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!¨