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.

what the frijoles...

People, what's the deal with poor folks and accordians? That was meant to be said in the way that Seinfeld would say it but due to the very nature of a blog, just like instant messenger or any other written medium, the intonation is a little tricky to convey... like sarcasm. God I'm good at tangents, and no I don't mean the ones from geometry. I sucked at geometry. Here I go again..

ANYWAY, this trend has honestly had me confused since Betsey's European adventure round 1. I'm not criticizing it- my mind just can't grasp the concept with any degree of success. I find it to be an extremely odd coincidence that 3/4 of the homeless people that I see in the streets play the accordian, which, to me, seems like a tricky instrument to play and one that demands some sort of training. I mean, it's like playing the piano while simultaneously using a thigh-master... except with your hands... like Karen used to do on the beloved family sitcom Step by Step because she thought it'd make her boobs bigger. Anyways. The trend also calls to mind the example of the chicken and the egg- which came first? Were these people accordian players and then beggars in the street or beggars in the street who then learned to play the accordian? It has baffled the minds of many a great philosopher. Or I could be flying solo on this one...

There are a few logical explanations that have come to my mind to explain this phenomenon... amongst them...

Possibility 1: There is an underground, government-run university that teaches the accordian to people who can prove their homeless or poverty-stricken status. (the egg came first)

Possibility 2: Anyone who dedicates themselves to playing the accordian will inevitably be unsuccessful due to lack of demand and therefore end up on the street. (the chicken came first)

Possibility 3: They are aliens who are almost undetectably infiltrating our society and their secret language/code involves musical combinations that can only be achieved on an accordian.

Possibility 4: Being homeless automatically gives you super-human accordian powers! They see an accordian and automatically know how to play it.

Possibility 5: It's inherited. They're all from one huge homeless extended family who pass down accordian-playing generation to generation like an antique pocket watch from one's great-great-great-grandfather.

Possibility 6: The same man disguises himself and follows me around Madrid/Europe making it seem like the city is overrun by accordian players when really it's just one elusive guy.

Possibility 7: They're all members of the CIA or some other undercover agency whose aliases (does that become plural??) are poor accordian players. Meanwhile they're watching our every move and overhearing our conversations... right now... and now... and now...

Possibility 8: There is a surplus of accordians and therefore the manufacturers just hand them out to people on the street. Due to lack of job and probably a whole lot of boredom, they start fiddling around with it and before ya know it, an accordian player is born.

Possibility 9: Accordians are unexpectedly cheap and easy to learn.

Possibility 10: There remains a possibility which has failed to come to my mind.




Other thoughts:
--> Happy Valentines Day to all! Ok, now everybody go make out!
--> Thank God for www.youtube.com for providing me with my favorite Winter Olympics sports videos- anyone who likes snowboarding should check out Shaun White, Hannah Teter, and Gretchen Bleiler's kickass halfpipe runs- they all won medals (gold, gold, and silver, respectively). And screw you, Spanish tv, for barely showing the Olympics.

Spanish women (this may actually go for European women- I'm not sure) wear tighter clothes than American women. In fact, I think it can be generalized to include all Spanish people, and I'm not criticizing this. I'm merely observing it. Perhaps it's because Spain doesn't have the impressive obesity statistics that American society oh-so-proudly boasts (oddly enough my motherland has huge- no pun intended- obsesity issues but at the same time a ton of body image issues and eating disorders)- I have to say that I haven't seen a single muumuu here!! If I were to go to an amusement park here, I wouldn't be frightened of seeing 400 pound women who need portable oxygen tanks to get around without passing out but who still somehow think it's ok to wear a bikini... as one would see in Six Flags or Busch Gardens, for example. What I HAVE seen here are the tightest jeans ever... I'm talkin' that instead of jeans molding to the butt, the jeans MOLD the butt. The butt is no longer free to be itself, but rather has to conform. It's forced to live under a denim dictatorship.

Granted, the tightness isn't overly offensive to see- they're usually on small people because frankly, Spanish people all seem really tiny to me- especially the girls. I actually took an eye-level picture a couple weeks ago in a bar because I was a good head above everyone else, including the guys. I felt gargantuan. I've never thought of myself as short, but good grief.. 5'7 is not THAT tall. Anyway, tight pants...I remember upon my arrival in Spain two years ago I couldn't believe how tight the guys wore their jeans. I mean, wow. I felt like I should change pants with some guy on the street because his were too tight and mine too loose. When I left Connecticut I felt my pants were fine, but when I arrived in Spain I suddenly felt like I was wearing a circus tent. Guys here wear tighter pants than the Abercrombie-clad guys at home, and the girls.. well.. they follow the pattern just as one would think. Sometimes I think that they must position their pants on the street, and then jump from a 10 story building to get into them. I guess that's a little dramatic, but it's a fun concept, no?

Ok... so this rambling IS actually going somewhere. As I fleetingly mentioned in my last little superinteresting blogging, I bought jeans the other day. What is normally nothing more than an uneventful transaction turned out to be an unexpectedly funny experience. So I went to this place which pretty much only sells jeans. I saw some I liked, but you can't take the size off the shelf that you want... you have to enlist the help of the salesgirl. I know, I know... taking clothing off a shelf IS pretty tricky and demands concentration and highly-trained expertise. I TOTALLY understand and respect the logic... (stupid, stupid, stupid)

So I told her the size I wanted, and needless to say she gave me one size smaller. I thought 'hmm... this is not going to be attractive..." Not wanting to be annoying, I decided that well, maybe she knows what she's doing or maybe the jeans run a little big and she's just trying to save me time. No. They did not run big. At all. In fact, I think they actually run a little on the small side. She was clearly crazy. I proceeded to ask for the next size up (and the size I had originally asked for- imagine that!) and she wearily handed them to me. I put them on and they were good- but barely. Like, I'd never dare to put them in the dryer (not a problem here, as we don't have one) and gaining weight would be out of the question. As I checked out my ass in the mirror contemplating whether to go yet another size up, she came in and was like, 'oh you definitely need a smaller size- those are going to stretch out and be huge'. Meanwhile I'm thinking that either she's seeing people that don't exist and is talking to them or she actually wants me to look ridiculous so she can laugh about it. After a quick glance around confirmed that I was indeed the only person in the dressing room, I said, "no no no, I think this is the size I need." She raised her eyebrows in doubt as if to say, "oooookay but you're going to regret it..." I wondered how she could possibly want me to go smaller, until I noticed that her jeans, of course, were in serious danger of simply exploding off of her body at speeds so high that the button would go bullet-like through 8 store walls and kill the unsuspecting old woman shopping at the tea store down the street...

In the end, I bought the jeans in the size I wanted and am now so fond of them that I think we're having a pretty intense love affair. It doesn't take much to make my day.



In unrelated, random, and useless news, I got a Valentine's day package from mom today and re-realized a few things 1) They should sell those Cadbury mini-chocolate eggs year round. You know, the ones with the speckled candy shell. They're so damn good. 2) I cannot suck on a candy. Take, for example, the Tootsie Pop I consumed today in approximately 1.7 seconds. I just have that necessity to violently CHOMP on it as if it had punched one of my loved ones... even when I say over and over again in my head "don't bite it, don't bite it, don't bite it.. be strong Betsey! See how many licks it takes!" Useless. 3) I love that my parents still send me holiday packages- who cares if I'm 23!

sprrringggggg is comingggggg

There are few things better than living in a city on a beautiful day. Well, having a beach nearby can also be quite lovely of course, pero a falta de playa, buenas son las ciudades (I'm so creative). The fun thing about cities is that on a nice day you can walk for hours and not repeat a single step nor see anything twice (this is also true of forests, but if I were in a forest I would panic about being eaten by bears if I walked for hours and hours and didn't see anything familiar...). Discoveries are made. Previously unnoticed details grab your attention. Then, when you want a little rest, you can sit outside for a coffee with your face turned to the sun, do a little people watching, think about everything or nothing... and you can't help but smile.

The last few days have been ideal- temperatures in the 50's and tons of sunshine- which means after class I go and take these walks. Long walks! Long enjoyable walks instead of my stress-relieving power walks! Yesterday, for example, my last class ended at 5:00. So taking advantage of the sunshine and my inevitable sunshine-induced good mood, off I went to who knows where (okay, okay.. I did buy a pair of jeans.. I admit it..). I completely lost track of time, and since we all know I have no sense of direction, I found myself on the opposite side of the city from where I had started... and it was now 8:00 at night. Obviously I Metroed it back- even when it's nice out that lazy streak in me still flares up from time to time.Today's walk was only an hour, but with an added 45 minutes spent sitting outside with Joanne drinking that beloved caffeinated potion otherwise known as coffee.

It feels like spring is coming! It's just too bad that little shit of a groundhog saw his shadow the other day...

owwwww!

Overall, I feel like I was beaten with an aluminum baseball bat.My knees are bruised to the point of being swollen... this evening I can finally bend them almost normally. My ass feels like I spent 8 straight days on a stairmaster on the hardest setting. I am pretty positive that I have stress fractures in both of my wrists. My entire back feels like it's going to fall apart. I can't lift my left arm more than 30 degrees or my right arm more than 60 degrees. Even my hair hurts. I look, and feel, abused.

Was I in a car wreck? Was I beaten in a dark alley? Did I get into a crazy bitch bar fight (I for some reason want this to happen- I think I'd do okay)? No no and no. Instead of spending yesterday relaxing like I tend to do on Fridays, I decided to try snowboarding. I've been wanting to for the past five years or so. However, whenever we go on our little family ski weekends, 1) nobody wants to learn how with me, and 2) i don't want to spend the whole weekend by myself on the bunny slope while the rest of the group is off exploring the rest of the trails. Therefore, up until now this little desire of mine has remained in my mental reservoir of things I want to do in my life (a few other list entries are sky-diving, getting a pilots license, and learning how to play squash). So when Nell suggested that we go, I figured, oh hell why not! Little did I know...

Like I said, I went with Nell, who knows how to snowboard and said she'd give teaching me a go. Even so, I was pretty much winging it... I had absolutely no idea what the hell I was doing. I feared for my life and the lives of anyone within a 3 mile radius. As soon as we get there and she shows me how to strap myself on to the plastic board of death, she's like, "Ok! Let's get on the lift!" I was like, "Ok!... um... how?" We get on and as we start approaching the end of the line, so to speak, I realize that this is not going to go well. In fact, I realize that this is going to go very, very badly. When getting off the lift, I was "that person" (who under different circumstances I would be mercilessly making fun of) who gets off and immediately falls into a sloppy heap and in so doing, practically kills a swarm of ski-school 4 year old children. I was already envisioning having to apologize to grieving parents for having run over and squashed their beloved offspring.

The first run down was by far the worst- it took me probably about an hour to get down. And that hour was spent falling over and over (... and over... and over...) again, alternating falling forward on to my knees with falling backwards on to my ass. At one point I fell so hard that I couldn't even articulate the four-letter words I was otherwise using every time violent contact was made with that bleeping Mother bleeping Earth (if I were the subject of a tv show, the soundtrack to my entire day would be one long censored bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep). Instead, all that made its way out was a soft, pitiful yelp accompanied by my eyes immediately filling with tears. A burst of pain travelled from my bum up and through my spinal cord and finally arriving at the top of my head with an intensity that I didn't even know was possible. I'm also pretty sure that due to that fall I'm now somehow consequently unable to have children, even though that theory is technically devoid of logic. I sat in the snow for 20 minutes following that digger, trying to establish whether I should hail one of the guys who go blasting up and down the mountain in their snazzy stretcher-towing snowmobiles.

On the positive end, I do have to say that after I changed from a left-foot board to a right-foot one (I just knew that trying to go with my left foot forward felt overly unnatural..), things improved. I kind of started to get the hang of it and by the end of the day my number of falls taken per run even made it down into the single-digits. The sport was actually beginning to seem fun.

However, the damage had been done by that point, and today is approximately 3847034.39 times as painful as yesterday. I currently have to lift my left arm up with my right one to do anything and have to duck my head down so my hands can reach to shampoo it when I shower. Putting shirts on and taking them off is borderline torture. I have to ease in and out of the sitting position like a 95 year old with arthritis. And finally, tonight I almost couldn't make myself a comforting hot chocolate because the microwave lay about a foot out of my range of arm movement.

BUT...I get to cross one thing off my life's to do list! Betsey wins!!!

chesterfield

There is a magical bar, in the distant Madrid district of Arguelles, that plays hiphop music every Wednesday night. Ahhh it felt like college- kind of like a night at Foobar, except 5 times the size and without the beer pitchers. The hoards of slutty Amerian sorority girls in impossibly small amounts of clothing... the musical stylings of Black Eyed Peas and Kanye... not feeling like I had to be popping ecstasy to handle what I lovingly refer to as the 'epileptic music' that Europeans seem to enjoy... (sigh) it was American heaven and the beginning of a new weekly tradition.

When the thugging began at midnight, our eyes filled with delighted tears... although, judging by how my clothes smelled afterwards, it could have just been the smoke. Regardless, during the night I managed:
1) get asked if I was a lesbian- I think that was my favorite part,
2) create a new personality for myself - I'm now Polish, I just arrived last week, I'm here on a month-long business trip, and my name is Elizyaya - for the sketchballs,
3) to befriend and then get the business card of two lawyers who also write a blog all about bulls,
4) inhale probably about 8 packs of cigarettes worth of second hand smoke... my voice this morning sounded like it came straight from a 1-900 number,
5) have a blast con mis ninas.




In other news, do we all remember Jose? He who reads hands, studies astrology, and senses vibrations? Well I ran into him this afternoon... almost literally... and had to make up excuses as to why I didn't meet him the day we were supposed to have our 'date,' why I couldn't go out for coffee with him tonight, and why I couldn't give him my phone number. I hate being nice and not being able to say, 'Leave me alone you freak!' Oh well. I guess in the grander scheme of things it's better to be too nice than too bitchy. But don't worry, he asked some random person for a pen and wrote down his celly number. So if anyone wants their hands read by a full fledged whack job, just let me know... I've got his digits and his address.

Destinos

As one walks about this lovely city, there's only so much you can do to entertain yourself. You can people-watch, you can contemplate architecture, you can completely zone out and then surprise yourself when you arrive at your destination (think along the lines of Old School's Frank during the debate scene- I do this while walking AND while driving- probably not good), or you can just leave your mind to its own devices. I think I simultaneously occupy myself with all of the above. This afternoon, I was on my 20-minute trek back from class with Chucky Candle when a random memory popped into this pretty little head of mine. It is Spanish-related and pretty entertaining, if I manage to tell it as I remember. East Lyme, Connecticut. Senior year of high school. Second semester.

Maureen Epps, she of the bleach-blonde hair, the hot pink fingernails (which she once actually painted IN class..), and the gargantuan son (I believe we all remember the infamous 'Patrick'), needed to assign a project for her AP Spanish class. By this point, being it the end of second semester, we had all been accepted to our respective colleges, paid the deposits, and therefore didn't have to worry about grades anymore- ie we didn't give a shit. To change things up, for our project we had to do some sort of skit, video-tape it, and then show it to the class. Some people re-enacted scenes from current tv shows, translating them into Spanish. (I remember Priscilla Lloyd played Joey Potter in an endearing adaptation of Dawson's Creek.) Meghan Healy, Stephanie Loomis, and I were a group... and we decided to do a take-off of Destinos.

Destinos, for anyone who doesn't know, is an educational soap opera targetted at American High School kids. There's a plot, but then it's sometimes interrupted by little educational spots. It's pretty lame- but it's entertaining to make fun of it. The exhilarating, edge-of-your-seat plot of the countless episodes (42, I believe) of Destinos focuses on a woman named Raquel, a shoulder-pad-clad, scrunchie-wearing lawyer, whose old and dying client (don Fernando, I believe was his name- 42 episodes and two years of him gasping his last breaths) wants her to track down his wife. He had thought that the wife had died years and years ago during the war in Spain, but then he received a note that suggested otherwise. Anyways. So Raquel goes trekking around the Spanish-speaking world following leads and what not. During her travels, she meets that stud Arturo and a romance ensues. And what a romance it was- I think the most amorous thing they did (which seemed highly unlikely to our 18 year old hormone-driven selves) was make pizzas together, using vegetables to give the pizzas smiley faces. My God, anything more and it'd have to be classified as pornography!

I don't remember exactly what our plot ended up being. The video opens up with Raquel (Meghan Healy) at her computer... singing Don't Cry for Me Argentina... who then receives an anonymous phone call by a shadowy figure (that'd be me- I'm so shady, yo) saying that she'd better keep tabs on her boyfriend's activities (dun dun dunnnnnn...) Raquel, upset and worried that she was about to lose her "pizza pal" (that's what the kids are calling it these days..), proceeds to stalk Arturo. Unfortunately, since we were three girls, we didn't have anyone to play Arturo. As if by fate, Kati Green had a blow up doll named Mr. Stud that she was so kind as to let us borrow. All I can say is that at one point Raquel is in Macy's trying on the most hideous clothes we could find in the 'Macy-Woman' section (I was the store clerk at this point-- I suggested that Raquel put in more shoulder-pads). She then spots Arturo and a mystery woman in the lingerie section of the store picking out sexy nighties and the plot thickens! Well you know what this means. Yes, we walked through our local mall, and then through the Macy's lingerie section with a life-sized blow-up doll. A blow-up doll named Mr. Stud wearing nothing but a black speedo. At one point a store employee walked by us as we're filming, stopped in his tracks, shook his head and said 'I don't even want to know..' before moving along.

In the end, it turns out it's just Arturo's sister who's helping him plan a romantic weekend for him and Raquel. It also turns out that the 'shadowy' character from the beginning has a homosexual crush on Arturo and was making the phone calls to Raquel trying to break them up. SOMETHING LIKE THAT.

And that's the memory that popped into my head this afternoon. And Stephanie, Meghan... if you read this and still have the video... I want it!