ass grabs and booty smacks

Spanish men. Spanish men are known by American girls to be sketchy. They whistle at you in the street, they will stop what they're doing and blatantly stare at you as you pass, and they have no problem sending a few comments your way. It's like living in a 24/7 construction zone. Walking through a crowded bar is like walking through a carwash of hands. Except the washers for some strange reason always seem to want to focus on the tush.

A few days ago, Nell was walking along and a young man came up to her in the street and grabbed her bum. Now, I don't know if this is meant to be taken as a compliment, but Nell was pissed. A few days later and she's still talking about how if he hadn't run she would have kneed him in the family jewels and kicked him in the face while he was down. (Side note: I can't help but think of when Kerry, in Sevilla, got a bum slap by a kid on a vespa and he ended up with a disc-man indent in his head) Anyway, Nell related her experience to Paco, friend of all and Latin lover of Joanne, who was like, "...and...??" and using words like "normal" and "whats the big deal." IE, anything but what Nell was thinking.

The curious hands of the Spanish men has everything to do with their take on physical touch. They're a touchy-touchy breed, these Spanish folks, and nobody escapes. Just take a walk through the park. Holy PDA. I mean like, wow. Full out lying on top of each other and, well, major "get a room" activities. I walk by and I'm like, do I shield my eyes? Do I take a different route? I think I need a shower? Goodbye kisses in the middle of the Metro station are like kisses that in the USA you sneak hurriedly into a nearby bathroom so as not to frighten the children. There is no shame here. PDA is almost advertised. Funeral homes probably aren't even off limits. Anyone who knows me understands that this is like my worst nightmare... PDA everywhere. I hate seeing it, being part of it, hearing it (sucky noises and so forth..), it's just not my thang. It's like those programs where you are forced to deal with your phobias. For some, it's enclosed spaces. For others, it's heights. For me? Public displays of affection.

America, in comparison, is a very hands-off society. When you meet somebody, you do the handshake from 7 feet away. The Spanish are more physical: long live the dos besos (two kisses). Not the snooty double air kiss that is generally accompanied by a comment like "dahhling its been much too lonnng" in a fake European accent, but 2 full out "smackers on the cheeks" kisses. In America, if you accidentally touch someone's arm or something, you automatically feel inclined to apologize as though you've just punched them in the face. The US is all about personal bubbles and "you're invading my personal space." It's a constant car ride in the backseat with your siblings. "Stop touching me! You're on my side!" PDA is more or less taboo. If you get caught committing PDA, you get made fun of. Anything more than a quick kiss is considered practically pornography. You know, when sitting on a bench in a public space with your beloved, that it's not socially acceptable to maul each other in front of the grandmas and the little children. In Spain, you can bring popcorn and a few friends and the PDA-ers won't care.

supermarket sweeps

Carrefour is a huge chain of supermarkets in Spain. We had our first Carrefour experience the other day in search of supplies for our beloved and revived "Nacho Noche" tradition. We walked in... and it was HUGE. Food everywhere, a ton of sections, workers walking around with clipboards asking you to fill out an application to get a Carrefour card. I couldn't even reply because my bottom jaw was chillin' somewhere down around my ankles: how the hell were we going to find anything in under 2 hours in this place?

The Carrefour experience led to some interesting observations, some of which I will list:

1. There are like 9 different sections with cheese. There's a cheese aisle, cheese refridgerator bins, cheese in the butcher meat section, here a cheese, there a cheese, everywhere a cheese cheese... needless to say it took a lil time to find a bag of grated mozzarella.

2. The butcher section. Spaniards love the meat, and I mean that in the dietary way. Now, I normally have no problem with people eating meat... hey, I still eat chicken and I oddly enough enjoy a good meatloaf... it's fine. What I don't like to see is blatant evidence that this ______ was once an animal... ie I like my chicken to come as boneless cutlets. There was a moment (probably while searching for the cheese) where I was surrounded... SURROUNDED... by meat. Rows and rows of pig legs, packs of perfectly preserved kidneys, huge cuts of meat just HANGING, de-skinned rabbits just sittin' there in the cooler. Oh my God. Imagine this photo, except on all sides of you.


3. For our nacho noche, obviously we needed to find things such as tortilla chips, salsa, and refried beans. Where did we find said supplies? OBVIOUSLY mixed in with the Chinese food. I don't mean that they were in the same aisle but in their own areas, I mean all mixed together. The wontons were hanging out with the burritos and the duck sauce was stuck in there with chip salsa. I guess it was the Chinexican section. Totally normal.

4. Butter. There was a tub of butter and it came with a free gift! An English dictionary! WHY? The butter company wasn't even English or American. When's the last time you wanted to butter a piece of toast and suddenly felt the urgent need to know the translation of some word.

5. Finally, the check out line. So this supermarket is HUGE. Like a Target store, but filled with food. If you go to this store, you're not F-in' around. You are about to spend some serious Euros on a diesel amount of food. So you arrive to the check out line with your about to explode from being full carriage, and the conveyer belt is about the length and width of 2 loaves of bread. Logic, logic, logic.

crema de cacahuete

My favorite food in the whole world is peanut butter. I like it on bread, on bananas, with bananas in bread, with apples, or even just a spoonful of it. I like peanut butter cups, peanut butter ice cream, peanut butter cookies. If there was a peanut butter flavored soda I'd probably like that too. Skippy superchunk is my brand and style of choice... in fact it's kind of the only kind I'll eat. Kind of like I can only drink Tropicana pure premium not from concentrate original orange juice, sans pulp of course. As a child I always thought the pulp was little bugs... I ended up being that freak who brought her own orange juice to sleepover parties. Sick, I know.

Anyway, this inability to survive without this delightful peanut product becomes somewhat of a problem in Spain. Spaniards don't "do" peanut butter. They're more into pig products. Those who have even heard of crema de cacahuete (peanut butter), that crazy American product, don't express any desire to try it. It can also be a little tricky to find. There are ways of acquiring peanut butter, but if I buy it here, I have to suck up my pride and buy Pedro Pan (Peter Pan) that they sell in El Corte Ingles. Side note: el Corte Ingles I swear to God is going to take over the world. It's the only place I know that has clothing, lawn supplies, the country's biggest supermarket, a travel agency, household appliances, fine jewelry, designer everything, cell phone store, shoes, electronics, books, vespas, etc etc within its 8 floors of magic... and it's making its way through Europe... conquering cities and countries one by one a la Napoleon Bonaparte.

Instead of downgrading, I of course make my poor parents send me peanut butter. And yes, I did pack a stash of my beloved Skippy superchunk in my suitcase. Instead of another sweater, another pair of shoes, or something that perhaps would be more practical in the long run.... I pack a Costco size TUB of peanut butter. And, I am sad to say, I have almost run out. I've had to keep myself from finishing off my Skippy because I know that Pedro Pan is what I will have to deal with.

I think I've done the most damage on my peanut butter supply on nights that I've gone out. Joanne and I got into a habit of when arriving home after a night out drankin' at like 5am or so, we are obviously hungry. Or maybe just the drunky munchies. We're in the taxi, and we're already talking about who's turn it is to make the pb sandwiches. We get home, one of us makes the sandwiches, and they we eat them. In bed. Yes, that's my idea of a good time in bed: slipping into something more comfortable, dimming the lights, putting on a little mood music, getting all cozy...and chowing down a peanut butter sandwich at 5am.

This week, I have a peanut butter "date" with Jose Manuel, my new friend of sorts. He's never tried peanut butter... and I immediately feel the need to bombard him with Skippy and convert him into a peanut butter over-consumer like myself. Think Christopher Columbus, the Spanish conquest of the Indies, and the imposition of Catholicism upon the natives. Peanut butter is to Catholicism as Betsey is to Christopher Columbus. Get ready to be conquered Jose...

teeth

England, contrary to popular belief, is not the sole contender for the habitants with the worst teeth award. I was sitting on the metro the other day, across from a couple and their tween daughter. The man looked perfectly normal... mid-40's, well-dressed, wife and daughter quite attractive. Then he laughed a big hearty laugh at something the daughter said... a laugh that revealed his very, VERY few teeth. I couldn't but look at his mouth (and yes, I did shamefully get caught) and think WHOA. And yet, when he laughed he really laughed... he didn't try to cover his mouth with his hand or struggle to keep his lips pressed together. And although I'm sure he'd like to have some of those pearly whites back in his mouth (and probably also would like that the remaining ones BE pearly whites..) he wasn't embarrassed at all.

I, in my days as a "I'm hungover and have nothing to do on a Sunday morning (ahem.. afternoon more likely...)" college student, have seen many a Jerry Springer-esque show where people are so ashamed of their dental situation that they refuse to come out of their homes. And it all comes down to culture. Americans are over-obsessed about everything. How much money they make. Which college you attended. Nose too big? Change it. Boobs too small? Silicone! MUST HAVE bottled water and not from the tap. Must shower 3 times a day. Once in the morning, once after excercising, and cleary once more before going out. Everything, right down to dental care.

Having had 12 teeth yanked from their happy gum homes (don't worry, only 4 were adults) and having spent approximately five years behind the metal bars of every teenager's "I'm in my awkward stage" signal, ie braces, this very much pertains to me. The dentist, pre-braces, used to say "well isn't that a fun little design" while describing the creative arrangement of my noshers. In Spain, those fun little designs STAY fun little designs. In USA? Not a chance. After getting the braces off the first time, I had one tooth... ONE HIDDEN BOTTOM TOOTH... shift slightly. CLEARLY I had to get braces back on those puppies ASAP.

We spend so much money (and pain) on making our teeth perfectly straight and unnaturally white (think of the episode of Friends when Ross whitens his teeth before going out on a date...). It ends up being like the racks in Abercrombie & Fitch... rows and rows of jeans all with the same "oh look... these are my totally individual old comfy jeans" holes in the exact same places. Everyone's teeth look the same. It comes down to whose teeth have been the most altered.

I have to admit, I enjoy a nice smile... maybe because I'm trained to. But at the same time, there's also something really beautiful to see the imperfections of a person that make them unique from their friends and their family. I mean, there are instances where one's dental health is at stake where they'll end up losing their teeth if something isn't done now.. I understand that. And I bet Mr. Toothless in the Metro could possibly have a better self image with some dentures or something. But a couple of crooked teeth? A little gap? It's natural... people are supposed to have imperfections. Without imperfections, we'd all be tall naturally tan size 6 chicas with thick wavy hair, long eyelashes, hooge hooters, cute button noses, perfectly toned muscles... and, clearly, two rows of perfectly straight, perfectly arranged, and perfectly white teeth.

Ole!

This evening, we went to a bullfight in a town outside of Madrid. On the ride back, one of the kids who took us got to talking how a bullfight is the only show/spectacle in the world right now where an animal is legally killed. And it got me to thinking, what would happen if some law was passed and they just did away with bullfighting altogether.

Bullfighting, first of all, would never fly in the US. Animal cruelty groups would chain themselves to the gates before that ever happened. But here, where bullfights are held several times a week, it's just another part of life. It's something traditional. And everything, from the music of the band to the process of a bullfight, down to the white handkerchiefs that are waved in approval (or disapproval) of a torero's performance.

Sitting and watching, I can't help but be, at times, somewhat disgusted and sad when I think about the death of an innocent animal through what I'm sure is a very uncomfortable process. But then again, I am at the same in awe of everything else. The atmosphere of a bullfight is amazing. The music, the families, the shouts of "ole!", waving white handkerchiefs, the unity of an entire crowd behind the torero (or the unity of an entire crowd against the torero for a bad performance).

I think it kind of compares to what a baseball game is at home... right down to the baseball being thrown into the stands (today, two bull ears were thrown into the stands by the torero, who earned it based on his good performance). So, to turn things around... what would we do with ourselves throughout the summer if we didn't have Red Sox games? Here, the toreros are of the highest breed of celebrity. At home, hello? I know I've seen an "Ortiz for president" sign... not to mention my childish, awe-struck, and somewhat embarassing crush on Johnny Damon...

So, when people from home ask me, in so many words, how I can live with myself after supporting the death of an animal... it's really just not something you can explain. Without stepping out of your own frame of mind and opening yourself up to new things, and understanding and experiencing Spanish culture and history, honestly... how can you criticize something of such cultural value that has been going on since long before America was even discovered?

Spanish boots

For lack of any interesting story, here's a little Bob Dylan song for ya's.. looks like Bobby had a little love who left him for Spain..


Oh, I'm sailin' away my own true love,
I'm sailin' away in the morning
Is there something I can send you from across the sea,
From the place that I'll be landin?

No, there's nothin' you can send me, my own true love,
There's nothin' I wish to be ownin'.
Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled,
From across that lonesome ocean.

Oh, but I just thought you might want something fine
Made of silver or of golden,
Either from the mountains of Madri
Or from the coast of Barcelona.

Oh, but if I had the stars from the darkest night
Ad the diamonds from the deepest ocean,
I'd forsake them all for your sweet kiss,
For that's all I'm wishin' to be ownin'.

That I might be gone a long time
ANd it's only that I'm askin',
Is there something I can send you to remember me by,
To make your time more easy passin'.

Oh, how can, how can you ask me again,
It only brings me sorrow.
The same thing I want from you today,
I would want again tomorrow.

I got a letter on a lonesome day,
It was from her ship a-sailin',
Saying I don't know when I'll be comin' back again,
It depends on how I'm a-feelin'.

Well, if you, y love, must thing that-a-way,
I'm sure your mind is roamin'.
I'm sure your heart is not with me,
But with the country to where you're goin'.

So take heed, take heed of the western wind,
Take heed of the stormy weather.
And yes, there's something you can send back to me,
Spanish boots of Spanish leather.

Gonzalo

It's amazing how a minor decision like, hey let's go to Cafe Poli (its in the bottom of our building) for some coffee can lead to a funny encounter.

We were sitting having a cafe con leche (aka nectar of life) and chatting with our friends (the waiters) when "Gonzalo" arrived and started calling us beautiful. He ends up buying our coffee, and for this we end up having to talk to him for a few minutes.

Now, Gonzalo is AT LEAST 55 years old, with a few definitely not even close to a shade of white teeth. He is sitting with a few friends, including a drunk woman with a cigarette butt hanging out of her mouth and yelling at the waiters about how mad she is that they didn't put enough ice in her whiskey.

He starts telling us all the things we have to see/do in Madrid, and asks us how much of a chance he with one of us. But dont' worry, because "he's patient" and he will wait until we are ready to start a relationship. Turns out he's a hairdresser by trade, which upon hearing this almost made us pee ourselves... because if you saw him, he was more than slightly bald. What hair he did have he had let grow long and greasy into a straggly ponytail.

Now, he is a taxi driver... and if we want to go anywhere, we now have his cell phone number... he will gladly take us wherever we want to go in his taxi. AND, don't worry... if we lose his number, he often comes to Cafe Poli so we can find him there.

Well THAT'S a load of my back.

Fran

I have found the boy that takes the name "Francisco" out of the running for my future European love who will buy me my Mediterranean villa (TOTALLY possible). I guess now it'll just have to be Diego. Sigh.

We went out this evening to various places near la Plaza de Sol... and we ended up at the last place hanging out with this group of young men... one of which was named Fran. Fran's way of flirting with you is to come up to you from behind, lift your hair up and blow on your neck.. he then says, "does that bother you?" So i say, "no, its just plain weird." So the evening continues, he is going between Joanne and I trying to woo us with his ever charming(?) ways, saying he has fallen in love with me although I have said nothing but "that is weird" to him. So his next technique, and definitely the most effective in making me want to just say "WHAT ARE YOU" is that he comes up and scratches you on the arm.. the kind of scratch where for the next few minutes you have four red lines running down your arm. MORE THAN ONCE. Honestly Fran, what are you.. a cat? I look like I was attacked by a damn leopard.

The rest of the group was fun.. we were out til 5am (normal here... they went on to a discoteca after that... we turned in for the evening). They all have our msn "messenger" addresses so maybe we have a group of amigos now. Ha.

Ohhhh Espana... como te he echado de menos...

american tourists

Recently, in a Madrid McDonalds, there was an American couple. A middle-aged snobby man with his either a) 2nd wife, or b) woman he was cheating on his wife with (younger, wearing a corset type thing, and really skinny with huge round fake boobs coming out of her neck).
They had been in Spain for three days. He was yelling/complaining in his American snooty Thurston Howell III way "oh. my. god. ughh if i have to eat one more meal with sausage or ham... i.. i.. i swear to god... i swear to god i am leaving today." But then, Boobs McGee wants her cheeseburger without onion. The person at the counter doesn't understand her, and she doesn't speak english. She starts SOBBING... DOES ANYONE SPEAK ENGLISH!?!?! ANYONE??? ANYONE???? WAHHHHH ahha hhhhh"
After finding a translater to say "sin cebolla" and Boobs stopped sobbing, the couple, apparently confusing Spain for Honduras or some other 3rd world country, gave a little girl a one dollar bill to take a picture with them. I can see it already.. "Marshall, look at this picture we took with a young child we befriended while we visited her country... isn't she just dahhhling?"
In other news, man-thongs have been spotted in the store. I guess that explains what is worn under the super-tight white pants that they like to sport.

el piso!

Benefits of the new piso (apartment):
--> in a big commercial area, so anything you could possibly need is within a 5 min walking distance
--> came furnished... granted a bit ghetto and mostly old stuff, but hey... saves us $$
--> lots of cafe's = lots of amazing spanish coffee wherever you go
--> metro stop SOOO close
--> near Retiro, hooooooooooge awesomely gorgeous park (where I totally have intentions of running through)

here are some pics. look under 'new digs'
http://community.webshots.com/user/wapa1982

It was like deja-vous. After hours and hours of flight delays, missed flights, and sitting next to Spaniards who don't believe in deodorant, you arrive to the baggage claim. You wait patiently but start to grow anxious as the crowd of fellow flight BA148 goers slowly dwindles, bags disappearing off the luggage belt.
Then, the unthinkable happens: the belt stops. Your flight number, shown on the television above the belt, disappears and is replaced with some flight number coming in from Athens. Damned Greeks. As you wait in the "Equipaje perdido" (lost luggage) line, you remember the debacle two years ago: the horror of wearing the same blue pants for four days, washing your hair with handsoap, using sparingly the free mini tube of toothpaste from good ole British Airways, and fighting with airport people who said they'd already delivered the bags. (In the end they ended up being in some old airplane hangar filled with cardboard boxes that was across the airfield from the rest of the airport)
Luckily, this time only one and a half days of frustration were spent waiting on my beloved possessions. So I guess everything's fine. But c'mon now. Is this REALLY going to happen everytime?