My week just improved by 110%. I took advantage of my lunch break to buy a new pair of headphones for my ipod, and let me tell ya... it's a whole lot easier to ignore everyone at work when the left as well as the right side works. If you could truly grasp the non-stop circus show I deal with in here, you'd understand. Someday I'll write about it, but not when one of the main attractions is sitting right next to me.
In high school I think I wore a coat twice to school. The 8º temperatures typical of a winter morning in Connecticut were nothing. I'll bet I could have been found each morning scraping ice off of my windshield - normally a 20 minute task - in a mere sweatshirt. During the next phase of my life, spent in Worcester, Massachusetts - legitimately one of the coldest cities of the northeast - I had no problem. Sure, it was damn cold... and windy, snowing and icy... but I'd go out to parties and bars at night just wearing a cardigan.
Things now are a bit different. I go into shiver-mode when the mercury hits 60º. Even 70º often calls for a jacket of some sort. I admit, I have been warped into a warm-temperature creature.
I hate being cold. I used to prefer being cold to being hot, but I think the year I spent in Sevilla completely altered my temperature gauge. I also think that the 20 pounds shed over the past couple of years has deprived me of the extra insulation that once helped to fend of the chilly temperatures. Yes, I just compared myself to a balleen mammal.
This, however, is ridiculous. Imagine the following scenario (and, mind you, this scenario has been repeating itself for the past month or so). I'm at work. It's 12:30 and the heat has yet to come on for the day. I have my knee-length knit winter coat wrapped mummy-style around my legs. I have my sleeves pulled down to my knuckles. I am wearing my scarf. Every few minutes I have to blow into my hands so my fingers don't stiffen and thus make me unable to type (ie work). I have microwaved a mug of hot water several times today just to hold it in my hands. I think I feel the effects of hypothermia coming on, and I fear I'll soon have to resort to snapping off my toes to avoid the spread of frost bite.
The "web team" has just been relocated from our former location to one of the newly renovated rooms. As we don't have to deal with people other than ourselves, do you think anyone would notice if I started bringing my frog-printed fleece blanket to work?
Contextual tid-bit #1
One of my favorite activities is googling people that I know to see if anything scandalous comes up. I would even be satisfied with some mildly interesting. Even a posted resume on monster.com or something would do just fine. Alas, my searches usually come up fruitless. This evening, I ran out of people at work whose full names I know and ended up googling myself. Guess what- my name actually came up right there in the number one slot.
Contextual tid-bit #2
During my college years - and this is before I dipped my toes in the sea of blogging - I would sit down and write random stories when I was a) highly caffeinated, b) procrastinating, or c) intoxicated. Chances were that at any given point during that last year at HC I could be found in one of those states of being between sleep periods. Moving along, I wrote the following story at the beginning of my senior year at Holy Cross, sent it to Joanne as a joke, and she then went and got it published in an annual bilingual / Spanish and Latin American-inspired literary magazine that Holy Cross puts out. Anyway, I'm going to plagiarize myself for this post.
"My turn? I’m first?,” said Paco, feeling increasingly distressed as five of his pals crowded around him in excited anticipation. His eyes darted from one friend’s face to the next. He knew something big was happening. Many of his relatives had made the big journey into the city for this very event, and he was finally going to see what the fuss was all about. He thought he was going to throw up all over the place, and it scared him to just think about how mortified he would be. Word on the street was that the royal family was even going to be making an appearance today. What happened if... Oh, he didn't want to think of what would happen if...
An older gentleman wearing a name tag that read “Manolo,” must have noted that young Paco was about to suffer the effects of a crippling nervous breakdown because he promptly left the room, returning moments later holding something in his hand. He smiled his harmless four-toothed grin and gently patted Paco’s back to soothe him. The sight of this innocent older man and his consoling touch already left young Paquito feeling relieved.
Paco jumped, his eyes bulging, upon seeing the needle that Manolo was wielding; it looked like a torture device! “Hey there buddy! Don’t be scared of this little needle, it’s only going to help you out in there. You’re gonna need it!” Paco couldn’t have agreed more. He could hear the hoards of people as they pushed through each other on their chaotic search for their seats. A few stray music notes somehow managed to make their way through the roaring cheers of the crowded arena, signaling that the band was warming up for the big event.
Boy, was Manolo right on with that medicine! Paco felt almost instantaneously calmer. He was in control of his emotions. His mind seemed just the slightest bit cloudy, which he attributed to his thoughts trying to get themselves back in order. His heartbeat had finally stopped assaulting his ears and had returned to his chest, where it should have stayed in the first place. His confidence was slowly returning as he thought to himself, “Hey, this won’t be so bad! I hope the royal family is here, I’ll show them what I’m made of!”
He was proud of the body he had built up over the past three years. He had been eating right, exercising daily, avoiding the lifestyles that had led to several members of his rural community being kidnapped by a mysterious pack of men, presumably to be killed. He didn’t want that for himself, and he wanted to honor the memory of his late father. Finally he had reached a point where his aunts told him that he was the spitting image of Paco Sr., which filled the young Paco with such pride and elation. He was in the prime of his life, and he was ready for anything.
His best friend, Javi, pushed him, reeling him back to the present moment. Back to the cheers, to the music, to the excitement that lay before him. “Hey P, are you OK? You look a little confused or something.” Paco shook his head back and forth trying to clear the fog. “Sí, sí. I’m fine... Just thinking about papá, ya know? I think he’d be really proud of me today.” Javi nodded his head. They had been friends since infancy because their mothers had become quite close when their husbands went missing on the same fateful day over two years ago. “Don’t worry, P, we’re gonna make everyone proud. We’ll have such stories to tell!”
All of a sudden the crowd went quiet, making way for the festive tunes of the band to set the mood for the celebration. Paco’s nerves set in again, this time making him feel more sluggish. Everything went into slow motion as he was welcomed into the large arena with almost deafening cheers, muffling the joyous trumpets. He glanced around at his audience. He was surrounded by smiles and floating, and had to chuckle at the irony: here he was, in the prime of his life, and half the people watching him were these crusty old men who looked about ready to die.
Paco quenched these feisty people’s thirst to see him by taking a quick jog around the place, showing off his muscular physique. Oddly enough, he was feeling increasingly tired and groggy. He shook it off. “It’s just the stress... I just gotta get my adrenaline goin’!” All of a sudden, everything got so much s..l...o....w......e......r. It all came together in the course of about half a second. His mind snapped into gear, panicking, while his body slowed down with fatigue. His father’s disappearance, the medicated syringe, his mother’s overly tearful good-bye, the dirt below his feet, the sweat pouring down his face, his clueless band of childhood friends waiting behind him, the slam as the door was swung shut and locked...So as part of the superstar "Equipo Web" - aka Internet Team - at the company that so lucratively employs me, I am little by little and subconsciously turning into a full-fledged internet geek. I can't help it, as it is now well beyond the grasp of my control. It's like a virus (Get it? Internet? Virus?) that invades your personality and effectively breaks down any traces of coolness and turns it into pocket-protectored, cowlick-sporting and technological nerdiness. In fact, I'm beginning to fear that it's a matter of days before I acquire headgear, a membership to the Dungeons and Dragons online forum and - the cherry on top of the sundae - a resounding snort.
After seven months or so, I know html code to a simple but nevertheless existent degree, I can cruise through Dreamweaver - an html program - like the Queen Mary 2 on a calm day at sea, and I am more than familiar with snazzy terms like "upload to the server," "template," "PHP" and "domain." Which brings me to the term "webmaster." My company's webmaster, and therefore he who is directly responsible for my employment, is a nice - though marginally crazy - French guy who speaks variations of both English and Spanish, both of which require careful decoding on the part of the listener. While meeting him that warm June morning of '06 yielded a job offer, it also altered the images that the word "webmaster" once invoked in my mind.
Every time I see the word, which over the past few months has exponentially increased up into the thousands, I can't help but imagine an old, bearded wizard named Merlin wielding an orb-topped sceptor and donning a star-spackled pointy hat- a la Mickey Mouse in the cinematic treasure that was and still is Fantasia. Every time the webmaster of my imagination enters a room, an aura of mystery electrifies the atmosphere as the lights dim and a deep-voiced British accented man straight from 1750 proclaims "hear ye, hear ye... 'tis the webmaster."
Some say that I have an overactive imagination.
I have long been a sucker for anything that is soft- stuffed animals, those squishy beanie pillows from Brookstone, fleece blankets. I lament having to wash new sweatshirts and sweatpants because the plush softness inside succumbs after a few bouts with the spin cycle. It also turns out that people get legitimately creeped out when I randomly start petting the inside part of their arm.
During my childhood, I had little - if any - control of my softophilia. For example, unlike my brother, I didn't have a blankie weathered hard with drool, filth picked up from being dragged across the ground and a few too many spills. Instead, I carried around an old, mustard-yellow t-shirt that was once my dad and that I'm fairly sure that he acquired free from a walk-in clinic or real estate firm. But believe me... it had this one spot just big enough for my finger to rub that was softer than the finest silk. If I'd had the income or a hefty inheritance at that young age to afford a velvet pillow, I probably would have used it to carry around the beloved t-shirt with style instead of draping it around my neck as to ensure that it wouldn't hit the ground. It was undeniably hideous and had without a doubt been moments away from being lost amongst the pile of rags destined to be put to use for car washing, checking oil levels, burying hamsters headed for a better life and a larger spinning wheel (RIP Peanut... you're still missed) and a wide range of other nitty-gritty household roles. But I, the Patron Saint of Ugly T-Shirts, salvaged the poor thing from such an unfortunate, undignified fate and - to my parents' dismay - insisted on taking it everywhere. It mysteriously disappeared a few years later. Information leading to its recovery and/or whereabouts may or may not yield a considerable reward.
When I was four (and five, six, seven, eight...) years old, I was under the self-involved impression that there existed evil people (alias: jealous meanies) who coveted my soft belongings and were on a quest to take them from me. So, to ensure that none of my soft friends fell into the wrong hands, I fervently insisted on either a) sleeping inside my closet with all of my stuffed animals, or b) piling all of my plush and bean-filled treasures on one half of the bed and covering them with a sheet. In hindsight, the fact that they formed a mountain rivaling Everest may have given it away, I thought myself particularly intelligent as these measures were sure to throw off robbers who came in through my window in search of stuffed bears, bunnies and other woodland creatures. But hey... hindsight is 20-20.
When I ceased fearing robbers and instead began contemplating the possibility of house fires destroying my menagerie of pals, I actually wrote a letter that I would leave at the foot of my bed in the event that I was trapped in my room by searing flames and thus required a heroic rescue by firemen. There were clear instructions laid out directing the East Lyme Fire Department as to which of my cherished companions to rescue as they pulled me to safety. While I was sure to write the letter in another room so as not to cause suspicion throughout the crew, the fact that I had to pick and choose the hypothetical survivors while leaving the others to perish wracked my early childhood days with guilt and haunted me for years. The Toy Story movies and their theme of forgotten toys being cast aside like yesterday's news were like daggers to my heart... and that's practically two decades removed from those early years.
I was not what one would traditionally call a quote-unquote "normal" child.
So I think I've really driven home the fact that I'm a people-watcher / creepy stalker. Spending a few post meridiem hours slouched back into a chair seeking out the world's more interesting creatures is pretty much my idea of a night out on the town, especially on a lucrative night of "sightings." Chueca, Madrid's gay neighborhood, is - for example - a veritable treasure trove of cross-dressers, awkward "real life" disco-dancing street performers and a wide assortment of other characters that never fail to astound me. Just throw in a cold beverage and some form of fried potato product - be it chips or fries - and it's quite possibly the ultimate night for this gal.
All this said, sidewalk cafes have a new prime people-watching hot spot rival. The gym.
A few months ago, I decided that I would replace a couple post-work hours each day in "active mode." A gym right down the street was having a two year anniversary promotional thing where joining was really cheap if you bought a year-long membership in the moment. Cheap is good. I like cheap, me and a girl I work with joined. I don't need anything special... just give me an elliptical and some weight machines that don't involve the possibility of crushing myself and I'm happy as a clam. However, this gym happens to be one of those techno-blasting athletic facilities to which pretty people go to not work out. Needless to say, a people-watching MECCA. Especially now that New Years and the annual semi-serious "I want to lose 10 pounds" resolution has brought a new crop of subjects. Here's a brief run-down...
The socializers. The first week that I went to the gym back in October or November, I was the sweaty oreo cream filling sandwiched between two perfectly composed cookies on the elliptical machines. Confused as to why I was the only red-faced slob of the trio, I switched into stalker-mode and decided to check out their stats. Sure, woman on my left. Your matching get-up and perfectly constructed ponytail are lovely, but treading on level 1 and burning exactly 112 calories over the course of a half-hour is pointless. Just because it makes your mascara run doesn't mean sweat is to be feared.
The metro or homosexual. In Spain, I often find there to be a very fine and unclear line that separates the two. A metrosexual, by definition, is a heterosexual man displaying female tendencies. I guess the stereotypical homosexual is thought to demonstrate those same tendencies, but switching the prefix and choice of partner. Either way, hairbands (and no, I don't mean Nike sweatbands) are quite a hit amongst the male population of Urban Fitness (ie my gym), as are waxed legs, fake-baking, hair products and snug, matching exercise outfits that can really only be classified as "cute."
The well-endowed. I will never understand why, when given the option, large-chested women opt to NOT give their girls some extra support. Boobs + gravity + treadmill = whoa, put those things away!
I will also never grasp why it is that Spanish women don't wear shorts to work out. Is there some sort of leg deformity that runs common amongst the "she" Spanish population that I am not aware of? When I work out, I usually feel like an overheating car... and that's with shorts and a tank top. Yet, I stick out as the only pair of female "I glow in the dark under a black light" legs in the place.
Annnnd that's my return to blogging.
*written now to be posted at home where I don't have to pay 5 bucks for internet use
Boredom means I write stuff… which is probably part of the reason I haven’t written in a gosh-darn long time- just haven't been bored enough! Anywho… I am currently in
The father was Spanish, the mother was American… and I have yet to see why this cross-cultural bond was formed and documents signed. The man was clearly weary and worn down by these days of domestic hell. I will bet all 6 euros of my personal savings that he is probably ruing the day he decided to move to the
So originally the family was going to be the first of a few things… but turns out they provided enough on their own.
It's fate. I move to another part of Madrid... and land myself a mere 5 blocks from 'The American Store' (www.theamericanstore.es) which, according to them, is the largest American store in alllllll of the noble land of Spain. Well, it was not all that big... but I felt like a little kid going through the 5 aisles looking at the assortment of goods that I had forgotten I'd even missed. Mike 'n' Ikes! Cranberry sauce!! Rice krispie treats!!! Quaker oatmeal!!!! Lucky freakin Charms!!!!!! I resisted the temptation to buy it all... I somehow even managed to not pick up the Lucky Charms, that beloved childhood cereal which I rediscovered in Holy Cross's dining hall and proceeded to eat with a rather disturbing frequency because Mom wasn't there anymore to make sure I ate the proper ratio of marshmellows to cereal. The Lucky Charms tub and the fro-yo machine were my two favorite and most visited parts of Kimball... even miraculously beating out the omelette line at weekend, aka 'hangover recovery,' brunches.
I went to the American Store with a mission, my wallet, and a list of four items of the utmost importance: cake mix (and obviously an accompanying tub of frosting), Skippy superchunk peanut butter, root beer, and for the love of God some normal pickles NOT soaked in a vat of plain vinegar (insert gagging). A half-hour later I came out with a rather sizeable plastic bag like a trophy of my success filled with aforementioned products... annnnd perhaps some other treats that mysteriously made their way into my basket. Three bags of Reeses Pieces? What? A giant bag of Root Beer Barrel candies? Huh?
And as a gleeful exclamation point to my American shopping experience, the woman working there summoned one of her underlings working in the basement up to floor level to offer me a free root beer from the store's secret subterranean refrigerator "to beat the heat." It was glooooorious- so much so that I almost could have skipped home out of sheer contentment.
When hailing a cab, you never know what kind of taxi driver is awaiting you within. In the past year, I have taken my fair share of taxis... normally in the 4am time range... and normally in a less than sober state of being. You know when I'm in a less than sober state of being when I get 'chatty' and make friends with, for example, two middle aged lawyers who then give me a business card for their bull-fighting webpage. I have yet to figure out how that conversation even started... all I know is that I like to think that I was not the one to initiate it.
Anyways, less me and more taxi drivers. In NYC, which is the only place in the United States where I've really even taken enough taxis to make a totally prejudiced generalization, you never really know anything about your cab driver because without a doubt they do not speak English. Half the time they just plain don't speak... when you give the address to which you'd like to arrive, there's no confirmation. No nod. Just a look in the rearview mirror and the car goes into motion. I never know whether or not to feel disconcerted. Here, on the other hand, habitually taking taxis is like doing an in-depth nature versus nurture study... one job, same language, same city, same job requirements... and yet those circumstances yield 2935830276262 personality types. Let me provide a few fun little examples..
The partier. Once upon a time when Joanne used to come out and was still tearing up dance floors with her snazzy moves (the running man, the supermarket, etc.), she, Susan, and I went out for an evening of drunken debauchery. As folks tend to do, we got tired somewhere in the realm of 5am. Cue the ruthless battle for the few open cabs that dare to pass through the area. We finally get one, much to the shagrin of the scantily clad bimbos 10 yards ahead of us who had been frantically trying to hail the same cab. I sometimes have to keep myself from sticking out my tongue and nah-nah-nah-nah-boo-booing them as we pass by. Anyways, by the end of the car ride I'm pretty sure Susan would have gladly given the cab to those girls... because this cabbie was a party-cabbie livin' up the Madrid night life from within the comforts of his own taxi. He was dancing in his seat, blasting music, flirting with the car of girls in the lane next to us, and he actually had a little hanging disco ball dangling from his rearview mirror. As I laughed and Susan clutched the car door as if to jump out at any moment, Joanne was having a blast dancing along with the cabbie, asking for the names of all his Euro-trash music (I call it 'epileptic' even though that's mean) because apparently these days it's the music that brings two souls together (Joanne and Paco). Luckily we made it to our apartment in one piece and he went off to find some more party passengers.
The politician. One day, I was heading to the La Latina part of the city to meet up with some homies for tapas. I, in my state of not wanting to go about changing metro lines, decided to take a cab. From the second I shut the door and divulged my destination, it became apparent that without even trying I had given off the impression that I'd love a not-so-brief run-down of the Spain's political situation for the past 30 years. Eventually it got to the point where he was apparently overcome with passion that he was yelling and waving his fist in the air in a rather violent manner. I'm pretty sure at this moment in time I was shrunken into the back corner of the cab, bug-eyed and with one finger on the door handle. The situation was further aggravated when we ran into a traffic jam due to - what else - a political demonstration in the street. What timing. Luckily for me, this extended the cab ride by about 15 minutes, 6 euros, and 10 more years of political history (accompanied by his own personalized commentary, of course).
The bitch. Female cab-drivers, like female 18-wheeler-drivers, are few and far between. I almost feel lucky when I have one... it's like seeing a comet that can only be seen from earth once every 284,000 years or going on a whale-watching expedition and seeing a rare albino orca whale. I don't know why an albino orca comes to mind... perhaps lasting effects from having recently seen DaVinci Code. Anyways, on this particular day (almost two weeks ago- as I was bringing a suitcase to Alfonso's) I was lugging aforementioned suitcase, that by the way weighed approximately the equivalent of a mastadon, across town and I sure as hell was not going via metro. I stood on the street corner beneath the 'Taxi' sign like an upstanding (non)citizen with my suitcase for a good 15 minutes to watch time and again as women finishing up a day of shopping snagged the few cabs that were passing by at that time of day 20 feet in front of said taxi sign. So, I dragged my mastodon suitcase to the other side of the street to try my luck there. Bam. Within two minutes I had a cab. With a woman! What luck! So I get the suitcase in the trunk, get in the back seat, and tell her where I'm going. She stares at me in the rearview mirror with dead eyes and informs me that I should have caught a cab going in the other direction. For a moment I actually thought she was going to make me get out. I explained the situation... I had waited for a really long time and people kept getting the cabs just ahead of me... to which she replied with a heavy sigh, a dramatic shift into first gear, and finally a 'Well I guess I'll just have to turrrrn arouuunnndd ughhhhh.' When we got to Alfonso's street I asked if she could pull to the left side of the road (it's one-way). She pulled to the right and stopped where there was no opening in the fence. Whatever. I got out, collected my belongings, and silently cursed her. Hey lady, just because you only have half of a thumb don't take it out on poor innocent moi.
The nice guy. These are my favorite cabbies. They indulge in pleasant conversations with their passenges. They don't, for example, yell at you when you get a cab going in the opposite direction from the one you're headed to. The nicest one I ever had was the one who started talking about how he didn't understand girls who wear really short skirts but then knee-high boots, combining two opposing seasons in the process. We laughed about other female clothing styles (something I like to do on a frequent basis anyway.. need I mention my daily observance of the Over-The-Top girl- a fellow Middlebury student- and her crazy belts, fish necklaces, hats, and yes, TIES).
The fanatic. When my family was here, we went to a soccer game. During that week, due to my mother's fractured ankle, we took taxi's everywhere. It was just a given. So obviously we weren't going to be going up and down flights of stairs and switching metro lines with thousands of boisterous, inebriated soccer fans. At least we didn't lug along the wheelchair (aka "Charlie") on this particular outing... that night I got to just get into the cab instead of leaning in to ask 'Can you open the trunk' first. Well, on this fine afternoon for a soccer game we happened to get a cab driver who by a stroke of luck turned out to be a soccer fanatic. First he was asking us all about soccer teams and which Madrid team we were fan of and if we'd ever been to a game before and if we knew the songs. We, needless to say, had not recently brushed up on our soccer songs... and as a result, he spent the rest of the cab ride singing and trying to teach us the songs for BOTH Madrid teams... which at first was funny and entertaining. But... after ten minutes it just grew uncomfortable and we were all shifting in our seats and smiling nervously.
So what is it that makes one cab driver an absolute beast but the next someone to whom you want to say 'Will you be my friend?'
Well... I have bid adieu to our former abode at good ole General Pardiñas 28. Sigh. Last night I slept there for the last time. Alone. And on the couch because having washed all the sheets and such I couldn´t very well put them back on the bed and use them. Isn´t that decent of me? I also came to realize that I had packed and sent all of my clothes over to the new abode (Alfonso´s), forgetting to keep out pajama pants... which meant (not to give you all nightmares) then sleeping in my u-trow. In the den on the couch. It felt so wrong. I used the extra interior lock on the door in case the landlord made an early appearance this morning. Luckily for both of us, he didn´t. He probably would have found something to charge us for.
Being alone in the apartment was a wholly pathetic experience. Imagine the following scenario. A lonely (and sick... annnnd, as previously discussed, pants-less) Betsey in an empty apartment, her only remaining belongings being (that was a lot of consecutive -ing words) a few towels drying on the drying rack, her computer, 1 bottle of shampoo, 1 dvd of Arrested Development season 3, and (yes Angel, here´s your demanded shout-out) a ginormous steroidal tennis ball (Angel´s LAAAAAME attempt at a joke after I may or may not (ok- I did) have had a few problems adjusting from the length of a tennis racket to that of a paddle on my first day playing what else.. paddle/padel). Said ball has now been TRASHED in a demonstration of how I feel about our friendship. Psych! Just kidding. I gave it to a couple kids I saw on the way to the trash bin. They were delighted.
Then I went to Poli for the last time (hahahhaha that´s a lie... I´ll SO travel the half hour to the other end of the red Metro line for coffee at Poli. No, I´m not kidding.) I love Poli... and am slightly distressed that Poli and I no longer share the same address. I mean, I´ve spent the last nine months going there for daily (and often twice daily) caffeine binges. The waiters protected us from the advances of creepy middle aged men, ignored other customers to chat with us, and often slipped us free food. The other day, when Joanne and I went for our final coffee (well, Joanne was freaking out about leaving the next morning... therefore we substituted coffee for beer) date in Poli, they forced farewell shots upon us. Needless to say, and despite the three of them repeatedly proclaiming with obvious pride ¨Qué rico, qué rico,¨ they were the single foulest tasting shots I have ever thrown down my throat.. and trust me, that´s saying a lot; it´s this radioactive-looking, electric-yellow supposedly herb-flavored liquor that I had sworn never to try... and until the last week of Poli had avoided with a great deal of success. (I have now tried three of the five things I had sworn not to even try while here: foie, shitty herb liquor, and morcilla... which I´ve tried TWICE... damn you peer pressure! And no, I will not disclose the final two items of the list) As predicted, I spent the following hour grimacing and downing Smints trying to dissolve the taste like Barry Bonds with steroids trying to dissolve Babe Ruth´s record. (That´s two steroid references in one entry that doesn´t have to do with steroids- strange) Apparently his steroids paid off. My mints didn´t... all that came out of it was a bad taste in my mouth and a stomach ache. Fabulous. Anywho, today I ended my reign as an elite Poli frequent customer with a delicious cup o´ joe before handing over our three sets of keys to our landlord.
Goodbye General Pardiñas 28! We shall miss you, Casa Poli, and the naked painter across the street!
In other news, I feel the need to broadcast to the world (or the 7 people who are bored enough to read this crap that I write) the following story, about my stepsister Allison (aka ´Son´) and told to me by my stepsister´s roommate/other half/subway platform crawler Krissy:
¨Another day in the life of Krissy and Son: At 2:45 am Son comes into my room, wakes me up, and tells me that she accidentally drank perfume because she thought it was her water bottle. She asks me if she is goin to die, I tell her no; make fun of her for about 20 minutes... and then she threw up lavendar scent. I called poison control just so she would stop worrying, and was on hold for 10 minutes. Apparently other idiots are drinking chemicals in the middle of the night. Have no fear, she is okay, but will NEVER live this down. HAHAHAHA!¨
conversation on Friday afternoon (today):
"So... should we plan to pick you up on Monday in Boston or no?"
"Um.. no? No."
Perhaps (ok, ok... it's a fact and I'm really sorry for ignoring you all for the past month) you've all been wondering what I'm doing with myself... so here is a straight up update which hopefully will contain some of the answers to the questions that I've been avoiding like a hypochondriac confronted with the bubonic plague.
First off, on my esteemed and extensive resume which is currently being viciously clawed over by top-notch employers (hahahahahahahahaha- that's a lie), I'm officially Elizabeth Mattern, M.A. Some may say that getting your Masters in your desired field of study makes you an intellectual. My family is proud of me. I got toasted at Christmas dinner by my uncle. I'm a hell of a lot broker (I owe the government more money than what my life is worth). All signs point to the fact that I've intellectually bettered myself. I tend to disagree. I'm still an idiot who does handstands instead of discussing Nietzsche. I would rather talk about the difficulty of finding the ever elusive blue bag of tropical Skittles than discuss politics. In my case (and in the case of approximately 60% of the people in this program) I think that M.A. stands for mediocre academic... but hey... on paper I look smarter. So... go me. Pop open some fine bubbly.
So this then leads to the question, what next? This has been a fun month... if you replace 'fun' with 'the most stressful'. I think we can all agree on just how indecisive I am (I like to call it 'easy-going', but hey... to each his own, right?). It's one of my most recognizable qualities. This is all fine and good until something important comes up... cough cough... such as life decisions. The first big one which very nearly caused me my first nervous breakdown was choosing a college. I prayed that four of my five college choices to reject me just so my options would be limited to one. Needless to say, the universe uttered a 'mwa-ha-ha' as he rubbed his hands together in evil delight as all five accepted me... and I spent the next 3 weeks in an infernal college limbo. So you can only imagine how I've been for the past month... I'm talking exponentially increasing levels of anxiety with each passing day, not helped by my natural instinct to internalize everything. And not to mention the added stress caused by the onslaught of questions from well-intentioned and rightfully curious friends and family everytime I connected to instant messenger, opened my email inbox, or picked up the phone. Because in the end, having finished the one and a half year cross-puddle Masters program, I was faced with what the hell I was going to do... and where... from this point on. Do I return to the U.S, to my family, to my oldest friends, to my comfort zone... or stay on in Spain... an ocean away from all that, a place where I have far less options and far higher degree of insecurity, but where I just have this feeling that makes me want to stay.
I opted for Jack Frost's legendary road less travelled, I guess. I pretty much decided a few weeks ago that I want to at least try my luck here. So, I tried to put into motion the changing of my flight. I have always been in love with British Airways. I like their little travel packs (toothbrush, toothpaste, socks, etc) that they provide, I like their free wine, I like their ticket prices, I like their easy to navigate website, I like their seats, I like their individual TV screens and the 20 channels to pick from, I like that they bumped me to business class that time, I like that they have given me food vouchers and a seat on the next flight out all of the 20482949230 times I've missed my connections, and I even really enjoy my in-flight meals. I'm perhaps even what one would call a British Airways snob... but hey, I feel that when you make a habit of taking eight-hour flights you're entitled. For British Airways, I even let the auditory torture that is the British accent slide. This is until over the course of the past couple of weeks we were repeatedly told "This is not a changeable ticket... there's nothing you can do." Bloody Red-coats.
'Well, there goes that idea,' I thought to myself. Faced with being forced to go back and not knowing how to handle that, I started stressing out... both of my parents had to deal with phone calls with me as I went through moments of what I call 'girlie emotions.' I (and I think the rest of my family is with me on this one) usually leave this delicate area of sentiments to my sister, who is the personification of said 'girlie emotions.' I love her dearly, but the girl cries watching sappy commercials and Lifetime movies. On the other hand, I don't think my parents know how to handle me when I get like that... because these moments are few and far between. I'm known as 'even-keel Betsey' for a reason. However, they are probably simultaneously relieved to have evidence that I am capable of human emotions and that there isn't a cold, cobweb-infested, black hole where a heart should be. (I promise that I'm not evil or emotionless... just an introvert)
The only option at this point was to simply 'miss' my flight and buy another one later on... an option that I hadn't considered until I talked to my dad. He made it all sound so simple... said not to stress out about it- it wasn't the end of the world... if I have to miss the flight I miss the flight and that's that. I was not expecting that reaction of either my parents. So then, of course, I was even more confused, indecisive, and racked with guilt. If I miss the flight, the ticket money goes to waste. I felt like doing that would make me that bratty, self-centered, spoiled, 'I don't wanna' type of person that I can't stand who just does what she wants despite the consequences. On the other hand, I don't think that I would have been humanly capable of boarding a plane come early Monday. So, here is the hypothetical plan as of now. I stay here until roughly the end of July. The first week of August I go to Maryland where my step-dad's family gets together every summer and hopefully to see my favorite soft-crab-sandwich-eating Maryland-er (Nell). Then, my dad has in theory changed the date of his five year anniversary of being cancer-free party from June to the second week... which I had originally been upset about missing. Following that, I either come back to Spain to work depending on how things go between now and July, or I stay in the U.S. But this is all two months away and at least for today I'm leaving it for 'future-Betsey' to figure out.
For now, all that matters is that on Monday morning at 7am, some relieved person on stand-by will board the plane and sit in my seat. And as that person is landing in London, I'll be waking up to another day of Spanish sunshine.
I think we all remember that stunning poster for 'Yo, mono libre' featuring my favorite suited human-monkey back awhile ago. Well now, in that very same theater, we have a play about fish-babies. Or something. What is with this theater's obsession with cross-breeding for their posters???
When the nice weather comes, the Betsey wants to play. It’s just nature. She sees the sunshine and feels the warm air and she wants to be six years old again so that if she were to decide to do a few cartwheels of joy, people wouldn’t look at her with that look of pity that makes obvious the fact that they think she rode the little bus to school everyday. Coincidentally, I also receive this look when someone stops me for directions or to try to sell me a new cell phone plan or to get me to donate to the wildlife federation or whatever those people with the panda bear vests are from. I reply, the American accent is noted, and the ‘look’ with the accompanying exaggeratedly slow nod ensues. The one that says, “Ohhhh I see… you’re Ameeeeerican… that’s shame… I’ll ask elsewhere....”
Anyways. Every year, when springtime really comes around, I want to play sports. And by springtime I mean after those few teaser days in like February that are freakishly warm and that fill us with false hope before giving us the finger, throwing us down a flight of stairs, and plummeting us all back into tundra-like conditions. The weather right now (70’s, sunny, delightful little white puffy clouds…) makes me think of softball games and tennis matches. Unfortunately, it’s a little difficult to start up a quick game of softball/baseball/whiffle-ball for obvious reasons of participation. This is where tennis becomes really useful: you only need one other person and usually you can find that willing volunteer without too much difficulty. However, my tennis racket, if it hasn’t since been stolen by my brother during my cross-seas absence, is at home in my room, lonely and unplayed with since last summer. Wow. I almost just made myself feel guilty for neglecting it…
So I tried running. Like, hmm maybe I’ll learn to enjoy running, thinking that perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Like beer. When you sneak that first sip from your parents' beer when you're like 10 years old, you gag and spit as if you had accidentally swallowed sewage and then go clamoring frantically like a drug addict through the fridge in search of a grape juicebox to erase the taste of that fermented beverage from hell. And then, magically, by the time you're 18 that same devil drink quenches your thirst and delights your pallate. I keep thinking the same phenomenon may someday happen with running. I’ve tried this a few times… to get to the point where running is enjoyable. But no. I will never ever ever be one of those people who enjoy a good 5 mile run to start my day. I will also never be one of those people who go running to work off stress. In fact, it makes me MORE stressed because halfway into the run I’ll be yelling at myself. For example: “You KNOW Betsey, this would be a lot easier if you had some self-control and RATIONED that box of Girl Scout cookies instead of eating them all in two days.” When I’m stressed, I don't need to run around in cirlces. I need to HIT things. (Dear friends and family, don’t worry… this doesn’t include people… at least not usually…) In fact, the sports I like are the ones where hitting stuff is the key part of the game. Softball/ baseball (hit ball)… tennis (hit ball)… rugby (hit people and break their legs)… and the reason I stopped playing golf was because it has one fun part and the rest is crap. Like come on… I only get to slam the ball 18 times and then do the boring stuff at least twice that many times? I think not. Although driving the golf cart is unexpectedly fun, you can just leave me on the driving range. It’s the only part thats worth it.
So now there’s a new sport in my life. It’s a little thang called padel/paddle, which I like to think of as a cross between tennis and glorified ping pong. Smaller court, a wall which I will never be able to properly use to my advantage, tennis ball, and this crazy paddle-racket thing with holes in it. We’ve had a few rough patches, this game and I… for example, being completely confused the first day, getting used to the shorter length of the paddle when I’m used to the length of a tennis racket (there were a lot of whiffs that first day… and Angel, Alfonso, and Salva were probably rolling their eyes non-stop during this attempt to teach me to play), and then the other day I actually whacked myself in the forehead with the paddle, an ace move which luckily went unnoticed, along with the fact that I was running around with one eye closed for a few minutes until the pain dulled, by the same three people. For anyone who was worried, the egg that it left is almost gone.
So, I actually really like playing now, I once again get to run around and hit stuff, and all is well in the world.
I'm not what one would call 'difficult' to please. In fact, I'm pretty much content, and even full out happy, doing anything. Unless it involves flocks of large birds. Or anything that Martha Stewart would consider to be one of the ingredients in her recipe for sheer joy. This of course includes cooking... cleaning... sewing... decorating (time-out, unless it's a cake- because hey, who DOESN'T like those packaged sugar letters that spell out Happy Birthday...) I'm pretty sure that I was one of those young'ns who was ten times more entertained by the cardboard box than by the toy within. In fact, my favorite childhood item, and the subject of many days of sorrow when it mysteriously 'disappeared' that fateful day when I was about ten years old, was one of my dad's old t-shirts which I kept with me at all times... while I sucked my thumb. People in the supermarket must have frowned upon my poor parents, who by the way spoiled their first-born with Cabbage Patch dolls, Glo-Worms, and bicycles, upon seeing my adorable but silent four year old self carrying around a hideous, mustard-yellow t-shirt and treating it with the care and protection that would befit the Holy Grail... not a ratty piece of Dad's old clothes that was probably otherwise destined to be a rag used to clean the car's oil stick. But I was beyond happy with it in my hands.
Not much has changed since then. Although I have since abandoned my thumb-sucking habit, and the t-shirt fixation ended much to my dismay, there's still not a whole lot of upkeep necessary in regards to making me a happy gal. I mean, I'm 23 going on 8 years old... I roped Angel and Alfonso into going to the zoo with me the other day because I wanted to see monkeys and dolphins, I have spent up to an hour straight popping bubble wrap, and I'm not embarassed to say that I still enjoy a good handstand when nobody's watching (warning: close your shades if you're going to practice this childhood art in, say, your dorm room, because all of a sudden you will look across to the neighboring dorm building to find that half of its inhabitants are staring at you with raised eyebrows. Needless to say, you will then see these people in line at the dining hall and/or next to you on the ellypticals at the gym). The fact that I'm easy to please and beyond content doing anything as long as it's with people I like perhaps helps to explain what many classify as my chronic indecisiveness.
Moving along these same lines, one of the things that makes me most happy in this world is going out to eat... particularly for breakfast, and if given the choice, at the Shack in East Lyme. I mean, there's not a whole lot that would classify it as the thrilling experience I find it to be, and yet 8 dollars for a cup o' coffee, a big ole orange juice, and of course eggs, toast, and homefries, makes this Betsey a happy Betsey. Unfortunately, while the breakfast situation outlined above will forever be a favorite of mine, it is losing ground to a new foreign enemy: sunny Spanish afternoons spent sitting in street cafes with my ever-refreshing carbonated friend Coca-Cola light. I mean, it's the ideal situation, and the great thing about Madrid and Spain in general is that they all understand the wondrous wonderful wonderfulness of it... and therefore its practice is widespread and celebrated. If only us Americans would catch on to the street cafe lifestyle. It's THE equation for a glorious and yet relaxing afternoon: sit+sun+sip+stalk strangers. The only thing marginally close that I can think of near East Lyme is Charley's Restaurant at the mall, which now offers outdoor seating with a splendid view of... yes folks, the mall parking lot.
So, America, get with the program. Make your lives just that much more enjoyable.
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."
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)
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 ha
lf 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!
