking around Madrid, eating falafel and calamari, being delightfully sappy in public spaces and cuddling. Naturally. I’m unsure as to whether the fact that we didn’t visit single museum is an accomplishment or a point of shame, but we didn’t. Because we’re sacks like that.

We did, however, take a great day trip to Toledo, planned at around 12:30 the night before while lying in bed and after doing the research that knocked both Segovia and Salamanca off of our daytrip list. I’d post pictures of the trip except that they’re on Greg’s camera. Again, we didn’t visit a single monument, really. Instead, we walked around the little town all day and saw the monuments (such as the Cathedral) from the outside, and then spent the cold evening hours (approximately three.5 of them) in the pretty second story of a café on plaza de Zocodover, drinking Colacao, café con leche, and anis, and drawing pictures on a tiny piece of notebook paper. I’d forgotten how amazingly nice it is to do very little with another person with whom you’re extremely companionate. I’d also forgotten how nice it is to do very little but just enjoy being with Greg. Distance, I suspect, combined with stress in his life and lack thereof in mine has led us both to forget, but the past week served as a powerful reminder of all the good that exists between us. That, of course, will make the next six months difficult–not to mention the fact that I’ve been heavily considering staying here another year–but I guess we’ll just have to let things unfold as they will and roll with the punches.

My Christmas, as I realize I didn’t report, was really wonderful. I’m very lucky Araceli invited me home. We spent the evening eating delicious food cooked by her husband, playing with her sweet little doesn’t-shed-dog named Trosco, and trading stories about school. It was fun, and it made me thankful for the warm hearts of good natured strangers. She sent me home with enough baked fish, potatoes, avocado salad and cream-of-seta soup for three meals, thus I was required to cook absolutely nothing save for brownies for Greg’s imminent arrival. He and I did cook together while he was here, though, and despite his being an untried chef, Greg did splendidly well. He is designated onion-chopper/stirrer from here on out in this relationship, being as the vile veggies render me a teary, stinging mess and don’t affect him at all. Convenient.

Ringing in the New Year involved the two of us in my room, watching Lemony Snicket’s a Series of Unfortunate Events while a party raged outside in my house. I’d have had it no other way. The idea of joining 4.62, 0000 people in the city center didn’t appeal to me, anyhow. I like people, but certainly not enough for that.

So, gloriously enough, school doesn’t begin again until the 8th of January so I’m left with 5 more days of freedom and solitude. I have nothing planned for myself save lots of gymming (to offset the 6 days of food-touring Madrid with Greg), some Fathom work and some reading. Mary Catherine arrives for her impromptu visit on the 10th and I can’t wait to see her. We’ll be taking full advantage of rebaja season. Woot!

When school begins again, I think I’ll start taking myself each Friday to a lovely little café Greg and I discovered in Malasaña to study for the GREs. Evil, but a necessary one. If I’m ever going to be Dr. Schiller I ought to get my booty in gear. Additionally, I should start to look for jobs in the States for the coming year if I don’t stay here for another year. The future is a combination of exhilarating and a HUGE pain in the ass.

Speaking of gymming, I think I’ll get to it now. I’ve got an epic date with a stairmaster and a 70 lb. bar.

¡Hasta pronto!