just call me mother theresa

I'm not gonna lie, I have improved four people's lives today... or tried to at least. Well, maybe not so much improved but rather didn't make worse. This afternoon I spent five hours in a library, researching for one of the three papers that separates me from three weeks of recuperation with my trusty dog at my side. Rereading that sentence, I can't help but think it makes me sound like a fireworks accident victim adjusting to my new life as a blind woman with my new seeing eye dog. But no worries... eyeballs remain intact and functioning. Anyway. My deeds of the day:

1) While in the library, I fixed a photocopy machine and taught a guy, who was obviously having some difficulties with the technological marvels of the modern age, how to select a paper tray and push "copy." Impressive, since I don't pride myself on my technological abilities. I mean hell, at home when I invite friends over to watch a movie they know ahead of time that there's going to be a 25 minute delay while I figure out how to unhook this cable and switch this cable in order to get the DVD contraption to work... preferably WITH sound...

2) Also while in the library, a girl asked me how to turn on the little reading lights. And, being the kind and helpful person I am, I told her "you just have to push the little red button" which, to her credit, is actually pretty hidden and it took watching someone else do it before I found said button. Her face lit up with glee and she hugged me and asked for my autograph and then said she wanted to buy me a coffee! Thats a blatant lie. Actually she just returned to her desk and switched on her light. And then made out with her boyfriend, yes of COURSE in the library. Luckily my Christmas songs on my Ipod drowned out the suctioning noises as they bounced back and forth between the library walls.

3) Now this one is a pretty big deal. Being at this library meant that I was not in my part of the city. However, when a woman came up to me asking how to get to the nearest metro station, I could actually give her directions with some degree of certainty. A bit of a deviation from the norm, as the conversation tends to go a little more like:

"Excuse me do you know where the nearest metro station is?
"Ummm .. errrr... I thinnnnk.. hm... I don't know"
Asker detects an American accent and gives you that sympathetic, disappointed look that seems to be saying, "Ohhh of course you don't know... you're Amerrrrican..."

Anyways, I was pretty excited that I could orient myself, as in addition to my technological inabilities, I am also not known for my outstanding directional sense... 23 years later and I know for a fact that I have given people wrong directions WITHIN my town. Oh the beach? Yeah yeah just take a right here and keep going... you'll see it. Then you realize two minutes later, as you watch the beachware-clad older couple take a right in their Buick, that you should have said left.

4) I have recently been trying to get in the habit of complimenting strangers more when they've got something goin' for them that should be acknowledged. Getting into the habit meaning I've done it like, 3 times. And pretty much only when I'm alone travelling around on the metro, which always allows for some boredom and some serious people-watching... but regardless. I almost always have a little notepad with me for whatever purpose, so if I see, taking today for example, a girl with hair that I basically want to cut from her head and attach it instead to mine, I jot down the compliment and if I get off before them I hand it to them on the way out the door. They probably just throw it out like all the little publicity ads that get handed out all over the city for Ali-Babba's Typical Indian Restaurant, Learn English/Italian/German/French in 6 weeks!, Wax your whole body for 8 euros!, or what have you... but who knows. On the other hand maybe it made her day just a smidge better.

who needs sleep?

I found out early in life that sleep and I were going to have a relationship with a tense love/hate dynamic. Meaning I love sleep, but I hate how LONG it takes me to get there. By the age of nine, I used to get so frustrated when listening to the radio when the music program would change from "Light on the Bays" to "Night on the Bays." "Night on the Bays" basically meant that the DJ's were peacing out for the night and switching on an automated playlist of soft rock favorites. This is why I know all the songs of my parents' generation. Never missed a single one. My parents at this point would be in bed, my brother and my sister were beyond comatose, my dad would be snoring, the house would be creaking, and I would be fully aware of the fact that I was the only one in the home awake. And now not even listening to any Delilah-wannabe's talking about touching personal stories (ya know, special song dedications for husbands in the military, Grandma's passing away, Ronny being sorry to Jeannine for breaking up, etc). I'd look out the window to find not a single light on in any of the houses. I was ALONE. This was very distressing for the nine year old Betsey. I was a weird child, what can I say. (I also used to take every single one of my stuffed animals, pile them into a mountain three times the size of me on one half of my bed, cover them all with a sheet and try to hug them all protectively with one arm because I was positive that if someone climbed in my window to rob our house they'd head STRAIGHT for my yellow Care Bear or my Glo-Worm. Logical, no?)

Anyway, when you're one of these crazy people who ends up staying awake til the sun comes up without any good reason, you have to be creative to keep yourself entertained. At least until sleepiness, that lazy bastard who always seems to take his sweet freakin time getting here, decides to swing by. On weekends, sometimes it's fun to still be up at 3:00, 4:00, 5:00am... because you can stop watching the crazy television that they put on at these hours and from the window you direct your attention down upon the groups of people coming home from the bar. While this can at times be a bit depressing, as they are coming home from a fun night out and you, in your sweatpants and your hair in an attractive ball-like configuration, are stalkishly staring at them from a dark window. But then you get to laugh when things happen like when the drunk girl, clutching on to her boyfriend to keep the ground from spinning so much, trips on her own dominatrix-style boots, resulting in an out of control, inebriated stumble... complete with flailing limbs. And I, having seen it, can laugh just like Jon Lovitz in that scene from Wedding Singer after Adam Sandler sings that song to Drew Barrymore... (Jon Lovitz says, "He's going craaazy... and I'm reaping all the benefits" and then laughs evilly, his eyes bulging threateningly, as the curtain slowly shadows his face) I'm a little less creepy though, I think. I hope?

My brain activity peaks during the nighttime hours (I'd actually like to hook my brain up to a monitor sometime and compare the activity levels during, for example, History of Architecture class, during which the little bleep would flatline, compared with sitting in bed at 3:00am, when it'd be all over the place). In fact, I bet anything that I think more in one night than I probably do in a week's worth of daytime hours. This, of course, can be a positive or a negative thing, depending on your mood, the day you've just had, etc. It can be a good thing if you're thinking of fun things, or upcoming events, or happy memories, or funny moments that make you laugh out loud in bed, or weird thought patterns like relating Yoda to grammar, or just organizing things in your head... You eventually fall asleep content, or perhaps smiling and thinking about big multi-colored lollipops and clouds made of marshmellows. You have absolute freedom to let your mind wander to wherever the hell it wants to go because you are competely alone with nobody to distract you... everything that enters in your mind is absolutely pure, and raw, and untainted. Clearly it can be a bad thing when, for example, you can't help but replay scenes from the whopping three scary movies you've seen (the tunnel scene in 28 Days Later with the rats and then when the girl comes popping contortedly out of the tv screen in The Ring are the ones that CONTINUE to haunt me.. you think I'm kidding..), or when you replay and overthink things/ conversations/ scenarios/ comments/ etc, or when you stress out about this paper or that test coming up. At a certain point you just can't stop and it all just builds upon itself... and this is the worst sleeplessness: you eventually fall into a restless, worried, depressed, frustrated sleep that often follows you right up until you wake your ass up.

And those are my thoughts on insomnia. And now that it's 5:28am, I'm going to try for the second time this evening to go to sleep. Good night, and may fluffy marshmellow clouds and cute hopping bunny rabbits be with you. Don't ask.

gobble gobble

Today was Thanksgiving. A fantastic American holiday whose only purpose is to celebrate the American way of eating: overindulgently. It's a full out celebration of obesity. Seriously... what other holiday is there that you wake up, eat breakfast, lay around all day in your comfies watching parades and football games, undo the first button of your pants to provide extra space, and then my God eat until you fall over in a 25 pound turkey-induced coma. And that, my friends, is why I love Thanksgiving.

So thank you to everyone who emailed and IMed me to rub in my face the fact that I could not partake as usual. You all hold a special place on my hate list. The following was information which was most pointed out to me by my loving friends:
1) I could not watch the Macy's Thanksgiving parade on tv
2) I did not wake up slowly to the smell of Thanksgiving preparations. Instead, I woke up to the musical delights of an alarm clock.
3) I WENT TO CLASS TODAY.
4) I didn't get to go to the East Lyme townie bar last night to get wasted. Oh wait, I'm not upset about that.
5) Your mother was making pies.
6) Instead of showering this morning, you decided to bathe in gravy... because you could.

Here was my Thanksgiving. I went to class. Yep. Class. On Thanksgiving. Our original plan was to make Thanksgiving here in the apartment and invite friends... especially exciting was the idea of giving our Spanish 'Thanksgiving virgin' friends their first Thanksgiving. I was envisioning the meal and the conversations regarding Turkey Day traditions... and thank you Paco for making one of my imagined conversations come true:

"Wait, so there's bread... stuffed INSIDE the turkey?" ideally accompanied by a puzzled, horrified look.
"Well yeah obviously... you stick it right in there.
"What the..." more horrified looks.
"But first you have to shove your entire arm inside the turkey and fish out the plastic bag containing all the turkey 'innards'"

However, we lost interest... not in our friends clearly (whew, close one) but more so meaning that general morale about actually preparing an entire Thanksgiving meal decreased and the amount that said meal would have ripped from our meager bank accounts made us think twice about it. And we didn't find any turkeys. Although, as Angel has pointed out, we did not look very hard. Regardless, we decided to go to the Hard Rock Cafe, which was offering a full Thanksgiving dinner. Hooray.

Thinking in advance like the smart gal that she is, Joanne headed down there last night to ask if they accepted reservations since we were going to be a group of 6. The response, from the English-speaking and actually English man, was "No... only for parties greater than 20 people." I point this out to show that there was no language barrier between the two and therefore no miscommunication. Fine. So today, we headed there an hour and half before we wanted to eat (our goal was to be seated and ordering at 8:30pm) to get in line/get a table/put our name on a waiting list... whatever. However, clearly because it's us, the first thing we are asked upon our arrival is:

"Oh, well, do you have a reservation?"
"No, they told me yesterday that you don't take reservations"
"Oh... well, we do for Thanksgiving."
We looked at him with dead, scathing eyes.

After a five minute conversation with this man, we learned that if we waited we could probably sit and eat around 10:30. It was 7:00. So, we headed towards Tony Roma's with diminishing hopes that they, being another American chain restaurant, would be offering up a similar Thanksgiving feast. The restaurant didn't open until 8:30. It was now 7:10. So, we sat on the steps right smack in front of the restaurant in the cold, people walking by looking at our determined faces, to assure that we would be the first people in the restaurant. It was reminiscent of camping out for concert tickets... except camping out for concert tickets normally yields desired results: you go to the concert and rock out to the music and its fantastic.

Camping out for Thanksgiving dinner at Tony Roma's apparently yields weird-tasting turkey, liquidy cold mashed potatoes, and a lump of shredded cabbage that resembled purple sauerkraut. We poured salt over everything to try and add some normal taste into the mix. And I mean a lot of salt: I can feel my arteries closing up. No bread, no stuffing, no cranberry sauce, no sweet gherkin pickles... I need to stop, I'm tearing up. Sniff. And the meal finished off with the weirdest tasting apple pie of my life. I pretty positive that instead of being something that was baked, it was a boxed pastry that was frozen and merely thawed out.

photos:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/Slideshow.jsp?mode=fromshare&Uc=i46xdcx.gij5x35&Uy=2bfax6&Ux=0

sPaNgLiSh GrAmMaR

Over the past 23 years, I've been on the receiving end of a lot of criticism for never having seen the Star Wars Trilogy... and even more for having seen only the new ones (look people, it wasn't my choice- Mark dragged me!). I think I pretty much have a grasp on what happens, however everything I know about the plots of the first three Star Wars I learned from the episode of Friends where Ross's erotic fantasy is for Rachel to dress up as Princess Leia (Laya? Leya? Lea? Oh hell, whatever the name is of the chick with the weird hair) and the Star Wars Gangsta Rap (if you don't know of it or haven't seen it, ASK ME. It's amazing), whose lyrics I actually have memorized (don't judge!! Allison and Krissy too!). I know, I know. I get it... it's a big deal. It's just that the Han-Solo-laden, Yoda-wisdom-divulging, I'm-your-father-admitting, light-saber-battling movies just haven't made their way into my VCR. Or my house. Or my list of movies to see. However, I do have a little something, apart from jokes a la Triumph the Insult Dog (Oh Conan... I miss you so... tear, sniff, snort... I swear to God if I come home to 2-3 weeks of repeats like the last time, you're going to hear about it) to contribute: the results of my mind-wanderings at 3:30 this morning. Typical night in the sack with the Bets-meister, really.

You've guessed correctly. This morning, I, Elizabeth M. Mattern, discovered the key to Yoda's whacky speech patterns... and here it is: it's just Spanish grammar, or probably that of any language stemming from Latin, but written/spoken in English! The crazy differences between English and Spanish regarding the order in which the subject, verb, etc. go is something that you have to get used to and proves at times to be a struggle... it's always just seemed so backwards (although I do admit that over time, sentence structure in Spanish began to make a lot more sense to me). But regardless, now it's all coming together and I see the real reason for the tricky little differences: it has allowed for the style of Yoda to be invented. SO OBVIOUS.

I was in bed, thinking about grammar (because that's what the cool kids are doing these days) and at the same time thinking about the symptoms I was/am currently experiencing of an oncoming illness. The two completely unrelated trains of thought collided head-on, and the result was: Me duelen los ojos = They hurt me my eyes do. In a flash, all I saw was a familiar green. No, not envy, not Fenway Park, but the other green... I saw YODA. From there, I probably amused myself in bed (in a G-rated way, you sickos) for a solid hour thinking up sentences and paragraphs in English but using Spanish grammar rules. Spanglish grammar... newly discovered to be Yoda-speak. I think it's finally proven that I'm one of those people that, since I don't do or take any sort of drugs, should start A-sap.

So the next big question which I've been tossing around in my head... in Star Wars dubbed into Spanish, is it in Spanish but using the rules of ENGLISH grammar??? In the Spanish version, does Yoda even talk weird? Did that cross over? When watching Star Wars in English, do Spanish people understand Yoda better than, for example ___________ (fill in with the name of whichever other galactic character, I dont really know any) who speaks in regular English? So many questions...

Oh geez... I read what I just wrote annnd have concluded that I am fo shizzle, sin duda, not a doubt in my mind, definitivamente... an idiot. Better to be an idiot than a raging hormonal biatch though, right?

Go Fug Yourself

I think this website accounts for my turning into a mean (but clearly in that charmingly and humorously mean way) person. These women are FANTASTIC.

www.gofugyourself.com

Betsey's Top 10 of the Day

You know you need to go home for a couple weeks when:

1. Your food budget now allows for a weekly head of lettuce.
2. The dubbed into Spanish voices on the Simpsons start to sound normal to you. Except I'm sorry, but the voice they have given to Reverend Lovejoy is just entirely unacceptable.
3. You run out of peanut butter... again!! Time to steal BernBern's BJ's card for a raid...
4. The words 'home-cooked meal' sound completely foreign to you.
5. Four months later, you can't speak English. Or Spanish, for that matter.
6. You contemplate going across the street to the music store to 'test out' the pianos to quench your musical thirst.
7. Your 'get ready to go out' music has switched from pop and thug to a vast collection of Christmas carols. Alvin and the Chipmunks... they get me every time. I just want a hula hoop too.
8. You are out of Tylenol PM. What is sleep like again? I can't recall.
9. You need to start weaning yourself off of Casa Poli and its coffee, its tortilla sandwiches, and its fabtacular waitors who are sooooo in love with us.
10. All of your winter clothes are at home and/or in the possession of your little sister... and while she is warm and snug in your favorite (and only) sweaters, you are frankly freezing your metaphorical balls off.

poeta soy yo

During the summer in Vermont, between reading 294892 books, fighting off the kamikazi mosquitos, doing ridiculous projects, trying to block out the smell of cow excrement, and spending endless hours doing work, I started writing haiku's in Spanish (so as not to break the all important 'Palabra de honor'). Frankly, it was an outlet for the MISERY I was suffering (it wasn't just me... it was a collective misery). The one that started it all off was:
Trabajando mas
Yo prefiero un tenedor
En el ojito.
... Y a los espanoles que leen este magnifico blog mio, si... siempre he asegurado tener en cuenta este fenomeno tan molesto de la sinalefa!

In light of Natalie's birthday, I have once more put to use my creative talents... except in the mother tongue and sans negativity. I'm way poetic like that.

Ahem..(clears throat for dramatic effect)

Twas the 17th of the 'ember of Nov'
And as if from the Cabbage Patch grove
A girl named Natalie came into our lives
22 years later, on shopping she thrives

Thank you.

Happy bday Nattie!

just a typical morning

This morning, having successfully showered, dried the hairs, and gotten dressed in 25 minutes, I was on target to arrive on time to class. My bedroom is interior (it faces a little patio-ish thing and another apartment's window... therefore I keep the shades closed.. just in case I decide to dance around nekkid in my room sometime) and therefore clearly did not notice the depressing DOWNPOUR that nature was throwing down upon the city of Madrid. So I walk downstairs and somewhere in the range of 3 feet from the door I notice the wrath of good ole Mama N. I swear that cranky biatch has her u-trou all up in a bunch this week. Not overly concerned, I turn around to walk upstairs to retrieve my umbrella... and then realize that I have forgotten my keys. Perfect. Oh but it's ok! I can avoid getting soaked in my 20 minute journey to class by taking the metro. Good! I like technology! So I head to the metro stop, where I proceed to realize I have neither a) money nor b) my metro pass with me. They're in the OTHER coat. Yes, the coat with a hood... another item oh so conveniently left behind that I would have found quite useful this morning. So... I trudge back up to the street to confront a fabulous 20 minute walk to my least favorite class of my life... a walk full of puddles, wet hair, and those pity stares of people who you KNOW are saying "whoa, this girl looks like a wet dog... what an idiot for not bringing an umbrella." It was a good... nay, a GREAT... morning. The best part? Upon arriving to class (now 5 minutes late) and sitting in a puddle of squish, I opened my wet backpack to find... my umbrella. And I'm pretty positive it was actually sprouting horns and laughing demonically at me. If I hadn't been in class and had the professor not been talking... it could have easily become a violent scene.

Sidenote: there should be an obligatory class during the formulative years on umbrella etiquette. Lesson topics would include but are not exclusive to:
1. If you have an umbrella, let the people who happen to have obviously forgotten to bring one walk beneath the overhangs. You selfish bastards...
2. Just because a girl does not have an umbrella does not mean that she wants to be offered a private walk to her destination. Yes, I'm talking to YOU, you creepy, middle-aged, unibrowed man.
3. The umbrella is a useful friend... not a weapon.
4. When walking through or as part of a group of people, raise the umbrella just a smidge to avoid the totally unnecessary clashing with the umbrellas of the people walking in the opposite direction... and half-killing the girl stuck in the middle (cough cough, ME).
5. When standing around waiting to cross the street, it's not ok to twirl your umbrella back and forth, sending an extra bucket or so of water shooting off in all directions like a freakin' fireworks display. I understand you are bored, but your cute little singing in the rain tendencies cause you to further soak and therefore anger the already wet and surly girl to your left.
6. When walking in the rain, especially in an urban setting, it is not necessary to have an umbrella big enough to fit a family of five. In doing so, you are impairing anybody who is not a midget (er, vertically challenged person) from passing.

argghh

Do you ever just get full-out pissed off at yourself? I do.

Gonzalo, part deux

Good news ladies!! Lucky for all of us females, Gonzalo (http://wapa82.blogspot.com/2005/09/gonzalo.html) is still very much on the market.

Joanne and I, our heads pounding from a lack of caffeine, headed down to Casa Poli (where everybody knows your name) for our coffee. And who was sittin' there at the counter? Gonzalo, in all his taxi-driving, greasy-ponytail, sketchball glory. This time around not only were rides in his taxi (yah, I'm sure that's what he means) offered, but there were marriage proposals involved... and now he's using back-up. He had a wing-man who sat next to us listing off all of Gonzalo's stellar, just STELLAR, qualities. We told him we were both already quite happily married (maybe I should have thrown in with a bun in the oven... you know... guys don't want to marry chicks with "baggage" in the form of a crying, runny nosed brat)... his response? Dont' worry, our marriage can be like an Elizabeth Taylor type deal... it's ok if I want to have like 8 spouses... he doesn't have to be the only one nor the most important. FYI: If I were to have multiple husbands, each one would have, serve, occupy, or at least perform a specific function. Unfortunately for Gonzalo, he doesn't make the cut...I just don't think that he would serve any worthwhile function... nor do I think that he frankly has anything that functions.

Luckily, the Poli waiters are mildly (ok ok.. insanely) in love with us and go into fatherly mode, protecting us from the creepy advances of a certain taxi driver. And from now on, we know to avoid Casa Poli around 5:30pm.

Everybody has their vices. I say this fully aware that in the other room Joanne is feverishly tearing through the Sudoku (a puzzle game here in Spain... like a crossword but with numbers) book that she just bought in Corte Ingles. She also has lost the ability to blink or speak in coherent sentences whilst crunching numbers in that smart little head of hers. But I'm coming to realize that I have a lot, and I mean really an excessively absorbant amount, of addictions and/or obsessive compulsive tendencies.

First I have my everyday food addictions. Everybody has these, whether they be your common place daily need for cookies and cream ice cream or something obscure like plums (cough cough, Mark). I tend to gravitate towards chocolate, Diet Coke (mmm... Christmas break, when I can drink Diet Coke instead of Coca Cola light.. and yes there IS a difference), coffee (I've hit the need for two cups a day of Spanish coffee, otherwise known as the closest thing you can get to a caffeine injection), and peanut butter (I don't feel the need to elaborate... I think it's understood). And clearly, since they taste so damn good, it's an unwritten rule that they have to in some direct or indirect way try to kill you. Diet Coke... causes cancer. Coffee... ulcers. Chocolate... diabetes, obesity, heart problems, etc. Peanut butter, when eaten in moderation, is good for you. Needless to say, the self-control part of my brain is in a permanently switched to the off position. In fact, I think I may have been born without it. One day in the day of Betsey's eating addictions is like watching a commercial for some Pfizer medication... I love these. It's like, hey you'll be cured of your depression, but this medication "may cause high blood pressure, drowsiness, 38478383 types of cancer, your left ear to fall off, dizziness, temporary blindness, 8 hour erections, foot fungus, memory loss, anal leakage, and death." I don't know about you, but depression is sounding more and more like a Caribbean vacation.

Then come my non-food addictions. This is where I will first divulge my relatively secret addiction. PANDA CAM. This is completely pathetic and I have no problem admitting it. Yes. I, Elizabeth Marie Mattern, stalk panda bears. During the summer while I was in Middlebury (little known fact, Middlebury comes from the Native American word Middlebumbororouy, which means infernal language boot-camp), I was illegally reading cnn.com (illegal because it's written in English... language pledge taboo) and came across a story saying that a panda cub was born in the national zoo in Washington, D.C. AND, that you could check it out on a webcam! I was curious, and directed myself to said webcam to find to my delight that there were actually two. So, basically I have been, on a daily basis, charting the growth of this panda cub from the time when he was born and weighed 2 pounds to now, when he weights 15 pounds and has been learning to walk. AND, I don't think it's necessarily a coincidence that my birthday was the selected day on which the cub's name was chosen... not that I keep track of those things (his name is Tai Shan)

My daily crossword puzzles. I have to do two a day, the two preferred being the Eugene Sheffer and the Boston Globe puzzles. The thing is, I'm living in a country in which everyday I wind up wanting to hit myself in the head with a large, blunt object because the things in my head somehow become idiotic babbles when they come out of my mouth. I need some self-affirming evidence to prove that I can survive in at least one language... hence crosswords. However, the addiction is nearing a stage of obsession which calls for an intervention of some sort I believe. It's just a matter of days before I walk into my apartment to find my family and friends sitting semi circle in our den, asking me to accept help from professionals. Then I'll go to some Texas ranch or health lodge on a lake to learn to breathe deeply, ride horses, count to ten, and find new outlets for my energies.

Like the crossword puzzle, another habit that I've picked up from my dad the lawyer is my daily checking of the New London Day (my newspaper at home) to see if anyone I know has been arrested. This is not normal. On the more positive end, I do also check to see if anyone I know has gotten engaged or married. That makes me slightly less cynical, no?

Cows. For anybody who knows me well, it's a given that I have a very weird attachment to our bovine friends. In fact, it's quite possible that I was a cow in a past life... but that's beside the point. So obviously airplanes and such have radar. Me? I have cow-dar. There could be a random pair of cow-printed socks in the back corner of a store on the other side of the street, and I will see them. I don't even try. You know it's bad when all of your friends see cow-printed objects, stuffed animals, cards, etc and automatically think of you. If you people could see the diverse collection of cow things I have in my rooms at home... wow. To the looney bin I would be sent.

The last of these is more of a OCD tendency. I don't have claustrophobia... but I cannot stand to be stuck in a crowd of people. I freak out. For example, I have gone twice to El Rastro, a huge weekly flea market here. The amount of people that go is overwhelming. I went with Hannah and Nell and they were both like "Bets, are you ok?" I need to walk fast and I cannot be stuck behind a big group of slow-moving people. It's actually starting to cause me physical damage, which makes me think that it could be becoming a problem. Sunday afternoon, I was taking a walk and getting lost about Madrid. I had finally oriented myself and was close-ish to home, when I found myself on a street which had the highest population I have ever seen of handicapped people. I mean, old women who couldn't walk, TWO guys on crutches, and a blind person. And, they were all in front of me, creating an obstacle course that would make me look like a complete bastard if I went dodging through all of them. I'd probably knock over a guy in crutches, causing an old woman to trip and she'd fall on the blind person's dog, clearly making the blind person then trip, etc. To avoid such debacles, I opt for my normal routine of walking on the curb part of the sidewalk, which is separated by a line of trees. Needless to say, I am at this point listening to my Ipod and walking at a 'quick' pace on an 8 inch piece of sidewalk wedged between trees and parked cars, when BAM. I misjudged a tree's placement and get it instead in the side of the head, causing a delightful bump (which remains there today) and an accompanying sweet scratch on my arm. Having heard the "clunk" of my head and an "ow!" from my mouth, the old and hardly able to walk woman, along with her equally decrepit companion, stared at me questioning MY ability to walk.

My OCD's, addictions, and obsessions are going to get the best of me one day...

barcelona antics

The people that I have run into while traveling, whether the trips be long or short, never cease to amaze me. For example, one time 3 years ago on the commuter rail between Worcester and Boston I met an Elvis impersonator. He didn't look like Elvis. Which made me embarassed for him... I hate when that happens.... feeling embarassed for somebody else because they obviously lack that part of their brain or were absent that day of school when they taught humiliation. But anyway. So when we set off for Barcelona last weekend, I knew it would be no exception. And furthermore, you know going in that if you're paying a whopping 15 euros a night to stay in a hostal, you're gonna leave with some stories...

Our hostal. So many cherished memories. We took a midnight bus which put us hungry, overtired, achy, and cranky in Barcelona at 7:30am. We eventually find the number at which our hostal is supposed to be located. Needless to say, there was an iron GATE guarded by a man in such a manner that one would think that there were secret treasures... or maybe even heaven... behind those gates. This lovely gentleman (I wanted to kick him in the shins) told us repeatedly that there was no hostal. It had been closed. For a long time. And it wasn't opening. Ever. Nell, luckily, was even crankier than me and yelled at him saying that we had a reservation. Eventually, he took out the blessed keys to the heavenly gate and let us in. Surprise surprise, yes there was a hostal on the 2nd floor as we suspected. Had there not been, it wouldn't have been pretty to watch our reactions.

The hostal owners. We walk into the 'reception' (a card table) where the woman proceeds to shuffle through approximately 308398304839 papers looking for ours. The husband materializes from a part of this place that I didn't even know had a room... sans shirt. They have a tween daughter wandering around the place wearing a blanket. How's that for a family. Then the woman offers us coffee. We accept. Then she says they have no running water and sorry.

After about 25 minutes of standing there waiting for the woman to organize our "papers," the husband tells us to grab our stuff; we're leaving this building, walking to another building 10 minutes away where we will be staying. So off we go towards our temporary abode. As soon as we turn down the alley where the entrance to the building is, it hits you. The smell that you just want to bottle up and put away for Christmas gifts. It was a delightful mix of pee and fish. I'd like to proudly point out that I coined the phrase "piscado" ... a combination of "pis" (pee) and "pescado" (fish). Come on, 2 points to the Bets-meister for creativity. Turning purple from holding our breath, we are at the same time hiking up a few flights of stairs til we get to "the room." It's your typical cheap-ass hostal. One room with 12 beds, and then two adjoining rooms, each with two more beds. Fine. Then, the hostal man pulls out two blankets. He seemed not to have noticed that there were four of us. And it was like ultimate zero in that room. "Don't worry... I'll be back in FIVE minutes with blankets and towels." Oookay. We PEACE OUT on the beds. I planted my face nose down into the mattress and passed out. I awaken to all sorts of noise and the lights being switched on. Then, hostal man creeeeeeps in and says "Here comes Papa Noel with the blankettsssssss.." with a big grin. The image continues to remind me of the scene in Meet the Parents when the mom brings Greg Focker a set of Jack's pajamas.

Then, he pulls out the towels. I looked at what he places on the bed. Now, they were white and packaged in plastic no bigger than the side of a ziplock sandwich bag. I knew this was going to be good... yes, that's right... the plastic contained a towel-sized paper towel. Needless to say, by day two I had a giant hole in this luxury towel because apparently I was trying too rigorously to get the water out of my hair.

The neighbors! Like I said, staying in a cheap hostal is directly related to meeting weird people. So I'll start low and go from the weird up to the total freaks. First, the American who doesn't speak. And who took 45 minute showers. In a place that has a tank. And very little hot water. A Betsey going on no sleep and a cold shower is not necessarily the sweet, happy version that you all know and love.

Then the American from Idaho. He was traveling with three other people (one from Brazil, one from Mexico, and one from Ireland) because they are of some program in France. From the second the four of them arrived, he was making the four of us mad. He wouldn't make his own bed... he made the Brazilian girl do it for him. ANd then he asks us, "Is there like, a Gap around here? I need to go shopping." So we reply no, but that you can get the same kind of stuff/look in various stores and we proceeded to name a few. Then he scoffs and says, "um, no... Gap is Gap" followed by a "ughh! where did you put my Steve Maddens!" to his friends. We're thinking, Ok buddy.. settle down with the trying to be metrosexual and get a grip. You're from IDAHO. I love potatoes... they're one my favorite foods fo-EVA yo... but think about it. Your claim to fame is being part of spud land.

The Italians. The Italians were by far the most dynamic of the group. They, thank God, had one of the private rooms. Now these Italians, a very "active" gay couple (thin, THIN walls kids..) arrived very late the 2nd night and then they proceeded to go out. Therefore, we didn't talk to them nor did we know at this point that they were an "item." The next day, Hannah and I walk into our hostal to see Joanne and Nell on their beds eating crackers in that methodic, shell-shocked way. Nibble by nibble. Yes, the Italian couple was goinnnnn' at it. A few minutes later, Italian #1 walks out fully dressed, but with his pride and joy still very much at attention, looking to bum a post-sexx cigarette off of one of us. He talks to us for a few minutes and we quickly tag him as the 'woman' of the relationship. Then, Italian #2 walks out.. and Italian #1 gets all doe-eyed and rosy-cheeked and says, "Now I'd like you to meet the best of Italy.." signalling Italian #2...Because they obviously know at this point that we are quite aware of why such 'noises' were coming out of their room. So overall the Italians seem to be pretty nice guys. They are asking Nell, since she studied abroad in Barcelona 3 years ago, places to go and what not. They go out. This is when Italian #1 takes the cake for being absolutely nuts. They come home at about 4:30am. We have been sleeping for probably about 2 hours at this point. Italian #1 makes his way through our backpacks plus those of the four other people ('Gap is Gap' and co.) to arrive beside my bed. I wake up and his face is literally 6 inches from mine. Obviously I am startled and he's lucky he didn't get a punch in the face, as I am at this point thinking that he is some stranger who came in through the window to attack me (childhood nightmare). Then he starts patting my head saying it's ok and that they're home... and then goes to sit down beside me on my bed to chit chat... I just kept repeating 'ciao' 'ciao' 'ciao' 'bona note' 'ciao' until he left. Normal??? No!! Scaring the crap out of Betsey seemed to be a theme of the trip... another example being the man dressed in a giant gorilla suit who creeped up beside me in the middle of Las Ramblas and then started grunting like I suppose a gorilla might do. I screamed. People were laughing at my misfortune. We all know I don't do well with things that just pop out to scare you. I mean c'mon... even the Scream movies scared me.

So those are 'the characters' of our little voyage to Barcelona. Altogether, they have provided the four of us with so much inside joke material. In between, we had a ton of fun being complete tourists... and took 3948393994400 pictures. Magic fountains, Erotic Museum, Picasso Museum, Chocolate Museum ("pleasure" chairs which looked more like medieval torture devices to famous Picasso paintings to Disney characters sculped out of chocolate... all within 24 hours of each other). Running around in giant labyrinths. Long walks. Parks. Realizing that Gaudi is totally an architectural dictator in Barcelona... he's EVERYWHERE. Watching Nell chase down and scream obscenities at the man who grabbed her bag. Eating... alot. And more! Ch-ch-ch-check 'em out!

http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=i46xdcx.t6jrio1&x=0&y=-222d08

There is almost nothing bad about fall (except maybe for daylight savings and the closing of Dairy Queen).. I mean come on, it CAN'T be bad... it's my favorite time of the year and also the season during which the world celebrated the miraculous event of my birth. That's two big points right thurr. I have to admit that summer, a season I used to not like very much at all save the fact that we didn't have school, is starting to grow on me. After years of hating the heat I adapted to it during the year in Sevilla. Now I make use of shorts (instead of refusing to wear anything but jeans back in the day) and I try to capitalize on how lucky I am to have beaches in my town. But even so, nothing compares with a New England fall. All the leaves changing color, the first time you see your breath in the cool, crisp air, fleece blankets, comfy sweaters, football games, my dad and his coat obsession (our childhood toy closet now houses an extensive collection of his coats, jackets, windbreakers, vests, you name it), childhood memories of jumping in giant piles of leaves with my brother and sister (and sometimes on top of a stray, hidden rake... ouch), the season's annual inaugural fire in the fireplace, the intense, clear blue of the autumn sky, heading down to the beach with a tennis ball to run around with my dog, the ability to see tons and tons of stars at my mom's house because there's no lights anywhere nearby and the air is so crisp...

So today, when Susan's mom who has been visiting asked me if I missed being in the USA, these are things that I thought of because I had fall on my mind. My mom, the other day on the phone, told me that this week is the peak week back in East Lyme, CT for the changing leaves... and that made me sad! Not in the "I want to go home" way, but in the "I miss fall!" way. Because like any normal city, there isn't a huge amount of trees here... and I don't have a car to go out driving around Spain looking for hills and hills of oranges and reds as the leaves change... and you can't really see the stars too well...and I can't find that perfect hot chocolate mug... and we don't have a fireplace. I mean, I guess I could buy one of those videos that you pop in the VCR that looks like a fire in the fireplace... but it doesn't emit the warmth or the smell that I luuuurrrve (yes, that's a Celine Dion love... that meants intense!).

I miss driving up the driveway to see smoke coming out of the chimney... which always makes me so happy because it means I can curl up on the floor in front of the fireplace in my favorite sweatpants with my dog, a book, and a big mug of hot chocolate. You know the mugs... they're big enough so that you can hold it with both hands against your chest, taking slow delicious sips. My personal favorite, currently sitting unused in the cabinet at home, is one made of clay that a friend gave to me back in high school with a painted sun and moon on it. It's MADE for hot chocolate perfection... especially if you throw a glob of fluff or some marshmellows in there. Mmm!

Haha, I need to stop listening to Ben Folds when I decide I feel like writing something. It makes me introspective.