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.