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.

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!!!