heavenly visits

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

some thoughts from the amazing mind of Elizabeth Mattern

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

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

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

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

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

moo moo moto

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

stalker!!!!!!

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

la coruna tales

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

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

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

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








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

fam in Spain

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

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

relativity

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

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

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

The end.

the Poli chronicles, continued

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

daddyoooo

Happy 55th birthday to THIS GUY!!

dumbasses, round 294829

dumbasses 1 and 2 -->












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

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


(an hour later)

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






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

preguntas

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



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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you like flying or hate flying?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arghhh..

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

sangria hiatus

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

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

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

traumatic experiences

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

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

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

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

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

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

The end.




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

sevillllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

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

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

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

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

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

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

PiCtUrEs...

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

i stalk strangers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

an excerpt (ahhh I love stereotypes..):

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

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

pick up lines 101

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

"You just shine. Do you know why?"

"Ummm, why?"

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

"Oh sure"

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

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




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