london layover

*written now to be posted at home where I don't have to pay 5 bucks for internet use

Boredom means I write stuff… which is probably part of the reason I haven’t written in a gosh-darn long time- just haven't been bored enough! Anywho… I am currently in Heathrow Airport, staring at a tv screen waiting for my gate to pop up next to my flight number, and inevitably surrounded by bothersome bloody British-accented wankers… oh BOLLOCKS.

I would first like to discuss the family that I had the pleasure of sharing the otherwise delightful row 4 with on the first leg (Madrid-London) of my trip home. First of all, the family sat down and all seemed fine. They had two perfectly cute daughters… at least that’s the opinion I formulated based solely upon first appearances. Two hours and 20 minutes of hell in the skies later I find myself needing to amend that opinion, as I now believe that they were sent here by Satan himself to infiltrate our earthly society while remaining under the radar with their crafty disguises in the form of matching dresses and curly pigtails. Evil, earth-attacking aliens are of course another option and have not been ruled out.

The father, who I sat next to for the first hour, was perfectly normal. Well, technically he seemed depressed about life and completely lacking the energy to tell his daughters to- and I’m just throwing out an example here- stop screaming bloody murder at each other over their spelling flashcards. He cleeeeeeearly did not know what he was getting into when the opportunity to procreate presented itself. Well, I guess technically it was the woman who presented herself... procreation being the resulting side effect… but that’s just technically.

The father was Spanish, the mother was American… and I have yet to see why this cross-cultural bond was formed and documents signed. The man was clearly weary and worn down by these days of domestic hell. I will bet all 6 euros of my personal savings that he is probably ruing the day he decided to move to the USA to marry the love of his life. Eek. The wife was one of these “Did you call your father? You KNOW it’s your brother’s birthday on Thursday… Now don’t leave anything in the overhead compartment like the LAST time…” and 294848583 other inane questions and comments to which the husband simply sighed and nodded with downcast eyes. Poor tuckered out lil Spaniard.

An hour into the flight, the mother and father switched seats after the full-fledged military operation otherwise known as taking their daughters to the bathroom. Then daughter #2 comes to sit in the formerly unoccupied seat between me and her oh-so-pleasant mother. So then the mother looks at me, and then shaking her head says to her daughter “Look at what a bad, bad girl this girl is… she wrote on her hand... you know how Mommy feels about writing on your hands…” The daughter then looks at my hand and proceeds to raise her head to give me the most disappointed, condescending look a four year old can possibly give. SUE ME people… I need to remember my dang flight numbers!

And FINALLY… the daughters’ names were Ariana and Alexis…. And if I wasn’t so irked by the female parts of the family and saddened by the sole male, I would have laughed out loud instead of politely stifling it. Anywho, hello? Saturday Night Live? Cheerleading skit? The husband has an excuse- perhaps he isn’t as well-versed in late-night American comedy sketch shows. The wife though? EVERYONE knows that skit. “My name is Craig… I give good hugs… we can’t be friends… if you do drugs… Wooo!”

So originally the family was going to be the first of a few things… but turns out they provided enough on their own.

the american store

It's fate. I move to another part of Madrid... and land myself a mere 5 blocks from 'The American Store' (www.theamericanstore.es) which, according to them, is the largest American store in alllllll of the noble land of Spain. Well, it was not all that big... but I felt like a little kid going through the 5 aisles looking at the assortment of goods that I had forgotten I'd even missed. Mike 'n' Ikes! Cranberry sauce!! Rice krispie treats!!! Quaker oatmeal!!!! Lucky freakin Charms!!!!!! I resisted the temptation to buy it all... I somehow even managed to not pick up the Lucky Charms, that beloved childhood cereal which I rediscovered in Holy Cross's dining hall and proceeded to eat with a rather disturbing frequency because Mom wasn't there anymore to make sure I ate the proper ratio of marshmellows to cereal. The Lucky Charms tub and the fro-yo machine were my two favorite and most visited parts of Kimball... even miraculously beating out the omelette line at weekend, aka 'hangover recovery,' brunches.

I went to the American Store with a mission, my wallet, and a list of four items of the utmost importance: cake mix (and obviously an accompanying tub of frosting), Skippy superchunk peanut butter, root beer, and for the love of God some normal pickles NOT soaked in a vat of plain vinegar (insert gagging). A half-hour later I came out with a rather sizeable plastic bag like a trophy of my success filled with aforementioned products... annnnd perhaps some other treats that mysteriously made their way into my basket. Three bags of Reeses Pieces? What? A giant bag of Root Beer Barrel candies? Huh?

And as a gleeful exclamation point to my American shopping experience, the woman working there summoned one of her underlings working in the basement up to floor level to offer me a free root beer from the store's secret subterranean refrigerator "to beat the heat." It was glooooorious- so much so that I almost could have skipped home out of sheer contentment.

taxistas

When hailing a cab, you never know what kind of taxi driver is awaiting you within. In the past year, I have taken my fair share of taxis... normally in the 4am time range... and normally in a less than sober state of being. You know when I'm in a less than sober state of being when I get 'chatty' and make friends with, for example, two middle aged lawyers who then give me a business card for their bull-fighting webpage. I have yet to figure out how that conversation even started... all I know is that I like to think that I was not the one to initiate it.

Anyways, less me and more taxi drivers. In NYC, which is the only place in the United States where I've really even taken enough taxis to make a totally prejudiced generalization, you never really know anything about your cab driver because without a doubt they do not speak English. Half the time they just plain don't speak... when you give the address to which you'd like to arrive, there's no confirmation. No nod. Just a look in the rearview mirror and the car goes into motion. I never know whether or not to feel disconcerted. Here, on the other hand, habitually taking taxis is like doing an in-depth nature versus nurture study... one job, same language, same city, same job requirements... and yet those circumstances yield 2935830276262 personality types. Let me provide a few fun little examples..

The partier. Once upon a time when Joanne used to come out and was still tearing up dance floors with her snazzy moves (the running man, the supermarket, etc.), she, Susan, and I went out for an evening of drunken debauchery. As folks tend to do, we got tired somewhere in the realm of 5am. Cue the ruthless battle for the few open cabs that dare to pass through the area. We finally get one, much to the shagrin of the scantily clad bimbos 10 yards ahead of us who had been frantically trying to hail the same cab. I sometimes have to keep myself from sticking out my tongue and nah-nah-nah-nah-boo-booing them as we pass by. Anyways, by the end of the car ride I'm pretty sure Susan would have gladly given the cab to those girls... because this cabbie was a party-cabbie livin' up the Madrid night life from within the comforts of his own taxi. He was dancing in his seat, blasting music, flirting with the car of girls in the lane next to us, and he actually had a little hanging disco ball dangling from his rearview mirror. As I laughed and Susan clutched the car door as if to jump out at any moment, Joanne was having a blast dancing along with the cabbie, asking for the names of all his Euro-trash music (I call it 'epileptic' even though that's mean) because apparently these days it's the music that brings two souls together (Joanne and Paco). Luckily we made it to our apartment in one piece and he went off to find some more party passengers.

The politician. One day, I was heading to the La Latina part of the city to meet up with some homies for tapas. I, in my state of not wanting to go about changing metro lines, decided to take a cab. From the second I shut the door and divulged my destination, it became apparent that without even trying I had given off the impression that I'd love a not-so-brief run-down of the Spain's political situation for the past 30 years. Eventually it got to the point where he was apparently overcome with passion that he was yelling and waving his fist in the air in a rather violent manner. I'm pretty sure at this moment in time I was shrunken into the back corner of the cab, bug-eyed and with one finger on the door handle. The situation was further aggravated when we ran into a traffic jam due to - what else - a political demonstration in the street. What timing. Luckily for me, this extended the cab ride by about 15 minutes, 6 euros, and 10 more years of political history (accompanied by his own personalized commentary, of course).

The bitch. Female cab-drivers, like female 18-wheeler-drivers, are few and far between. I almost feel lucky when I have one... it's like seeing a comet that can only be seen from earth once every 284,000 years or going on a whale-watching expedition and seeing a rare albino orca whale. I don't know why an albino orca comes to mind... perhaps lasting effects from having recently seen DaVinci Code. Anyways, on this particular day (almost two weeks ago- as I was bringing a suitcase to Alfonso's) I was lugging aforementioned suitcase, that by the way weighed approximately the equivalent of a mastadon, across town and I sure as hell was not going via metro. I stood on the street corner beneath the 'Taxi' sign like an upstanding (non)citizen with my suitcase for a good 15 minutes to watch time and again as women finishing up a day of shopping snagged the few cabs that were passing by at that time of day 20 feet in front of said taxi sign. So, I dragged my mastodon suitcase to the other side of the street to try my luck there. Bam. Within two minutes I had a cab. With a woman! What luck! So I get the suitcase in the trunk, get in the back seat, and tell her where I'm going. She stares at me in the rearview mirror with dead eyes and informs me that I should have caught a cab going in the other direction. For a moment I actually thought she was going to make me get out. I explained the situation... I had waited for a really long time and people kept getting the cabs just ahead of me... to which she replied with a heavy sigh, a dramatic shift into first gear, and finally a 'Well I guess I'll just have to turrrrn arouuunnndd ughhhhh.' When we got to Alfonso's street I asked if she could pull to the left side of the road (it's one-way). She pulled to the right and stopped where there was no opening in the fence. Whatever. I got out, collected my belongings, and silently cursed her. Hey lady, just because you only have half of a thumb don't take it out on poor innocent moi.

The nice guy. These are my favorite cabbies. They indulge in pleasant conversations with their passenges. They don't, for example, yell at you when you get a cab going in the opposite direction from the one you're headed to. The nicest one I ever had was the one who started talking about how he didn't understand girls who wear really short skirts but then knee-high boots, combining two opposing seasons in the process. We laughed about other female clothing styles (something I like to do on a frequent basis anyway.. need I mention my daily observance of the Over-The-Top girl- a fellow Middlebury student- and her crazy belts, fish necklaces, hats, and yes, TIES).

The fanatic. When my family was here, we went to a soccer game. During that week, due to my mother's fractured ankle, we took taxi's everywhere. It was just a given. So obviously we weren't going to be going up and down flights of stairs and switching metro lines with thousands of boisterous, inebriated soccer fans. At least we didn't lug along the wheelchair (aka "Charlie") on this particular outing... that night I got to just get into the cab instead of leaning in to ask 'Can you open the trunk' first. Well, on this fine afternoon for a soccer game we happened to get a cab driver who by a stroke of luck turned out to be a soccer fanatic. First he was asking us all about soccer teams and which Madrid team we were fan of and if we'd ever been to a game before and if we knew the songs. We, needless to say, had not recently brushed up on our soccer songs... and as a result, he spent the rest of the cab ride singing and trying to teach us the songs for BOTH Madrid teams... which at first was funny and entertaining. But... after ten minutes it just grew uncomfortable and we were all shifting in our seats and smiling nervously.

So what is it that makes one cab driver an absolute beast but the next someone to whom you want to say 'Will you be my friend?'

another chapter closed

Well... I have bid adieu to our former abode at good ole General Pardiñas 28. Sigh. Last night I slept there for the last time. Alone. And on the couch because having washed all the sheets and such I couldn´t very well put them back on the bed and use them. Isn´t that decent of me? I also came to realize that I had packed and sent all of my clothes over to the new abode (Alfonso´s), forgetting to keep out pajama pants... which meant (not to give you all nightmares) then sleeping in my u-trow. In the den on the couch. It felt so wrong. I used the extra interior lock on the door in case the landlord made an early appearance this morning. Luckily for both of us, he didn´t. He probably would have found something to charge us for.

Being alone in the apartment was a wholly pathetic experience. Imagine the following scenario. A lonely (and sick... annnnd, as previously discussed, pants-less) Betsey in an empty apartment, her only remaining belongings being (that was a lot of consecutive -ing words) a few towels drying on the drying rack, her computer, 1 bottle of shampoo, 1 dvd of Arrested Development season 3, and (yes Angel, here´s your demanded shout-out) a ginormous steroidal tennis ball (Angel´s LAAAAAME attempt at a joke after I may or may not (ok- I did) have had a few problems adjusting from the length of a tennis racket to that of a paddle on my first day playing what else.. paddle/padel). Said ball has now been TRASHED in a demonstration of how I feel about our friendship. Psych! Just kidding. I gave it to a couple kids I saw on the way to the trash bin. They were delighted.

Then I went to Poli for the last time (hahahhaha that´s a lie... I´ll SO travel the half hour to the other end of the red Metro line for coffee at Poli. No, I´m not kidding.) I love Poli... and am slightly distressed that Poli and I no longer share the same address. I mean, I´ve spent the last nine months going there for daily (and often twice daily) caffeine binges. The waiters protected us from the advances of creepy middle aged men, ignored other customers to chat with us, and often slipped us free food. The other day, when Joanne and I went for our final coffee (well, Joanne was freaking out about leaving the next morning... therefore we substituted coffee for beer) date in Poli, they forced farewell shots upon us. Needless to say, and despite the three of them repeatedly proclaiming with obvious pride ¨Qué rico, qué rico,¨ they were the single foulest tasting shots I have ever thrown down my throat.. and trust me, that´s saying a lot; it´s this radioactive-looking, electric-yellow supposedly herb-flavored liquor that I had sworn never to try... and until the last week of Poli had avoided with a great deal of success. (I have now tried three of the five things I had sworn not to even try while here: foie, shitty herb liquor, and morcilla... which I´ve tried TWICE... damn you peer pressure! And no, I will not disclose the final two items of the list) As predicted, I spent the following hour grimacing and downing Smints trying to dissolve the taste like Barry Bonds with steroids trying to dissolve Babe Ruth´s record. (That´s two steroid references in one entry that doesn´t have to do with steroids- strange) Apparently his steroids paid off. My mints didn´t... all that came out of it was a bad taste in my mouth and a stomach ache. Fabulous. Anywho, today I ended my reign as an elite Poli frequent customer with a delicious cup o´ joe before handing over our three sets of keys to our landlord.

Goodbye General Pardiñas 28! We shall miss you, Casa Poli, and the naked painter across the street!




In other news, I feel the need to broadcast to the world (or the 7 people who are bored enough to read this crap that I write) the following story, about my stepsister Allison (aka ´Son´) and told to me by my stepsister´s roommate/other half/subway platform crawler Krissy:

¨Another day in the life of Krissy and Son: At 2:45 am Son comes into my room, wakes me up, and tells me that she accidentally drank perfume because she thought it was her water bottle. She asks me if she is goin to die, I tell her no; make fun of her for about 20 minutes... and then she threw up lavendar scent. I called poison control just so she would stop worrying, and was on hold for 10 minutes. Apparently other idiots are drinking chemicals in the middle of the night. Have no fear, she is okay, but will NEVER live this down. HAHAHAHA!¨

as requested..

conversation on Friday afternoon (today):
"So... should we plan to pick you up on Monday in Boston or no?"
"Um.. no? No."




Perhaps (ok, ok... it's a fact and I'm really sorry for ignoring you all for the past month) you've all been wondering what I'm doing with myself... so here is a straight up update which hopefully will contain some of the answers to the questions that I've been avoiding like a hypochondriac confronted with the bubonic plague.

First off, on my esteemed and extensive resume which is currently being viciously clawed over by top-notch employers (hahahahahahahahaha- that's a lie), I'm officially Elizabeth Mattern, M.A. Some may say that getting your Masters in your desired field of study makes you an intellectual. My family is proud of me. I got toasted at Christmas dinner by my uncle. I'm a hell of a lot broker (I owe the government more money than what my life is worth). All signs point to the fact that I've intellectually bettered myself. I tend to disagree. I'm still an idiot who does handstands instead of discussing Nietzsche. I would rather talk about the difficulty of finding the ever elusive blue bag of tropical Skittles than discuss politics. In my case (and in the case of approximately 60% of the people in this program) I think that M.A. stands for mediocre academic... but hey... on paper I look smarter. So... go me. Pop open some fine bubbly.

So this then leads to the question, what next? This has been a fun month... if you replace 'fun' with 'the most stressful'. I think we can all agree on just how indecisive I am (I like to call it 'easy-going', but hey... to each his own, right?). It's one of my most recognizable qualities. This is all fine and good until something important comes up... cough cough... such as life decisions. The first big one which very nearly caused me my first nervous breakdown was choosing a college. I prayed that four of my five college choices to reject me just so my options would be limited to one. Needless to say, the universe uttered a 'mwa-ha-ha' as he rubbed his hands together in evil delight as all five accepted me... and I spent the next 3 weeks in an infernal college limbo. So you can only imagine how I've been for the past month... I'm talking exponentially increasing levels of anxiety with each passing day, not helped by my natural instinct to internalize everything. And not to mention the added stress caused by the onslaught of questions from well-intentioned and rightfully curious friends and family everytime I connected to instant messenger, opened my email inbox, or picked up the phone. Because in the end, having finished the one and a half year cross-puddle Masters program, I was faced with what the hell I was going to do... and where... from this point on. Do I return to the U.S, to my family, to my oldest friends, to my comfort zone... or stay on in Spain... an ocean away from all that, a place where I have far less options and far higher degree of insecurity, but where I just have this feeling that makes me want to stay.

I opted for Jack Frost's legendary road less travelled, I guess. I pretty much decided a few weeks ago that I want to at least try my luck here. So, I tried to put into motion the changing of my flight. I have always been in love with British Airways. I like their little travel packs (toothbrush, toothpaste, socks, etc) that they provide, I like their free wine, I like their ticket prices, I like their easy to navigate website, I like their seats, I like their individual TV screens and the 20 channels to pick from, I like that they bumped me to business class that time, I like that they have given me food vouchers and a seat on the next flight out all of the 20482949230 times I've missed my connections, and I even really enjoy my in-flight meals. I'm perhaps even what one would call a British Airways snob... but hey, I feel that when you make a habit of taking eight-hour flights you're entitled. For British Airways, I even let the auditory torture that is the British accent slide. This is until over the course of the past couple of weeks we were repeatedly told "This is not a changeable ticket... there's nothing you can do." Bloody Red-coats.

'Well, there goes that idea,' I thought to myself. Faced with being forced to go back and not knowing how to handle that, I started stressing out... both of my parents had to deal with phone calls with me as I went through moments of what I call 'girlie emotions.' I (and I think the rest of my family is with me on this one) usually leave this delicate area of sentiments to my sister, who is the personification of said 'girlie emotions.' I love her dearly, but the girl cries watching sappy commercials and Lifetime movies. On the other hand, I don't think my parents know how to handle me when I get like that... because these moments are few and far between. I'm known as 'even-keel Betsey' for a reason. However, they are probably simultaneously relieved to have evidence that I am capable of human emotions and that there isn't a cold, cobweb-infested, black hole where a heart should be. (I promise that I'm not evil or emotionless... just an introvert)

The only option at this point was to simply 'miss' my flight and buy another one later on... an option that I hadn't considered until I talked to my dad. He made it all sound so simple... said not to stress out about it- it wasn't the end of the world... if I have to miss the flight I miss the flight and that's that. I was not expecting that reaction of either my parents. So then, of course, I was even more confused, indecisive, and racked with guilt. If I miss the flight, the ticket money goes to waste. I felt like doing that would make me that bratty, self-centered, spoiled, 'I don't wanna' type of person that I can't stand who just does what she wants despite the consequences. On the other hand, I don't think that I would have been humanly capable of boarding a plane come early Monday. So, here is the hypothetical plan as of now. I stay here until roughly the end of July. The first week of August I go to Maryland where my step-dad's family gets together every summer and hopefully to see my favorite soft-crab-sandwich-eating Maryland-er (Nell). Then, my dad has in theory changed the date of his five year anniversary of being cancer-free party from June to the second week... which I had originally been upset about missing. Following that, I either come back to Spain to work depending on how things go between now and July, or I stay in the U.S. But this is all two months away and at least for today I'm leaving it for 'future-Betsey' to figure out.

For now, all that matters is that on Monday morning at 7am, some relieved person on stand-by will board the plane and sit in my seat. And as that person is landing in London, I'll be waking up to another day of Spanish sunshine.

monkeys and fishies

I think we all remember that stunning poster for 'Yo, mono libre' featuring my favorite suited human-monkey back awhile ago. Well now, in that very same theater, we have a play about fish-babies. Or something. What is with this theater's obsession with cross-breeding for their posters???

whacking balls (this isn't x-rated, I swear)

When the nice weather comes, the Betsey wants to play. It’s just nature. She sees the sunshine and feels the warm air and she wants to be six years old again so that if she were to decide to do a few cartwheels of joy, people wouldn’t look at her with that look of pity that makes obvious the fact that they think she rode the little bus to school everyday. Coincidentally, I also receive this look when someone stops me for directions or to try to sell me a new cell phone plan or to get me to donate to the wildlife federation or whatever those people with the panda bear vests are from. I reply, the American accent is noted, and the ‘look’ with the accompanying exaggeratedly slow nod ensues. The one that says, “Ohhhh I see… you’re Ameeeeerican… that’s shame… I’ll ask elsewhere....”

Anyways. Every year, when springtime really comes around, I want to play sports. And by springtime I mean after those few teaser days in like February that are freakishly warm and that fill us with false hope before giving us the finger, throwing us down a flight of stairs, and plummeting us all back into tundra-like conditions. The weather right now (70’s, sunny, delightful little white puffy clouds…) makes me think of softball games and tennis matches. Unfortunately, it’s a little difficult to start up a quick game of softball/baseball/whiffle-ball for obvious reasons of participation. This is where tennis becomes really useful: you only need one other person and usually you can find that willing volunteer without too much difficulty. However, my tennis racket, if it hasn’t since been stolen by my brother during my cross-seas absence, is at home in my room, lonely and unplayed with since last summer. Wow. I almost just made myself feel guilty for neglecting it…

So I tried running. Like, hmm maybe I’ll learn to enjoy running, thinking that perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Like beer. When you sneak that first sip from your parents' beer when you're like 10 years old, you gag and spit as if you had accidentally swallowed sewage and then go clamoring frantically like a drug addict through the fridge in search of a grape juicebox to erase the taste of that fermented beverage from hell. And then, magically, by the time you're 18 that same devil drink quenches your thirst and delights your pallate. I keep thinking the same phenomenon may someday happen with running. I’ve tried this a few times… to get to the point where running is enjoyable. But no. I will never ever ever be one of those people who enjoy a good 5 mile run to start my day. I will also never be one of those people who go running to work off stress. In fact, it makes me MORE stressed because halfway into the run I’ll be yelling at myself. For example: “You KNOW Betsey, this would be a lot easier if you had some self-control and RATIONED that box of Girl Scout cookies instead of eating them all in two days.” When I’m stressed, I don't need to run around in cirlces. I need to HIT things. (Dear friends and family, don’t worry… this doesn’t include people… at least not usually…) In fact, the sports I like are the ones where hitting stuff is the key part of the game. Softball/ baseball (hit ball)… tennis (hit ball)… rugby (hit people and break their legs)… and the reason I stopped playing golf was because it has one fun part and the rest is crap. Like come on… I only get to slam the ball 18 times and then do the boring stuff at least twice that many times? I think not. Although driving the golf cart is unexpectedly fun, you can just leave me on the driving range. It’s the only part thats worth it.

So now there’s a new sport in my life. It’s a little thang called padel/paddle, which I like to think of as a cross between tennis and glorified ping pong. Smaller court, a wall which I will never be able to properly use to my advantage, tennis ball, and this crazy paddle-racket thing with holes in it. We’ve had a few rough patches, this game and I… for example, being completely confused the first day, getting used to the shorter length of the paddle when I’m used to the length of a tennis racket (there were a lot of whiffs that first day… and Angel, Alfonso, and Salva were probably rolling their eyes non-stop during this attempt to teach me to play), and then the other day I actually whacked myself in the forehead with the paddle, an ace move which luckily went unnoticed, along with the fact that I was running around with one eye closed for a few minutes until the pain dulled, by the same three people. For anyone who was worried, the egg that it left is almost gone.

So, I actually really like playing now, I once again get to run around and hit stuff, and all is well in the world.

God changed his mind... and he's God, so I can't contest that...

I'm not what one would call 'difficult' to please. In fact, I'm pretty much content, and even full out happy, doing anything. Unless it involves flocks of large birds. Or anything that Martha Stewart would consider to be one of the ingredients in her recipe for sheer joy. This of course includes cooking... cleaning... sewing... decorating (time-out, unless it's a cake- because hey, who DOESN'T like those packaged sugar letters that spell out Happy Birthday...) I'm pretty sure that I was one of those young'ns who was ten times more entertained by the cardboard box than by the toy within. In fact, my favorite childhood item, and the subject of many days of sorrow when it mysteriously 'disappeared' that fateful day when I was about ten years old, was one of my dad's old t-shirts which I kept with me at all times... while I sucked my thumb. People in the supermarket must have frowned upon my poor parents, who by the way spoiled their first-born with Cabbage Patch dolls, Glo-Worms, and bicycles, upon seeing my adorable but silent four year old self carrying around a hideous, mustard-yellow t-shirt and treating it with the care and protection that would befit the Holy Grail... not a ratty piece of Dad's old clothes that was probably otherwise destined to be a rag used to clean the car's oil stick. But I was beyond happy with it in my hands.

Not much has changed since then. Although I have since abandoned my thumb-sucking habit, and the t-shirt fixation ended much to my dismay, there's still not a whole lot of upkeep necessary in regards to making me a happy gal. I mean, I'm 23 going on 8 years old... I roped Angel and Alfonso into going to the zoo with me the other day because I wanted to see monkeys and dolphins, I have spent up to an hour straight popping bubble wrap, and I'm not embarassed to say that I still enjoy a good handstand when nobody's watching (warning: close your shades if you're going to practice this childhood art in, say, your dorm room, because all of a sudden you will look across to the neighboring dorm building to find that half of its inhabitants are staring at you with raised eyebrows. Needless to say, you will then see these people in line at the dining hall and/or next to you on the ellypticals at the gym). The fact that I'm easy to please and beyond content doing anything as long as it's with people I like perhaps helps to explain what many classify as my chronic indecisiveness.

Moving along these same lines, one of the things that makes me most happy in this world is going out to eat... particularly for breakfast, and if given the choice, at the Shack in East Lyme. I mean, there's not a whole lot that would classify it as the thrilling experience I find it to be, and yet 8 dollars for a cup o' coffee, a big ole orange juice, and of course eggs, toast, and homefries, makes this Betsey a happy Betsey. Unfortunately, while the breakfast situation outlined above will forever be a favorite of mine, it is losing ground to a new foreign enemy: sunny Spanish afternoons spent sitting in street cafes with my ever-refreshing carbonated friend Coca-Cola light. I mean, it's the ideal situation, and the great thing about Madrid and Spain in general is that they all understand the wondrous wonderful wonderfulness of it... and therefore its practice is widespread and celebrated. If only us Americans would catch on to the street cafe lifestyle. It's THE equation for a glorious and yet relaxing afternoon: sit+sun+sip+stalk strangers. The only thing marginally close that I can think of near East Lyme is Charley's Restaurant at the mall, which now offers outdoor seating with a splendid view of... yes folks, the mall parking lot.

So, America, get with the program. Make your lives just that much more enjoyable.

heavenly visits

God doesn´t want me to write blogs. He told me last night.

some thoughts from the amazing mind of Elizabeth Mattern

The other day, upon leaving the mental stimulation that is class (please note the sarcasm), I opted to sit outside and enjoy the sunshine in a small park between the school and my house. Now in this park, which conmemorates our homeboy Christopher Columbus, there is a monument. So, since there's an oldish-looking monument, tourists see it and immediately flock to it like flies to a florescent bug-zapper light in order to take a picture with it even though they haven't got a clue as to what it is. For all they know it could be a monument conmemorating the great achievements of Adolf Hitler that just hasn't been taken down yet. Luckily for them, it's not. So I watched the string of tourists who came through the park to take a picture with this monument. Here are my observations..

First of all, I'm pretty positive that tourists, young and old alike, TRY to look ugly and/or awkward. Don't they realize that 1) they're going to be immortalized in photographs in this get-up 2) they're not on an African safari and 3) Interestingly enough, looking like an idiot is not a prerequisite for being a tourist. 4) I can't think of a fourth but I'm sure there is at least one more. From what I've seen (and Allison and I were also discussing it while she was here), it would seem that a typical packing checklist would go as follows:
-teva's
-shin-high socks to be worn under teva's for stylish but comfortable foot-wear
-cargo shorts/pants/shants with as many pockets as humanly possible
-cargo vest with as many pockets as humanly possible
-cargo jacket with as many pockets as humanly possible
-fanny-pack
-giant camera bag
-one small camera bag
-awkward hat

American tourists
They awkwardly stand around with their cameras in hand waiting for someone who doesn't look 'dangerous' to pass by so that they can ask them to take a picture. If in a group larger than two, everyone from the group will want a picture with their own digital cameras (as they refuse to make things easy and share... which is half the purpose of a digital camera...), and therefore shove all 9 cameras at the poor hand-picked, picture-taking victim. Then, they won't like how they turned out in the pic on their camera, so the process is repeated. Then, of course, you have the college-aged male jackasses (I have no doubt they were American) who climb up and pretend to hump the monument. Just think... in just a couple years these superstars will be entering the work force, probably handling your money, advising you on stock market decisions, or teaching your children. And finally, Americans never fail to display what Ines calls the "American smile" (keep reading..).

Spanish tourists (or just picture-takers... since this is technically their country and all...)
The existence of the "Spanish smile," which, unlike its American counterpart, is ironically the lack of a smile. They could be laughing just before the picture is taken, but the moment that they know that the button is going to be pushed, the smile disappears and they just look at the camera. Or turn away from the camera. Sometimes there's a hint of a smile that you can vaguely detect at the corners of the mouth... but that's about all you're usually going to get. Take, for example, this picture of Hannah and her roommate Ines, in which Hannah blatantly said "Smile for the camera!" at which point Ines turns away.

Japanese tourists
I swear to God that the entire country of Japan descends upon Spain during tourist season... sometimes I can't help but wonder who's left out there in the east to invent new cameras and robots and whatnot. I noticed it a lot more in Sevilla, but probably just due to its being a smaller city. They frequently travel in packs, which are usually in the range of 30-60 people. However, despite the bazillion hour plane flights and the endless long busrides they endure together, they apparently don't make friends within these packs... proof being that they never take pictures with other people. Within the packs, the Japanese seem to travel in pairs. They do not take any pictures in which they are together, but rather one stands stiffly, hands behind their back, in front of the monument and doesn't smile while the other one takes 5 pictures of that pose. Then, they switch. It must be simply exhilarating to look through Japanese photo albums: "Monument and me. Monument and you. Monument and you again. Monument and me again. Street scene and me. Street scene and you."

moo moo moto

Well if this isn't a sign I just don't know what it is...

stalker!!!!!!

Stalker shots w/ my new itty bitty teeny tiny spy cam, compliments of Angel's spring cleaning of his 'toy' closet. It is a digital camera, a video recorder, a voice recorder, a web cam, and a storage thingee. You can see it in the 3rd picture, which I took into a mirror. The digital cam is without a doubt my mode of choice. Why? Because my stalkerdom is approaching dangerous levels. I'm practically paparazzi...
So, though my aim needs some improvement, here is the first installment :o)

la coruna tales

Quote of the weekend: Do you want to eat octopussy?
This, combined with my remembering of someone (who, in this captivating literary masterpiece that I otherwise call my blog, will remain nameless) who a few years ago instead of saying that an octopus has eight tentacles said that it has eight testicles, made my first culinary octopus experience rather comical. Needless to say, my ever-present inner monologue had me choking back laughter while simultaneously swallowing octopus. Ahhh yes... octopussy with 8 testicles... a true delicacy. Typical Espanish?

Because he was kind enough to let me tag along, I went with Alfonso to La Coruna, the romping grounds of his youth and of my one month pre-Sevilla stay two years ago. I ate at least half of the Atlantic Ocean's life forms (octopussy being only one of the many..), saw the good ole Rialta residence (unfortunately I did not see the Rialta hell-bus), met approximately 2/3 of Galicia, gave myself pats on the back for remembering places and streets, and got to play once again along the shores of the Atlantic. It was also funny to think that La Coruna and East Lyme, Connecticut are approximately on the same latitude, and that therefore by looking west I was essentially waving to home. And yes, I waved... I'm just that cool. Don't judge.

After this most recent adventure in La Coruna, I have also amended my theory on the link between shortness and Spanish men. Before, I had decided that the Spanish are just generally small... now I have come to believe that it's a geographical trend that varies as one moves from region to region... like language dialects. Let's think of it as a height dialect. (This proves once again that my 'Espanol de hoy' class is clearly dominating my life. The other clue was probably when we set a drinking game rule which mandated that we all had to speak using 'ceceo.' Thuthan, nethethitas otra thervetha? Ethtath borracha?= Susan, necesitas otra cerveza? Estas borracha? = Susan, do you need another beer? Are you drunk?) I love straying from what I'm talking about. Anyway, in the south they are the smallest... I take this from my year in Sevilla during which I felt mildly gargantuan. The height and build then increases as one travels northbound through the central Spain region... although shortness still reigns, you find a few freaks thrown in there who are tall-ish and bring up the average just a little bit. Then, when you hit the Atlantic shores of the northern city of La Coruna, the people have evolutionized to be of normal stature and build... normal at least according to American, and therefore my, standards.

It must be the rain that makes all them Gallego boys shoot up like sunflowers. Ironic.








Oh and p.s. It's my half-birthday. Congratulate me on my 23 and 1/2 years. Wooo! Fiesta!

fam in Spain

All last week I had family visiting, here are the pics Allison took of the visit:
To clear up any confusion with the captions, Cain & Abel are the crutches, and the wheelchair's name was Charlie.

http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=c1ke43qp.2fwfbd3t&x=0&y=sanfzv

relativity

Anecdote #1 is an age anecdote. "I was still really young," said my professor, referring to a Picasso exposition he had gone to. He then mentioned that this exposition was held in 1971 or so. At first I thought nothing of it, thinking of my parents who, in the early 1970's, were college-aged. But then I looked at my professor (there aren't too many other options when a) you're one of two students in the class and b) the exaggeratedly slow clock is directly behind you..). Then, in a stunning but true mental feat, I did the math... AND without using my fingers. An additional piece of information is that this professor is EIGHTY-SIX years old. So when I thought about it again, did the subtraction (addition's tricky little friend), 'really young' to him is apparently 51 years old. Don't get me wrong, 51 is by no means old; my parents are in their fifties and in no way do I consider them to be 'old.' However, I somehow tend to doubt that when they nostalgically think back upon their 'young years' that they think back 3 or 4 years like, 'Ahhh yes... 51... THOSE were the days....' I'm willing to bet that they think about when they were in their 20's or maybe early 30's (cough cough, when the light of their lives was born-- MOI!). However, when he first said in his little anecdote that he was really young at the time of the exposition, I thought that perhaps he was reflecting upon when he was in his 20's or 30's... but no, he was talking about his early fifties. Personally, when turning both 22 and 23 I had some fleeting worries of getting older (replace 'fleeting' with 'repetitive' and replace 'worries' with 'crises'). Typical thought processes include(d): 'oh my God my youth is over, oh my God people I know are getting engaged and shooting out offspring, oh my God I'm supposed to start contributing to society, oh my God 1/4 of my life is over, oh my God I can never go back and playhigh school team competitive sports, etc. So while I worry about being 'old' with my 23 years, I'm practically just out of the womb from the perspective of my 86 year old professor.

Anecdote #2 has to do with temperature. Exactly two years ago, during Holy Week, Joanne and I were in Sevilla watching what we came to call "whelp, there goes another virgin" processions. Per the advice of Maribel, my span-mom who knows the schedules of all the processions by heart, we went to watch one of them cross over the river by way of the Triana bridge en route to the city center/cathedral. We had just bought ourselves delightful ice cream cones and were in the process of laying claim to a spot on the sidewalk because shortly thereafter the usual onslaught of people would arrive trying to get themselves a good view. All of a sudden, we hear a woman behind us say, in all seriousness, to her friend "Que frio, verdad?", basically complaining about how cold it was. This would have been fine had the following not been true: a) It was about 75 degrees outside, sunny, no shade, no breeze, no clouds. b) Our ice creams were literally dripping down our wrists because they were melting faster than we could eat it. c) We were wearing short sleeves or tank tops. d) Not that comes as any great surprise, but I was getting sunburned. e) The woman was being serious. Two years later, on hot days Joanne and I still joke to each other 'Que frio verdad?' as we're sweating out buckets just to be ironic.
Now Sevilla is a city whose average temperature during the winter is like 55 degrees and whose temperature during the summer often breaks 100 steamy degrees. When it was 80 degrees out and a few of us decided to go to the beach in Cadiz for the day, one of my Span-sisters was like, "but it's not beach weather yet." Scarves were still being worn in the household as I was getting out the short-sleeves from their winter hibernation in my suitcase under my bed. So again, it's all relative: to my Span-fam, 55 degrees during the summer is the coldest it gets while to me, 55-60 degrees in mid-February is nothing, especially after driving a car in Connecticut for two years that had no heat (please, a moment of silence for the Pontiac... which has since been incinerated by the Old Lyme Fire Department for practice...). I grew up where you have to go outside 10-15 minutes before you actually want to leave in order to scrape the frost/ice/snow off the windows, where if you don't drive with gloves you can watch your hands turn purple and stiff right in front of your eyes, and where the large quantity of water that continuously accumulated on the passenger side floor of the good ole Ponty turned into a miniature skating rink.

So in the end, everything is relative... not that this is any fascinating revelation and not that this is the first time that this has occurred to me. But still, it's interesting to think about. 30 miles in a car is a quick drive down the highway whereas 30 miles on a camel through African desert is a bit of a trying hike. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich is a (utterly delicious) snack to many whereas in third world countries it would probably be a huge meal. 50 feet to a roller-coaster enthusiast is nothing whereas 50 feet is practically halfway to the moon to someone terrified of heights. Hittin' the hay at 4am is just a normal evening to a night owl/insomniac/me whereas going to sleep at 4am means the next day is going to be terrible for someone who usually goes to sleep at midnight.

The end.

the Poli chronicles, continued

As I've mentioned in the past, Joanne and I are loyal (to the point of obsessive) regulars at a magical little wonderland on the corner of General Pardinas and Hermosilla called Casa Poli. Its charm, internationally renowned cuisine, and overall atmosphere have had us hooked from day one. Well, in reality it's probably just a matter of convenience, as it's right on the corner. It doesn't hurt that the waiters are in love with us. Its charm is provided by our pals the waiters (and yes, we are on a first name basis with Fernande, Joaquin, and Rafa...). The forementioned five star cuisine refers to the cheap coffee and the occasional tortilla sandwich that, when we're too lazy to cook (in the case of Joanne) or too lazy to even go to the grocery store (that'd be me), we order 'to go' to then eat while watching some dubbed Simpsons fun. And finally, the captivating atmosphere is provided by the eclectic mix of patrons (we like to call them 'bichos') who frequent the establishment and provide us with occasional entertainment.

The Poli crowd can be basically divided into two groups, each group contributing profoundly to our beloved cafe. First, there is a group of people who, along with us (we compose the entire young female population of Poli consumers... young being anyone under 50), are placed under the title of 'regulars.' They're mainly apartment building porters, construction-type workers, the Chinese guy who works at the dollar (well, euro?) store down the street, and an old man who sits in there drinking and barking out orders all day. After the regulars, there are the rest. Slews of randoms. It's a mix of students, middle-aged women who don't take off their sunglasses, and a few random businessmen who are obviously lost enough to stoop down to the Poli level (which is, coincidentally, OUR level).

Today was our second encounter with the absolute randomest of the randoms. To begin, he meows... and yes I do mean meow like a cat. All I can think of is Super Troopers, except in the movie it was done as a joke. The lightbulb in this man's head, on the other hand, is obviously burnt out or switched indefinitely to the off position. He walks into Poli, sits down on a stool, and meows at the waiters. To demonstrate, a typical 30 second span of his feline monologue goes a lil something like this:

Meow
(Silence)
Meow
(Silence)
Meow.. meow-meow
(Silence)
Meow- (yells) Hay paella?
(waiter nods and scoops him a little plate of paella)
Meow

Ya'll probably think I'm joking. I'm not. But today was special day: we had the pleasure of sitting next to him. Actually let me correct myself. JOANNE had the distinct pleasure, opportunity, and dream come true of sitting beside this intriguing character (intriguing = we don't think his parents socialized him as a youngster). I unfortunately had to watch from afar... woe is me?

Ok, not that we necessarily judge people by their appearances or mannerisms (that's a lie), but when he sat in the stool to Joanne's right, both Joanne and I instinctively scooted towards our left. Then, having meowed a few times and received his plate of paella, there was momentarily nothing of interest to tell. He was eating his paella, Mo-Jo and I were sipping our coffees, regular conversation resumed, and all was well and peaceful in Poli-land. ANNNND THEN..

All of a sudden, he of the cat-call put down his fork and started eating the rice and picking at the shellfish in the paella with his fingers. I have no doubt that the shellfish are probably tricky to eat with one's fork and that there is therefore some sort of delicate way to get at the meat inside. This man clearly did not possess this technique. I couldn't look at Joanne in the face because over her right shoulder all I could see was this man shoving food into his mouth and picking at crab parts. It was actually making me feel vaguely ill. ANNNND THEN..

The meow man got off his stool and stood up. We thought he was leaving and breathed a sigh of relief. Ohh no no.. how very mistaken we were. He proceeds to continue to pick at the shellfish, but now he's eating them whole, then pulling out the hard parts and hurling them at the floor. He was like a rapid gumball machine (or a machine gun, in the PG-13 rated version..) of shellfish parts. Except he wasn't just throwing them to the floor, but rather throwing them at the floor below Joanne's feet. Joanne grew quiet and then turned and said to me in English (as if talking to him), 'excuse me sir, but it seems that your crustaceans are hitting my shoes.' So this continues for about a minute, random crab parts being plucked from this man's mouth by food-covered hands and then, to her chagrin, chucked at Joanne's shoes. There was absolutely no way that this could get any better. ANNNND THEN..

The same man meows a few more times and orders a sandwich. We, therefore, decide to leave before he starts in on the festivities that the 2nd course of his meal was sure to be. But as we're waiting to pay, he reaches exaggeratedly across Joanne to the napkin holder that is sitting between Joanne and I. Before our widened, horrified eyes, he grabs somewhere in the vacinity of 800 napkins... and in the process smears paella (yes.. the paella that had been caked to his fingers), all over said holder. We meekly left our money on the counter and left.

Just your typical 25 minute Casa Poli coffee break, really...

daddyoooo

Happy 55th birthday to THIS GUY!!

dumbasses, round 294829

dumbasses 1 and 2 -->












Here is a sampling of today's conversations that show that our domination of the English language is in continuous decline. Hey, like 17th century Spain!! (ba-dump-tschhhh! ..... you know, the drum thing they do when someone tells a joke..)

Joanne: I have... er, I'm tired. I'm going to take a nap when we get back.
Me: Good thing we're taking a coffee before we nap.


(an hour later)

Joanne: Eww! There's a slug on the floor!
Me: A SLUG??? Are you sure??
Joanne: Well, it's got antlers...






Note: No, our apartment is not infested by bugs. It was an isolated event involving an obviously very lost and adventurous bug (and one that beared absolutely no resemblance to a slug). The situation has since been taken care of and we are bugless once again.

preguntas

I used to keep a mental list of random questions to ask people in the event of an awkward silence. People immediately turn to the typical questions like "soooo, what's your favorite movie?" or "soooo, what's your favorite band?" to which the person will either respond with a "oh God, there's so many... I can't even choose" and let that serve as the answer, or will just shoot off a list of 284829 movies or bands which in turn will lead you to want to shoot yourself. Not many people have A favorite band or A favorite movie. So, to avoid these cliche conversations which lead to nothing... here are a few of the questions I used to keep on my list...



What is your favorite feeling/smell/sound?
(Feelings ie things that give you a good feeling: Mmm... waking up before the alarm goes off, looking at the clock, and realizing you still have another hour. Or laying on Mark's front yard at night looking for shooting stars. Or playing with dogs. Favorite smell: banana bread baking in the oven or Sevilla when the orange blossoms are all out. Favorite sound: opening a brand-new cannister of tennis balls... pop!)

What's the funnest thing you've ever done?
(Instant fun: bungee-jumping and flying planes. Long-term fun: adventures in Spain)

What's your first memory?
(I'm not sure which came first... I was approximately 2 and a 1/2 years old for both events. Either going to get a new swing-set with my dad or going in a limousine when I was a flowergirl for my aunt and uncle's wedding.. I have no recollection of the actual ceremony)


How did your family come to America?
(This question is my personal favorite and is normally the recipient of the strangest looks when asked. You can find out some random background on people... like Hannah is 1/32 Native American. Note: this question does not work in Spain.)


What's your favorite cursive letter?
(lower-case z all the way, baby... it's like a party in itself. It's the one and only reason I wish my nickname was Liz or Lizzy instead of Betsey. In addition, my favorite number to write is 4... ok now everybody who cares raise your hands.)

Do you have any weird fears?
(Swiss army knives, birds, back seats of 2 door cars, etc)

Do you have any weird talents?
(I can imitate a baby crying and reach the bottom of my chin with my tongue)

What's your favorite meal of the day?
(Mmm- breakfast!! This doesn't apply so much in Spain either since they clearly haven't caught on to the beauty of breakfast foods.. and no, I don't mean Special K or toast. I miss REAL breakfast food- nothing like diners and b-fasts at the Shack)

What was your favorite age?
(21 was good.. even though I turned 21 in a country that doesn't give a flyin' hoot)

If you could travel anywhere in the world on an unlimited budget and unlimited time schedule, where would you go?
(Current top-runners are Ireland, Germany, Alaska(n cruise), and driving down the whole west coast of the US)

With your brothers and sisters, were/are you a torturer or a torturee?
(Torturer, no doubt. Rhyming about my sister was a prime example: Elaine the pain, her real name is Wayne, she's totally insane, married to Hussein, and so forth. Or the time there was a spider on the ceiling over her bed and she wanted to kill it before she went to sleep... I wouldn't let her turn the light on and said things like "Oh Elaine... settle down... it's not going to fall on you... unless it lets go of its SUCKERS." She screamed in horrified terror.)

If you could pick one super-power, what would you pick?
(Since I'm already infinitely wise and unmatched in physical beauty while harnessing the physical strength and prowess of a lion, I guess I'd have to go with being able to turn into ooze like Alex Mack)

Were you a cute kid or an awkward one?
(I don't feel the need to answer this. I went from really cute to really awkward in a really short period of time.)

What was your favorite tv show as a child?
(Muppets! Interestingly enough, this remains one of my favorite shows as a quasi-adult)

Do you like flying or hate flying?

(Weeee!!! I like everything about it. Did I ever tell you about the time I thought that if I jumped off the top of my swingset with an open umbrella I'd be able to fly? Yeahhh note to all: it doesn't work.)

Well I accomplished what I set out to do--- procrastinate. Ughh studying for exams is soooo overrated.

There are a few aspects of life here to which I will never acclimate. It's not because I'm stubborn or hostile towards these minor details of daily life, but because my brain has just proven itself incapable of adapting over and over again. Here's a run-down.

1. Meters versus feet. If you tell me that you're 180 centimeters, that means nothing to me! I don't even know how to convert that. You could tell me you're 800 centimeters tall and I won't question it. I'm 5 feet and 7 inches... if you told me that that converts to 80 centimeters, I'll believe you. If you tell me that converts to 600 centimeters, I'll believe you. I have no concept of metric system measurements. By the way, what is the reasoning behind beverage quantities in the US? Why do we use our... well, whatever system it is... full of cups and teaspoons and pints and gallons and then in the same shopping trip buy a 2 liter bottle of diet coke but a gallon of milk? Furthermore, this goes for driving speeds. I tend to drive about 70-75mph (unlike my sister... what up SPEEDSTER- muah!), and I know that 75mph would be quite a bit higher in kilometers per hour (kph?)... but how much? Beats me! If I look at a speedometer here, I have no idea if you're risking my life and going at the speed of light or crawling. I have to rely on how fast the trees/buildings/screaming people go by.

2. Celcius versus Fahrenheit. Joanne says "I love celcius! If the temperature goes up just a couple degrees, it's a lot warmer!" Well I'm sorry, but 69 degrees (today's temp in Fahrenheit) will always sound warmer to me than 21 degrees (celsius). 21degrees to me means scraping frost off the windshield in the morning, possibility of a blizzard, freezing off my tuckus outside, and finally enjoying cocoa and a warm blanket... ideally next to the fireplace. 21 degrees to "them" (Spanish... or, well, anyone who's NOT American) means throw on a t-shirt and sitting outside in the sun drinkin' a cold brew. If someone here tells me it's 15 degrees out, that means nothing to me... I have to think about it for a sec (15degrees celsius x 2 = 30, minus 10% = 27 + 32 = 59degrees fahrenheit. Yes, a light jacket will do.). What a hassle.

3. Military time. If someone tells me that we're going to meet up for coffee at 18:00, I almost want to respond "Sir, yes sir" and give a salute. My clocks will always be set to 12 hour periods. Not 18:00... 6pm! 6pm! None of this military time nonsense. Am I wearing camuflage? Have I completed boot camp? Am I on a top secret mission? No... all I want is a coffee. Also, there have been times when I've been gold 17:30 and what sticks in my head is the 7... so I plan on 7:30pm and then get an impatient call around 6pm from a friend who's been waiting for me for a half hour.

4. And then there's the slow, crooked walking. This pertains to mainly the women: they're a double threat. First, they walk at an exaggeratedly slow pace while at the same time randomly stopping and/or swerving back and forth. Despite their slow velocity, predicting what they're going to do (which I have to do from behind as to be able to weave through them) is impossible. They remind me of a few nights freshman year walking, from the left wall to the right wall (involuntarily), down the Mulledy hallway after a long, eventful, thirst-quenching evening out on Caro Street. To really screw you, these same women are very chummy with each other and always walk about with linked arms. Yeah, it's cute blah, blah, blah, but unfortunately it creates a barrier between me and freedom. I get frustrated.

I know there are more... but that's good for now. Meanwhile, it's a gorgeous 21 degrees out, I'm off to weave my way through the window-shopping, linked-armed, slow-walking women down Goya to my class at 15:40 and then I'm meeting up for coffee with someone at 19:00. Phew, that took some effort.

I'm currently having a moment. I don't want to leave... at all. In fact, whenever I think about it, I panic.

Arghhh..

I am going to get an ice cream and wallow in its cold yet comforting deliciousness.

sangria hiatus

No. More. Sangria. I simply cannot do it anymore.

Last night, I found myself looking at it in my glass as if it were my mortal enemy (actually, maybe it IS my mortal enemy..). I had to take deep breaths and count to three before each swig. Don't get me wrong, sangria is fantastic- it's like drinking fruit punch.. on crack. But there really is only so much of it you can drink before you start hating it. Nevertheless, Joanne, Nell, and I went out last night for what else.. sangria... and Nell and I, since we've had approximately 48209482 sangria nights in the past month or so, spent the evening looking at each other with looks of defeat as if to say, "why are we voluntarily putting more of this in our bodies?" So, no more sangria. At least not until Allison comes (3 weeks) because I think she would rather enjoy the bar...

To change things up at the normally pretty low-key Cuevas de Sesamo (the sangria place), last night there was a bar fight. Wee! I had yet to see a bar fight in Spain- so I guess it's another thing to check off my non-existent list. The last bar fight I saw, if my memory serves me correctly, was the night before college graduation at Irish Times- between two idiot beer-balled-up, testosterone-loaded Holy Cross football players who didn't stop to think 'Hmm... tomorrow I'm graduating and there will be lot's of pictures to commemorate the day.' Ohhh Worcester- you're classy, classy, classy. So to add a little ambiance to our sangria experience last night, there was the added audiovisual pleasures of yelling, shoving, bloody faces, airborne sangria pitchers, shattered glasses, broken tables.. the whole 9 yards. The poor waiters couldn't do anything to break it up because they're all like 300 years old, so it just continued until these jackasses' friends decided to step in. Or maybe just because one of the guys definitely needed to go to the hospital- the left size of his face was beginning to look like the guy in that movie Mask that has Cher in it. (Random movie allusion- but that's what came to my mind...) Who knows. But at least the police got there.... making their heroic but fashionably late entrance a half hour after the fight ended. Ahh... made me miss hockey games...

traumatic experiences

I told some of the following story to Alfonso a few days ago, and as nothing interesting has happened yet this week nor have I met any weirdos, I'll re-use it for its entertainment value. Ready set go! Anybody who knows me really well knows that I can't eat spaghetti. I prefer noodles. I will specifically ask in restaurants to substitute the pasta shape. Ziti, shells, elbows... frankly anything that squirts out tomato sauce when you bite it makes me a happy eater. When I'm at home, my mom will pull out a box of spaghetti to make for dinner... then she'll realize that I'm there on one of my prodigal daughter visits and proceeds to return the box to the cabinet from which it came, opting instead for one of the aforementioned noodle varieties. Ahh that Bern-Bern is a quick learner (except apparently not on the ski slopes these days... whaddup broken ankle 3 weeks before Madrid!).

For years I wondered why I was so extremely anti-spaghetti... I mean, those stringy noodles haven't done anything for me, its rather fun to twirl it on one's fork, and the image of spaghetti and meatballs being served to you by a jolly Italian man in a chef's hat and a big ole Mario and Luigi moustache is just so classic! And, while we're at it, the scene from Lady and the Tramp, although sickeningly sweet, adds even more to spaghetti's charm. However, a few years ago I realized why I had this strange and seemingly instinctive dislike of spaghetti... and while somewhat embarassing and apparently quite traumatic, I will share.

Once upon a time in, let's say, 2nd grade, Cliff Orvedal had a Halloween party. There were fun games (the one I most remember was the one where you had to eat a donut hanging on a string without using your hands), fun 'crafted by our moms' costumes (I'm pretty sure Mark was a vampire. I was a witch... ahhh if only it had been my Statue of Libery year the whole fiasco would have been avoided...), and the inevitable array of party snacks. PLUS, it was at Cliff's house, which provided us with 10-15 years of fun... starting with innocent childhood birthday and halloween parties up by/in the barn and then evolving into bonfire parties in which we (primarily the same group of people as 10-15 years earlier..) .... sang kumbaya in a circle. Psych! I'm pretty sure alcohol was usually involved... although the details are mysteriously fuzzy...

So back to the party. An adorable 2nd grader dressed as a witch, who coincidentally was named Betsey, was given a cupcake by Mrs. Orvedal. Betsey, never one to turn down a yummy treat (example: one of the reason that I dropped out of Girl Scouts a year earlier than all my friends was because the snacks that they made us eat sucked en el sentido ingles), took a cupcake, peeled off the paper liner, and began to eat it. While watching one of the games, she didn't notice that a bunch of the hair from the witch wig she was so stylishly sporting had gotten stuck to the cupcake frosting. She took a bite. Half of that bite was composed of synthetic hair. All of a sudden, Betsey realizes what has happened and panics. There is trapped hair in her throat... one end is attached to the wig on her head, and the other end has been swallowed. She can't get it out. Let's not forget this was a very long wig. Poor little Betsey thought that she was going to die choking.

So Betsey, now 18 years old, thought the scene in which she was gagging and trying with all her power to yank hair out of her throat had either a) not been noticed by her peers, or b) been forgotten by those who did happen to see. This naive belief lasted until senior year of high school when, after the last day of school, Betsey reads the message that Cliff had written in her yearbook. The last line of the note went a lil somethin' a-like a-dis: "Hey remember that time that you swallowed your wig and my mom had to yank it out of your throat? I do. That was funny."

And that is basically the origin of the spaghetti issue. It doesn't take a rocket scientist nor an Italian chef to see the similarity between these two throat assaulters (hair and spaghetti noodles... I mean helloooo there is a variety called 'angel hair'... that's not a coincidence!), and after continuing to eat spaghetti and every once in awhile running into having that same sensation of something being trapped in your throat with one end in your mouth and the other already stomach-bound, Betsey subconsciously swore off spaghetti.

The end.




Final thought (how very Jerry Springer-ish of me):
Spanish potato chips are amazing. Susan and I love them and talked about them for a good while this afternoon over a bag of the crispy delights. The only chips I like better are Cape Cod potato chips... whose factory I still want to tour and I suspect it might even end up being better than the Jelly Belly factory outside of San Francisco..

sevillllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

The year I spent in Sevilla was without a doubt the best year of my life... which is why I can't believe that so far during this entire year in Madrid I had yet to return to the south to visit the old romping grounds. Sooooooo, last week I realized that I was going to be the only one of my friends with nothing to do this past weekend. Everyone was going to be studying/doing work except me, as as I had already plowed through my exams as if they were nothing because hell, I'm just a genius (haha just kidding- exams sucked! Just because I rock doesn't necessarily mean I'm made out of stone). Anyway I thought to myself, Betsey take a break from being the lazy (but nevertheless totally awesome) piece of poo that you are, get off your ass, and DO something. So I decided (yes, me... Elizabeth Marie Mattern made a decision) I'm going to Sevilla. I alerted the Span-fam, as I so affectionately call the family with which I spent my glorious junior year aboad, that I'd be coming to play and they were more than happy to offer me my old bed for the weekend.

So to the south I went, and it was a fannnnnntastic weekend. For a couple short days it was as if I had never left- on Friday night I even woke up briefly at one point and looked around the room where I had slept night after night for 9 months, wondering if I was still 20 and living there. As Yogi Berra would say, 'It was like deja vu all over again.' The whole family was around- 6 people- which means that it was like a Sevilla overdose for a quick moment as I had 6 people shooting rapidfire questions at me. But it was so nice to be there again, because think about it. This family took me in knowing absolutely nothing about me aside from what I had written in my little 'Hi my name is Betsey...' note. Yes, that literary work of art in which I expressed that I was sexually excited to meet them. Regardless of whether they thought I was a pervert or not, from day one they treated me as part of the family, worried about me, cared about me, went out with me, wanted to know everything about me, were dying to meet my family when they came, etc. The day I left was one of the worst days ever- I cried. A lot. ME... CRYING. I cried like my little sister cries (but she does it on a daily basis... and as all of us Matterns know, it's usually for no reason). I cried in the apartment, I cried in the cab, I cried in the airport. I cried for two weeks straight when I got home. Because even though I was going to be back with my own parents and siblings, it was still being without 6 people who became part of my family and not knowing when and if I'd see them again. So being back with them made me realize that they're always going to be such a clutch part of my life. I knew it when Maribel (aka Span-mom) went all motherly on me offering me something to eat and then worrying that I don't eat enough when I said I was fine, wanting to know all about Madrid, asking all about my family and friends, patting the seat cushion next to her to have a long-overdue chat.

An hour after I got there I met up with my friend Isabel (see photo!) for some magical caffeine potion (trippy way to describe coffee)... although we left quickly because we soon realized that we were surrounded by creepy old Sevillan men who were saying inappropriate things to us. Sooooooo we went off for a walk around good ole Se-to-the-villa. Isabel is probably the sweetest person I have met in Spain- one of those people where after two years of fairly limited communication, you can still sit down with her for a couple hours and have it not be any different than it was two years ago. We walked for awhile, past the university, through the center, past the cathedral, saw our beloved 'Email Place' that Holy Cross had paid for us to be able to use, through Santa Cruz's maze of tiny cobblestone streets. We updated each other on our lives, friends, showed each other pictures, etc. I lurve her. That night, I went out with Arantxa and Almudena (Span-sis #1 and #2) and their friends to eat... during which I felt at times extremely out of place because they were talking about their jobs, one was showing pictures of her CHILDREN, and I could talk about... going to class? But it was fun and there was wine and weird foods that they made me try (BEFORE telling me what they were... they're smart like that...)

Saturday we spent all day out and about in Sevilla- Arantxa let me do my mix of being touristy and nostalgic with every street we walked down. Then we met up with more friends for a brew in Plaza del Salvador (where Joanne and I had parked ourselves two years earlier to watch Holy Week processions..) and then to eat at the most delicious place EVER. Then comes the strangest part. We went out drinking-drinking. At like 4pm. We walk into this bar, and it's PACKED with people boozing as if it were 1am. The closest comparison I can offer is that of Holy Cross on St. Patrick's Day... except instead of 18-22 year olds (or 27 year olds if you're on the hockey team) drinking flat keg beer, it was full of 25-35 year olds drinking things that actually taste good. At first I was like, I don't think I can do this at 4 in the afternoon and ordered a diet coke thinking that we were only going to be there for a little while. Then the whole group of people we were with eventually convinced me to let my inner alcoholic be free, including the doctor in the group who said that alcohol is medicine and that I need to drink a lot of it to stay healthy. So, per the MD's orders, I drank. FOUR HOURS LATER everyone's half in the bag. We walk out and then into another bar. I swear to God that this second bar was like a full-fledged freakin nightclub going on in there. People drinking, dancing, making out in the corners (and because it's Spain, land of the PDA, also NOT in the corners). I was like, what the FRIJOLES is going on here. It was great. At like 10:30pm, which at this point felt to me like 4am, I was already tired.. annnd starving.. so I headed home. All this before dinner. It was a blast and I met some of their friends who currently live in Madrid and who I apparently "have to go out with every weekend" according to them. We'll see if I can keep up with the the lives of 30 year olds..

Annnnnnnnnd today I inevitably had to make my triumphant return to Madrid. Maribel made one of my favorite meals (awwwww... she remembers! haha) and then sent me along my way with a sandwich in tow just in case I got hungry on the train.

In conclusion, I love Sevilla and always will. :o)

PiCtUrEs...

All photos taken during this year are now posted, updated, and can be located in the chronological list of links to the right. Enjoy, and try not to fall in love with me even though I know that this is a near-impossible feat.

i stalk strangers

Today I decided to head to the Prado, a diesel art museum here in Spain’s lovely capital… think of it as the Louvre of Spain. Anywho, I’m taking an art history class on Goya, Velazquez, and Picasso, a class in which I am one of a staggering two people. TWO. So basically if I don’t have my shit together it’s a little more obvious than if I were in a class of 20 where I could hide in the back row as I prefer to do. Therefore I pretended to be ambitious and I went to see everything we’ve been studying. I have to say that now that I know more from the past two semesters of art history classes, it’s more interesting to go to the Prado than it was two years ago. All I remember from when I went is that I wanted to ask the guards “Let’s see… I’m looking for a painting of… JESUS. Is there anything along those lines here?” Because I swear, I felt like it was like a Jesus convention. Like, the pamphlet should say 'Hello and welcome to the Prado... we will now burn the image of Christ into your brains forever.'

Anyway today I saw what I wanted to see and I have to say that I enjoyed my two hours there despite my complaining about going beforehand. The reason for going today versus another day is that Sundays is free entry to the museum. Oddly enough this is also now the reason why I will never EVER return there on a Sunday. At one point I was so surrounded by people that I literally could not move… needless to say I got really frustrated and claustrophobic annnnnnd I may or may not have shoved a 12 year old out of the way. Or maybe it was an old lady. Whatever it was, it was small and was easily moved from my path. Think along the lines of Frank in Old School when he gets shot by the tranquilizar dart and is stumbling through the birthday party and you see him shove a kid out of the way by his head. I'm a horrible, horrible person.

Moving along, I think people-watching in art museums is absolutely hysterical. There’s just a plethora of people ASKING to be stared at. There are a few basic ‘categories’ into which most museum-goers fit, which I will now indicate:

1.Germans- I can’t really criticize Germans because well, it’s who they are and technically I have kin there. And it's the language I most want to learn. And they make great beer! However, I feel like whenever I’m in a museum there are an abnormal amount of Germans. Like there you are, standing quietly and looking at a painting by Goya and all of a sudden you’re surrounded by approximately a thousand angry-sounding blondes. Der shnee ist weis!!! Heineken!!!

2.The artsy types. The 'see' art. They 'know' art. They 'feel' art. Life is art. They are art. Art is life. Lots of men with artsy long hair, artsy gotees, artsy little hats, and artsy scarves that serve no warming purpose. They are dressed in black from head to toe. The female counterpart has those “I want to look intelligent” style glasses with some crazy frame color, patchwork coats, and giant voluminous scarves. They also normally appear to be anorexic and gaunt to look more like the tortured artistic souls that they are. If they have come to the museum with friends, they find the need to overanalyze every aspect of every painting to the chagrin of said friends who don’t seem to have any interest in knowing why such and such painter decided to paint the scene from such and such angle or the cultural significance of the position of the subject’s right hand. But it’s fun to watch them explain how they interpret it all because they use lots of over-exaggerated hand gestures and pensively pucker their lips a lot.

3.College-aged travelers. They look weary and ragged and are usually dragged from museum to museum by one over-zealous member of their traveling pack in an attempt to see all there is to see of a city in a 48 hour period. In my case two years ago, it was Joanne with her highlighted travel books and itineraries, and we loved her all the more for it because frankly if she hadn’t been along for all of our little trips we probably wouldn’t’ have seen half the things we saw. Except for the long weekend we spent in Madrid being tourists and she had us up at 8:30am to go see 18 different fountains. It ended up being Joanne plowing ahead with a map, her three whining friends trudging a good 20 yards behind...

4.Retired folks trying to become cultured in their old age. They always pay that extra bit to have the audio guides, which they hold on to like they’re divulging the meaning of life. You hear tidbits of their conversations and you can’t help but find humor in it. “Well my my my Earl, would you look at this pretty painting. The audio guide says that… Earl? Earl? Earl!! Oh Earl, get off the bench and look at the pretty painting!” Poor disgruntled Earl heaves a sigh and staggers over to his beloved wife of 50 years and stares blankly at the painting. He mutters something, and the two proceed to squabble like old couples married for multiple decades tend to do. And the Betsey laughs.

The only thing that can improve an art museum people-watching experience is heading afterwards to the Starbucks across the street (I was freezing my metaphorical balls off and needed heat... and water to balance out the drinking of the previous evening) to enjoy a tea and a chocolate chip muffin. The artsy variety of the museum goers come to the Starbucks after they get their fill of their Spanish masterpieces in the Prado, because artsy types thrive in Starbucks and coffee shops with hippy-ish music where they can convene to talk about things like art and deep things and social movements they're plotting. There are always plenty of people-watching subjects. For example, in one of my favorite coffee shops back in Worcester where Miss Allison Niedermeier used to work, there was once a group of girls who comprised the lesbian power allegiance or something... and their activity that day was designing/puff-painting lesbian pride underwear. I think my favorite, or at least the one that most sticks out in my memory, was the thong which read 'Angry c***' in bright pink.

And that's all I got for now...

Emails from Emily Pereira never fail to crack me up... in fact, Emily Pereira herself never fails to crack me up. So yesterday when I received not one, but TWO emails from her... needless to say it made my day. She was always the comedic relief in Sevilla and Holy Cross... the gal is great. Who else uses the word 'scallywag' in an email? If only she had wanted to come back to Spain with us instead of heading to Washington, D.C. to stalk fellow republicans and to begin her political career...

an excerpt (ahhh I love stereotypes..):

do you feel Spanish? is your hair growing in layers? do you wear scarves and heels 24/7 even sometimes to bed?

So while all the Spanish are running around in their scarves and heels with their lawn-mowered hair, back at home my fellow Americans are all running around eating hamburgers with guns in their pockets.

pick up lines 101

Joanne and I were antsy and decided to go to a nearby bar this evening for a few brewskis. The following conversation with the waiter/bartender ensued...

"You just shine. Do you know why?"

"Ummm, why?"

"Let me tell you something. You have the most amazing eyes... I swear, I will never forget them. Can you do me a favor?"

"Oh sure"

"When they ripen and are ready to fall, let me know so I can be there to catch them"

"Hmm. Well, that's an interesting metaphor.."




pick-up line evaluation:
2 points for originality.
16 points for weirdness. Who hits on a girl with a line that in some way involves her eyeballs falling out of their sockets?

boooooo

I really have nothing to write about... other the fact that I'm bitter that it's cold out and even more bitter that I haven't seen the sun in way too many days. WTF Spain? WTF??? I just want to be able to sip a coffee or chug (ahem... sip slowy, responsibly, and moderately) a chilled brew outside in the sun. Throw in a little snackie to go along with them and you've got yourself a nice little afternoon ahead of ya. If with others, converse... or stare awkwardly... whatever. If alone, a good or even mediochre book does the trick. I bring a book and pretend to read it... but really I'm just people-watching. It's a shame I left my sunglasses on the plane on the way here after Christmas because they were big and PERFECT for discreet stalking. (RIP Target shades... you're greatly missed) But it's all about just enjoying the great outdoors... the great urban-planned, cosmopolitan outdoors anyway. Hmm a Cosmo doesn't sound so bad right now either now that I mention it. So let's go Mama N... stop PMS-ing and let the nice weather that you so cruelly dangled in our faces just a week ago come back because you're seriously crampin' my style. Biatch.

Idealist

A friend made me take a personality analysis so I'm sharing it... along with my personal analysis of my personality analysis. Catch that? The last one I took had me as a performer who always likes being in the spot light. HAHAHA!!! This one's slightly more accurate I suppose.


Apparently I'm an 'idealist'

The four aspects that make up this personality type are:
-spontaneous (I'm an out of control mo-fo... ya never know what I'm gonna do!)
-ideas (hooray- my brain functions, i guess)
-hearts (I don't understand what this means... but I feel like having multiple is some sort of birth defect...)
-introvert (yeah, probably)

Summary of Idealists:
-Make sense of the world using inner values (there is no making sense of this world- I don't even try)
-Focus on personal growth (I'm currently 5'7... I think I'm done growing though..) and the growth of others (I frequent Borders' self-help section- psych! jk!)
-Think of themselves as bright, forgiving, and curious (hmmm, debateable)
-May sometimes appear stubborn (agreed- no denying that..)

More about Idealists:
Idealists put time and energy into developing personal values that they use as a guide through life. (this is true, although they're not really 'guiding me through life' I don't think...) They may seek fulfilment by helping others improve themselves and often want to make the world a better place (smiles and puppies for everyone!). Idealists only share their inner values with people they trust and respect. (yep.. sounds about right.. I think approximately 2 people know my mysterious, top-secret 'inner values')

Idealists enjoy discussions about a wide range of topics, (cows, Napoleon Dynamite, and the uplifting effect that chocolate has upon one's soul compose this extensive array of conversation topics..) particularly those that deal with the future. (NOT TRUE... NOT TRUE... NOT TRUE... the future is an invention of the devil!!!) They are typically easy-going and flexible (I'm like an Olympic personality gymnast) but if their values are challenged they may refuse to compromise. (I think I just give in- I have the spine of a jellyfish)

In situations where they can't use their talents (???) or are unappreciated, Idealists may have trouble expressing themselves (I feel... I feel... I don't know how I feel..) and withdraw (where's my cave?). Under extreme stress, Idealists may become very critical of others (eh, at times... you stupid jerk), or lose confidence in their own ability to cope. (true- although alcohol is a decent provisional coping remedy)

Recognition for their work is important to Idealists (a little positive reinforcement never killed anyone...); however, they are also good at spotting false praise. (don't lie to me, biatches... I can sense your DECEPTIONS)

choosing favorites

I am officially retiring my formerly favorite Spanish word... which has had its reign since high school when we learned the imperfect tense. It was 'acababa'... because it just sounded so exotic.. like it's straight out the Middle East. Images of camels and magic lamps and turbans filled my young imagination (ok ok... so I was like 17... don't judge!) Moving along...The base verb, acabar, doesn't do anything for me... but put it in 1st or 3rd person imperfect tense? WOW. It's like candy in my mouth. I used to say it, obnoxiously, over-enthusiastically, and in a strange voice that definitely wasn't my own and that I didn't use for any other purpose... just for fun. I really had a great verbal time during my relationship with acababa, despite the confused stares and pointing fingers. I'd just say 'ACABABA!' and then the soundtrack from Aladdin would get stuck in my head (doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo dooo.. wonk wonk -everyone know which song I'm talking about? It was also the music for level 1 of Aladdin- the Sega game. I know it was level 1 because I never advanced to that mysterious level 2)... and that little Abu with his little hat and his little shenanigans would get stuck in my heart. (sigh)

Anyway, I will always think fondly of 'acababa,' but as time goes on as it tends to do, people change and move on as well. It's just how life is. Therefore, the new word of choice is 'pantuflas' (=slippers). It's always had a nice ring to it, but lately I've really just fallen for it. It's almost onomatopoeic... but for the sense of touch... or the imagination... or something. Do you get what I'm trying to say? It just SOUNDS fluffy, soft, pastel-colored, and delightful. Maybe it's that soft 'f' instead of those annoying p's shoved in the middle of its English equivalent 'slippers.' Say it.. pantuuuuuflasssss'... it just makes me think of and want big fluffy slippers on my tootsies, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in my hands, and (now that I've got Aladdin in my head) a Disney movie on tv. And it fills me with a strangely serene and nostalgic feeling as it brings to mind the memory of my favorite moo-cow slippers... that my mom threw out (sniff, sniff).




Also.

Disclaimer: In regards to my comments in the the entry of February 10, 2006, I would like to make a partial retraction. On this day, in my ramblings about my jeans purchase, I mentioned the smallness of the Spanish population compared to that of the American population with which I am obviously more familiar. This was a humble, subjective, and very generalized opinion for which I have no scientific evidence nor graphs nor pie-charts to back me up. In no way, shape, or form was I making any reference to the stature of Alfonso or Angel. You are both exceptions to the rule and vertically blessed... I'll even go so far to say that you are of the ideal height. I thank God everyday that there are two people in this country who I don't have to look down or bend at the knees to talk to. I will not, however, retract the overall generalization I made regarding the lack of height in the majority of the people I see each day... I stand by that.