"soy pintor"

Throughout my 294830920 (... or maybe it's only been 19 or so..) years of schooling I, like any other normal person, have had my share of teachers and classes that I have not liked. It's normal. Well, right now, I am in the class that takes the cake. It's torture. One and a half hours of teeth-gritting, fist-clenching, wanting to scream torture every Tuesday and Thursday morning. I prefer coffee in the a.m. hours... not this cruel punishment (good God I must have committed some terrible, terrible crime to have deserved this..) called 'History of Architecture in Spain."

Having taken a lot of art and art history classes at Holy Cross and at the University of Sevilla, I tend to really enjoy art classes. I find them interesting. A nice break from the typical classes' subject matters. Photography, Digital Imaging, Drawing, History of Ancient Archaeology, History of Art in Andalucia, etc... I liked them all! It's an entirely different type of learning; they're an opportunity to expand your mind and to see the world differently. So, obviously, when I saw in the Middlebury class list that they were some art history classes being offered, I said giddyup yee-haw let's go! Sign me up! What could go wrong? I mean, I like the subject material, I've studied art history in the past, I'd like to know more, etc...

Two words: Alfredo Ramon. That's what can go wrong. So very, very wrong. He's hardcore Debbie-Downer and rains on my artsy parade everyday. I detest his class, and each passing day gets increasingly worse. Today for example, was so bad that I am already dreading Thursday's class. An hour and a half, which seems oh so short when that's how long I sleep at night, seems to last days. Years. Decades. I feel my sanity wanting to give out. I leave the class each day increasingly tired, weary, and feeling old. That's right... I'm 23 going on 80.

With each class, the amount of material he teaches us becomes progressively less... why? To make room for his lectures of course. To call tourism stupid (I'm a tourist... and tourism is fun, thank you very much), to tell us we can't "enjoy" architecture because then we'd be stupid (if I'm going to spend 5 euros to get into a centuries old cathedral, I'm damn well going to enjoy it), to mention 1948293 times per class that he's a painter (and, when he's at home... he has his own studio... where he, what? Oh right, he paints. We don't care! Your paintings probably suck!). I can't imagine him ever feeling "pleasure" in any facet of life. I can't even fathom this... I get all happy-giddy just from the sound a canister of tennis balls makes when you open it for the first time. I bet he eats stale bread because normal bread would be too close to enjoyable... and God help his poor wife if he's married. Poor woman's going into her 70's and probably never had a good romp in bed.

He half-yells at us telling us we need to understand the HISTORY of architecture in order to study the architecture. No shit dumbass, so TEACH us something. You can't lecture us on learning the history of architecture if you don't teach it to us because you're so focused on calling us dumb. And then he throws in a "Soy pintor (I'm a painter)" and maybe another "Las cosas.. hay que verlas'. (You have to go see things.)" He will, for example, mention a random plaza or street in Madrid, and if we don't know what he's talking about, he scoffs and throws out another 'Hay que VER las COSAS' before launching into another lecture.

Today, I almost stabbed myself with my pen in the eyeball because that would have been less painful than sitting through this class. I found myself wondering if I could get the pen right in the pupil. At least it would have been some sort of diversion. Even more disconcerting is that I actually subconsciously wrote "Kill me" in my notebook today. Hannah, out of nowhere, whimpered an "I hate him" and Susan said she wanted to kill him. Susan and I are both going to take ourselves out of a class he's teaching in the spring, one which had a lot of potential to be a good class. Because frankly, taking another class with him would be like volunteering to stay in a Prisoner of War camp in which they shove bamboo chutes down your fingernails when given a brief opportunity to escape...

communication breakdown

Two years ago, before coming to Spain for round one, I wrote a letter to my then future Spanish family to tell them when I would be arriving, some tidbits about me… and that I was really excited to meet them. Of course, come to find out a few months later, instead of writing that I was emotionally excited in that ‘really looking forward to meeting you’ way, I had written something to the effect of “I’m so horny to meet you!” How’s that for a first impression. Not exactly what I had intended, to say the least. Looking back, I guess it’s a good thing they knew I wasn’t a native Spanish speaker because they probably would have locked the door to avoid living with a perv. Hopefully they just chuckled amongst themselves.

And that’s the beauty of (or problem with) living in a country in which you don’t know the language inside out. You don’t know all the little meanings that a single word can carry depending on the context. You say one thing while trying to say something completely different… sometimes creating an awkward situation or making yourself look like an uneducated ass. I’m good at that. Perhaps you try to say “your mother is so nice” but instead you say “your mother is a fat whore who eats children.” (Just to emphasize the point… not taken from real life example) And then there’s my sense of humor… which often times goes misunderstood. I try to be sarcastic, which is my way of life in English, but find that my idea of humor doesn’t always necessarily function in Spanish the way I’d like it to.

To avoid situations such as these, there is a remedy! Every Monday and Wednesday morning I start off my day with a swig of orange juice and a little thing I like to call Oral Communication class, where we learn to communicate better… orally. The structure of the class is more or less the following. First, the professor teaches us the material in a given section of the giant packet of material that we have. Then, we divide up into pairs and create a quick 20 second dialogue to practice whatever it is we just learned. Makes sense… and avoids the characteristic monotony of the rest of my classes.

So this past Wednesday, we were doing suffixes! Two girls were doing their little conversation in which they were talking about a dog... but the professor didn’t catch the part when they mentioned that it was a dog to which they were referring. So, they’re going back and forth using various suffixes to describe how handsome the dog is. How smart he is. Etc. So then one of them says, “Pero mira, tiene la cola ganchuda.” Which means “but look, he has a hooked tail.” The funny thing about the wold “cola (tail)” is that in another context, it can also mean penis. So the professor, thinking that they were talking about a man, hears “but look, he has a hooked penis.” Needless to say, there was some choking on her water involved, a few stuttered words, some eyebrows raised and a bottom jaw dropped… then finally a “cómo?? (What??)” before it got cleared up.

And we lauuuughed and lauuuughed…

accessorizing

This is a topic I've been wanting to tackle for quite sometime and today is the day that I will finally put it down on paper. Except minus the paper..

To begin... I realize very, VERY well that I am no fashion goddess. I mean good grief, my path to girl hood was long and is pretty embarassing to look back upon. Most people have a few blackmail photos from their childhood. Screw that buddy, I've got ALBUMS of photos. BOXES of negatives. You had an awkward year? WAH.. I had an awkward DECADE. In fact, I would just love to run for public office or date someone really famous someday just to see what photos of me get dragged into the public eye.

My "phases," because my stunning looks really did go in stages, progressed as follows. 1: Mommy dressed me in cute things until I began to refuse to wear them. 2: I spent my childhood playing tackle football in the front yard with all the neighborhood boys... therefore I was in my tomboy phase donning mesh shorts below the knees and giant t-shirts. The evolution of Betsey continues with step 3, which I like to call the "shman (she-man) lumberjack," and which reached its peak during 8th grade. This stunning era was spent in my men's Eddie Bauer flannel shirts which were worn ON TOP of overalls (very chic at the time.. according to Woodcutters Weekly Magazine) Then we move on to a crucial step 4 in high school, when I wore jeans and nice big comfy sweatshirts... the gray zip-up to be exact... those of you who have known me since before college remember that bad boy quite well I'm sure. Step 5 happened in college. One day I looked in the mirror and had a revelation. Something along the lines of 'well would you look at that... turns out that I DON'T have man parts and therefore maybe.. just maybe.. I should start trying to fit in with my fellow boob-possessing peers' (and I'm not referring to old man boobs, as tempting and physically attractive as that would be..). I highlight this Darwinian evolution of Betsey (I really should have my own chart) simply in an effort to point out that I have never nor will ever consider myself an authority figure in the realm of style and I don't typically take it upon myself to judge how others dress. Fine. Express yourself. Go to town. Change it up. Don't blend in. Be you! All that classic 'be yourself pamphlet' material.

That being said... there is a girl in our program who will remain nameless although she shall henceforth be referred to as OTT (over the top). Now I could EASILY dedicate an ENTIRE blog to the various "characters" in this program and daily stories/observations of them. They are weird... and I don't mean quirky weird, or individual-type weird, or funky weird, or 'wow she's weird, but I respect that' weird... I mean just plain WEIRD. Nuts. Wayyy out there. Beyond normal human comprehension. Believe me, I don't by any means consider myself to be "normal," but these people just shock us more with each day that we spend in class with them. OTT is a proud member of this special group of people.

Moving along. There is a lot of accessorizing going on in Spain... and I like accessorizing mainly because I'm a cheap bastard. I mean, instead of buying several shirts, I can buy one shirt, re-wear that shirt with different stuff, and spend the saved money at the bar. Or the bakery. Score! But there is a limit. And that limit is called not wearing every damned accessory under the sun at the same time... OTT evidently didn't get this memo. She's like a walking entertainment venue. Everyday we sit in class waiting for her arrival just to see what she decided to throw together... I will randomly take an outfit from a typical day:

Checkered slip-on Vans. I love them, have wanted them to come back into style for the last four years, and am contemplating buying a pair, so OTT gets two points there. Now add giant gold belt worn not where belts should be worn, but rather up around the ribs... serving some therapeutic purpose I'm sure. Weight lifting perhaps. Check. Big chunky gold earrings. Check, check. Now throw a little black J.Lo-esque hat perched on one side of her head into the mix. Check. And some necklaces. Check, check, check, check. And a big scarf. Check. And ARM-SOCKS (you know.. like gloves but with the fingers cut off in a very hip 'I want to look homeless' way). Check, check. With big chunky black and gold bracelets worn OVER the arm socks. More checks. I can't even continue... Senorita OTT, you are out of control. I mean honestly, does she look at herself in the mirror, think she looks boring, and decide the only remedy is to put everything she owns on at the same time? Isn't that what crazy old drunk ladies do? My God, I would kill to see the concoction she puts together when she gets married...

And the best part is that not only does she get fame for being OTT on a daily basis, but she's also a grade A, art class over-nodder. A double offender!

birthday

I never knew life could taste so good.
I need a little minute, just a moment to breathe.
-----------O.A.R.


I love you guys :o)

caja madrid

Today, for your reading delight, I bring to you the latest episode of C/ General Pardinas 28 (our aparment) vs. Caja Madrid.

As we normally do upon the return from our mind-stimulating and nerve-testing (due to a few, ahem, "characters") classes, we opened our little mailbox to see if anyone had sent us any goodies. As usual... there were no fun cards, letters, cookies, or tubs of Skippy (I feel like I'm starting up a Where's Waldo game... where in her blog does Betsey mention peanut butter..), but to our childish delight there WAS a menu for a Chinese restaurant along with an envelope from Caja Madrid (the bank with which we have an account to pay our landlord/bills/male prostitutes). We received our bank summary which said that X amount of Euros had been withdrawn for the gas and X amount for the electricity. Fine. Looks good. As expected. Successful month handling the bills = treating our proud and smiling selves to Frappuccinos at Starbucks. But then, as our eyes scrolled further down the page, there appeared a mysterious, miscellaneous charge of 40 euros. Hmm, we say. Curious, no? Turns out this month I WON'T be trying the caramel flavored Frappuccino, which looked oh so mouth-wateringly delicious on the poster...

We knew that another fun trip to Caja Madrid was inevitably in the near future... always an adventure. Just the knowledge that we'd have to make more than the single monthly visit to Caja Madrid put Joanne in funk-mode and needing chocolate. Why? Well, because it really is like pulling teeth. Generally, approximately 45 minutes of the early a.m. are spent waiting in line (and that's being 3rd in line) with antsy businessmen and bitter pregnant women... and clearly in a cloud of smoke, while the single woman at the desk goes about her things ever. so. painfully. sloowwwllyyyyyy. I mean... wow. Even Hannah walks faster than these bank people work. Despite the funk, Joanne, being the saintly martyr that she is and for which we are infinitely grateful, volunteered herself to go into battle. The battleplan was to 1) state that we'd never asked for or been notified of this random "insurance" from Mapfre (a company) and then 2) demand firmly, but ever so politely and grammatically correct, that they give us back our damned money. I mean hello? We're broke enough as it is. Believe me, my rotation of salad, grilled cheeses, and peanut butter sandwiches isn't as luxurious as it may sound. I don't think it's what Oprah's private chef prepares for her, put it that way...

Turns out this insurance is automatically tacked on to any given account when it is opened and we somehow had to know through our obviously clairvoyant ways to cancel said service in advance, or so explained the bank woman. And what, you may ask much as I did, does this insurance charge cover? It's DEATH insurance. To ensure that, should we meet an untimely end here in Espana, our ashes be delivered back to our native "land." Okay. There are a few things wrong with this scenario. 1) This automatic insurance charge that they tack on without telling us... NOT COOL. 2) Why this heightened worry of death? Is there something about this country that I don't know about? 3) We already have travel insurance which covers this 'death' possibility. And most importanly, 4) Who in the hell said I wanted to return to my "land" in ASH FORM. I would assume that should I be fatally struck by one of these crazed Spanish drivers or by falling pieces of our bathroom ceiling, they would at least notify my family before turning me into a pile of chimney grit and sticking me in an urn. Who said I was into being incinerated?? FYI Caja Madrid, I would prefer to remain intact.

So, dearest Caja Madrid, thank you for being not only our bank but for also taking care of my post-mortum affairs without my knowledge. Just your typical bank, really. I just cannot for the life of me understand why Bank of America doesn't jump on that bandwagon...


p.s. Happy Birthday Greg! :o)

far from home

I've never really been homesick. I mean sure, there are times when I wish I could just walk downstairs and have a cup of hot chocolate with my mom, get a hug and some reassuring words from my dad, goof around with my brother and sisters. Sometimes I even miss my little sister's whining... this is shocking, if you've ever been so lucky to hear that shrill, nails down the chalkboard sound. I'm not kidding when I say that she's shattered a few windows. But that empty feeling where you feel you NEED to be at home? I can't say I've really experienced it often. Maybe because my parents divorced when I was 10 and I'm accustomed to not being with everyone I love at any given time. Maybe it's just my personality. But regardless, there are times when you just want to have everything at once: family, friends, childhood, college years, and the right now all at the same time.

I'd love to be back in East Lyme just for a little bit the way I like to remember it: long drives and chats with Mark like they used to be, just walking next door to goof off with Mike like I've done since I was four years old, grabbin' a DD's with Dave, "mastering" pool in Todd's basement, harassing Andrew (all with love, Andrew, all with love :o) ), etc etc. I miss Holy Cross, and how within five minutes I could go from hanging out in my apartment to surrounding myself with so many people that I love as though I'd known them all my life.

But times change and people move on... and I'm not bitter because frankly, I'm no exception. High school graduation sends us off to our respective schools. We move on, change friends, become more independent. We really start to become who we will be. Four year fly by, and then college graduation is followed by moves to California, New York, Boston, Florida, South Carolina, Washington D.C., etc. Other cities, other states, other countries. And the cycle starts again. New lives, new friends, new careers, new goals. But despite how much you may love and are excited and proud of your new life, you always think back to how things used to be... and you miss it just a bit.

I'm in Spain! I mean, hello... I'm living a dream and I consider myself ridiculously lucky. I absolutely love where and who I am and what I'm doing. And I do have new friends who are fantastic, and caring, and FUN...and I can't imagine having never met them. My life is completely different from anything it's been before... which is what I wanted. What I needed. But when you decide to head far away to, for example, Spain, you realize that you're leaving everything you love behind for something unknown. Your parents, your friends, your favorite ice cream place, your beach, your favorite driving routes. You know you're going to miss get-togethers of friends and family, parties, funny moments that normally you would have been present for.

And you know that you can't drive home in an hour. Or take a random weekend trip to Boston to visit your pals. And you deal with it because you know that you're doing what you want to do with your one precious life, be it selfish or not. But at the same time you realize that if something were to happen at home to a friend, to a family member, or even to your dog, that you can't just hop in the car, take a drive, and offer a long hug or some reassuring words. And you and them understand that you'd be there to support them if you could... and it hurts you to know that someone you care about is far away hurting so badly and there's nothing you can do to help. But the important thing is knowing that between friends, whenever something happens, the love and support is there... even if you can't physically give that hug that you so desperately want to offer.

I love you Corinne.. you're in my prayers.

"them"

You know who they are and you know you're annoyed by them too. If you ARE one of them, stop. You've rolled your eyes at them, perhaps you've been caught making a face. Natural habitat: front and center. Temperment: over anxious. Communication habits: Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. Favorite exercise: hand-raising.
The 'over-nodders,' as I so fondly call them, exist in almost every type of class and appear to increase in numbers as we move up the chain from high school to graduate school. They tend to congregate in classes with a cultural subject matter: namely literature and art. Oh dear God, the art class nodders. Perhaps the most offensive of the species. Oh you know who I'm talking about. The professor is talking about a piece of art: a painting, a building, the form of an arch. He knows what he's talking about, he's not looking for any form of affirmation. He doesn't need it. He has a doctorate. He has a job. He's your superior. He's studied this stuff for years and there's a pretty good chance that he's written a book.
But there they are, nodding in that "Oh yes yes of course, I knew that already" way. Nodding so much that I'm surprised they don't have neck or dizziness problems. At times the nod is so exagerated that the chest practically interferes with the motion. Said nods are frequently accompanied by a strategically placed "mm-hmm, mm-hmm" (up to 5 mm-hmms at any given time) uttered just a little bit too loud as to assure that everyone else knows that they know what the professor is talking about. Now I know this is hard to take, but "everyone else" doesn't care if you know or not. Your nodding does not make you appear smarter. And your nodding head is really quite irritating for people sitting in back of you trying to look at the projected slides. I know that I, at least, don't feel like synchronizing head motions with you in order to avoid seeing your bobbing dome piece in the middle of a barroque church.
So here's to you, over-anxious head nodders. Because if I were to lose a bobble-head doll, I could throw a Red Sox hat or a hula skirt on you and stick you on my dashboard.

dumb and dumberer

There was a time, long ago, when I was actually quite proficient at the English language. In fact, in an ironic twist, the original plan as an entering freshman at Holy Cross was to wait one semester and then declare an English major. Obviously, things ended up heading down an alternative path and a different language was to dominate my four collegiate years: espanol!

Over the years, I had acquired a decent vocabulary that I had been building up since learning to speak. I was a good writer and a decent speaker. I spent my childhood writing and illustrating stories (Stephanie Casey and I were co-authors of a pretty impressive collection... I believe she'd agree) and reading freakish amounts of books. During (I almost wrote durante) the years of good ole Flanders Elementary, I found sick pleasure in vocab quizzes. Scrabble was and remains a favorite. My dad instilled in me an obsession with crossword puzzles... I do two a day and I'll admit it, I'm damn good at them. I actually ENJOYED writing college application essays. I am one of those people who would take writing a paper over taking an exam any day. I love sitting down with a good book. I appreciate intelligence in a person and an ability to express oneself in a somewhat articulate manner.

This last sentence officially now makes me a hypocrite. Why? Because I can no longer speak English. The language I was brought up with. The mother tongue. The language of my forefathers (well, aside from the ones speaking Gaelic and German anyway...). I officially now sound like a blundering idiot. Short, simple, choppy sentences completely lacking in segues and any form of fluidity. Single syllable words. Basic grammar that I can't screw up. The Middlebury program, for anyone who I haven't told, has a rule (we had to sign a pledge) which states that we have to speak Spanish 24/7 since day 1. Because of said pledge, us Middleburyanos instinctively speak Spanish with each other when we're in class, when we run into each other in the street, when we go out. In fact, I pretty much don't know how anyone in the program outside of our little pandilla sounds in English. So, for example: I live with two other girls in the program, and we speak exclusively in Spanish (well, except for when English is necessary to make a story actually funny so the other two don't have to fake a laugh). We eat in Spanish. We go out drinking in Spanish. We clean in Spanish. Susan whines in Spanish. Joanne has her rumbos in Spanish. I bask in my aura of perfection in Spanish.

My language issues started over the summer during the 6 infernal weeks in the Middlebury gulag. Upon our arrival, we signed the "pledge," and by doing so we signed away our rights to speak English for six weeks. After four weeks, BernBern (alias: Mom) came up to visit and I found myself having serious problems to the comedic delight of my mother (almost wrote madre). I found myself speaking in Spanglish... INVOLUNTARILY... randomly throwing in Spanish without realizing it while trying to maintain a conversation in English. Mom thinks its funny and laughter ensues (hers). Betsey thinks she's losing it. She thinks to herself, who else can't distinguish between one personality and the other? Oh, right.... I believe they are a called schizophrenics and are often found in institutions... and no I don't mean Middlebury College.

Now that I'm livin la vida loca (oh Ricky Martin, how your words speak to my soul..) in Madrid, it has gotten progressively worse. The no English rule is obviously the key to the success of this program and I see the value of it all and know that it must be helping my Spanish. However, it is slowly killing my English. How will I interview for jobs? (Ugh, that word just made me throw up a little in my mouth.) I have it figured out now that instead of being good at one language and at a "language in progress" level with another, I'm now just plain dumb in both. I speak English like, once a week when Bern-Bern calls. And here are some self-observations. I have been known to say things like "I have thirst" instead of "I'm thirsty" because I'm thinking in Spanish grammar. My very first word as an adorable, loveable, perfect, chubby baby was "doggie"... but now when I see a dog I automatically think "perrito!" And I am embarrassed to admit that the other day I spelled "shoe" as "s-h-o-o" and spent a good two minutes debating about whether it looked right or wrong. I mean, wow.

Finally, the most disturbing and confusing of the habits that I've picked up is that when speaking in English, I have somehow acquired a "hick" accent. HICK. Like hay hanging out of my mouth, dirty bare feet, double first names, and confederate flag in the window of my '78 pickup hick. I don't know why or how I ended up with this red neck affliction, but Joanne also appears to be showing signs. I'm starting to picture myself in overalls living with Jim-Bob and Jethro in a trailor park in the Tennessee boonies with a bun in the oven saying things like "Come on Pa, go on and git that there fiddle of yours, we's gonna have us a hoe-down!"

solar eclipses, chicken and stars, and cutie-pie old men

This morning there was an annular solar eclipse that was best seen in (dun dun dunnnnnnn) MADRID! Annular meaning not a full eclipse but rather one of the nifty ones where you've got the ring of FIRE around the moon (see left). The last annular eclipses seen in Spain took place like, three centuries ago, so it was pretty much a big deal. So after my 9:30 class, I ran over to the Jardines del Descubrimiento... a plaza/park thing between the school and our posh pad... to see it. Now, clearly everywhere was sold out of the special glasses... that's what happens when you're a chronic procrastinator like myself. So, the plan was to put on my extremely high tech sunglasses from Target (nothing says high quality sun protection like a $9 pair of shades), stare directly at the sun and dare God to strike me blind. (Side note re blindness: ONCE, the national organization for the blind, has its headquarters right by our school... and Joanne has officially tripped like 3 blind people... WITH CANES AND ALL. Oh, and if it comes out that I'm dead, it means Joanne has just read this)

So, I sat myself on an open bench with my sunglasses on, squinted a bit to the right of the sun, and did the rapid look at the sun because darn it, I was GOING to see that ring around the moon. (I'm a geek when it comes to space stuff- shooting stars, meteor showers, comets, the five constellations I can remember from high school astronomy class.. LOVE IT ALL.) Granted I'm sure I looked like I had a case of the twitches, and yes yes yes, I was seeing some white spots (ahem, quite a few actually)... but I saw it! And then, the best part of my day happened. An old man was walking by and he walked past me... then turned around and came back. With a big, earnest grin he said something to the effect of, "now don't look directly at the sun or you'll ruin those beautiful eyes of yours!" MEH! So cute! And then he sat down next to me on the bench and shared his special anti-blindness solar-eclipse-seeing glasses. We passed them back and forth and chatted for a few. And that was it. But, seriously. It's so cliche and obvious and over-said, but it's amazing how a simple gesture of kindness can change a person's day...

Now I had just gotten out of my hour and a half oral communication class after a night of 3 hours of sleep. I had been sitting alone accepting the fact that I would go blind by the age of 23 because I had been too lazy to buy the glasses 3 days ago like I should have. You could say I wasn't in an overly... "animated" mood, let's say. But this little thing that this person who doesn't know me at all did just by sharing his little cardboard glasses changed my mood. He probably went home, I like to imagine to his wife who was preparing a chicken paella or something equally typical and scrumptious (drool, drool... sounds better than my dinners of like, chicken hot dogs with a side of Special K), and continued his day. He probably hasn't thought twice about our 10 shared minutes sitting on that bench passing back and forth his glasses... but obviously his simple kindness had an impact. Ask my roommates... I've mentioned it like 9 times. Who knows, maybe as a result I did something nice today for someone else without even realizing it...

The tiniest thing can make the biggest difference. Someone remembering your favorite ice cream (peanut butter chip from Hallmarks), recalling a shared funny memory (for example, laughing about my swallowing/choking on my witch wig at Cliff's Halloween party during elementary school... and the events that followed...), a simple compliment on a haircut, shirt, necklace (even if it's a lie). Getting a happy birthday call from a person you'd never expect to have remembered (October 17... just enough time to send me that jar of Skippy superchunk...). Someone bringing you chicken and stars soup when you're sick because they remember that one time, years ago, you mentioned that you love chicken and stars when you're sick. Someone who you've just met downloading you a copy of the Alias premiere and dropping it off to your apartment (thanks Angel! You are my hero! Te debo!) Anything... no matter how minor or forgettable it might seem, someone will remember it and will remember you... whether it's for something as sentimental as a well thought out gift from one friend to another for no particular occasion or as seemingly meaningless as someone putting their day on hold for 10 minutes to share their special eclipse sunglasses with a random American gal sitting on a bench.

shower woes

I can't get it out of my hair! It's completely stuck, embedded, trapped... and I am beginning to think that I will have to shave my head a la Natalie Portman in order to get rid of it. That's right... I'm talking about the smell of cigarette smoke. We went out last night and my hair still smells.. POST SHOWER! I shampoo-ed my coiff twice with this in mind, but upon flipping it upside down to blowdry it, I discovered to my horror that it still lingerrrrrrrrred. My jeans? Forget it. They are absolutely embedded with smoke odor. And not to be graphic, but today, while getting dressed... I discovered that my bra has picked up that lovely smell as well. That cigarette smoke penetrated not one, but TWO SHIRTS to get to my poor unsuspecting undergarments.

My poor, poor abused clothing. Everyday, I pull an assortment of clean, fresh-smelling clothes out of my closet. I smell absolutely fantastic in the morning; not in that 'over the top gagging on perfumey products' way that I'm allergic to, but rather the pleasant smell like the one that dryer sheets aim for but can't quite achieve with total success... fresh, light, and wonderful. Did I mention that I'm also modest? The lingering scent in my clothes of our detergent mixes ever so pleasantly with my Nivea body lotion, botanical silk deodorant, and, once in awhile, my mango mandarin body splash (infused with real mango and mandarin orange extracts). I leave my room each morning and frankly... I wouldn't mind getting to know me better.

By the end of the day, I smell like an ashtray. No, an ashtray doesn't describe it. More like the smell of all the dirty cigarette butts in the sidewalk when the sidewalk sweeper comes and sweeps them all together. I even feel grayer. My smell-good efforts go down the toilet as soon as I enter the world that exists outside our nice ciggy-free apartment. Doing laundry is a depressing activity... because you get your jeans to that desired comfy stage (1 day post-wash) that you absolutely adore. But then the weekend comes, and you want to wear those jeans out because your bum looks the best in them, but at the same time... you know they're going to reak like all hell within 5 minutes at the bar.

In Spain, it is hard to avoid walking straight into the clouds of ciggy smoke. Unfortunately, such a high percentage of Spaniards smoke... I'm convinced that smokers occupy the majority of the population over the age of like, 12. In fact, on the way back from classes in the morning, I always pass a school during a time when the students are on some sort of break... and the amount of cigarette smoke coming through the gates of the school is baffling... because geez, they're just kids. But there's always a HOARD of 14 year olds puffing on their ciggies looking as if they're in some sort of ecstacy upon relieving the craving. "Ughh wow, history class was sooo boring today... GOD I NEED A SMOKE." Sometimes it's almost like a video game. I am a really fast walker, and Spanish people... well, aren't. So I have the double task of 1) weaving through the people without ramming into those travelling in the opposite direction and 2) of avoiding breathing in the puffs of smoke. Sometimes it's unavoidable.. you see it coming like a big cloud of emphysema in slow motion and you try to dodge but it's JUST TOO LATE.

One of the best things ever was when, back home, the law was passed banning smoking in restaurants, bars, etc. I was so happy. I could wear a jacket to the bar knowing in advance that it would smell just as it did before leaving. Hypothermia? Not a problem anymore! Here, not only do they smoke in bars and restaurants, but there is seemingly no public place that is off limits. I remember two years ago when I nervously went for my 'new' haircut in Sevilla (scared the hairdresser was going to give me that mullet look that remains popular here), and there was a woman under a dryer with foils in her hair and she was smoking. When she got back to the chair next to me for some more snip snips, she lit up again. Like, oh my God woman, can you go 45 minutes without the nicotine?! Smokers in the bank. Smokers in the internet centers. It's crazy. I CAN'T ESCAPE IT without staying at home and being a recluse. Word on the street is that starting next year, Spain is following suit and banning smoking in all public places. So, I guess til then all I can really do is just suck it up and wash my jeans 9 times a week.