Catching up on movies

From my time at college, I've come to the conclusion that you can generally place people into certain interest categories within the realm of pop culture. People are either really into movies, books, music, television, or gossip. I know I'm grossly generalizing, but please bare with me.

Between the two other American girls I live with, I am most certainly not the film person. That pretty much applies in general to me, regardless of who I am surrounded by. While I enjoy watching movies, I just generally don't get around to it very often. Which is the reason I just watched The Dark Knight -- 5 months late. And yes, I must agree that the movie really is just as damn good as all the critics made it out to be.

I won't try to discuss what I liked the most, or why I thought it was so fantastic, as I'm sure my ideas are all superfluous and can't even begin to do the film justice (much more intelligent people than I have already given the movie its many praises). But I will say that I'm taken aback, and slightly moralized, by the hope and optimism at the end of the film, if you choose to see it that way (as I did). For an enormously large Negative Nancy like myself to walk away thinking that maybe people aren't as selfish, greedy and inherently evil as I usually think says something about the power of movies to really move people and make them think. I guess, like a friend of mine told me recently while discussing the future of journalism jobs, when all else seems bleak, there is always hope.

Much ground to cover

For starters, I'd like to apologize for the really long delay since my last post. I really thought I would be much better about this blogging thing, but the truth is between my ridiculously long days, my spazzy internet, and my general laziness/apathy, blogging is among the many things that has slipped through the cracks. But I'm happy to report that while I'm writing less, I am reading more!

So since my last entry, nothing much has happened. The weather has chilled, and there has been some snow in Las Rozas, the suburb where I teach. Las Rozas is at the foot of the mountains (I use that word loosely) that surround Madrid, so it's at a higher altitude and it gets more cold and snow than Madrid does. I enjoy the view of the mountains I have; it reminds me a lot of looking westward and seeing the Rockies at home. Quite comforting.

My life has becoming very routine and monotonous, something I always secretly feared. I'm still hopeful that exciting things will happen (they have to in a big city like this, right?), but I certainly don't count on them. And honestly, I don't try very hard either to make new friends or do interesting things. I'm often too tired or too cold to go around exploring the city. But when I do go exploring, it's nice to see how I am getting to know Madrid better and better each day. I'm a really big fan of the Malasaña neighborhood, one of Madrid's better-known 'hoods. It's known as one of Madrid's more alternative neighborhoods, although gentrification has brought in more yuppies (think Chicago's Wicker Park)and has moved lots of the low-brow artists to other neighborhoods. Because its an older neighborhood, the streets are narrow and the alleys are full of character. There are many cafeterias and restaurants, and loads of independently owned boutiques and other shops. One of my new favorite places, J&J's Bookshop, is located there. J&J's is a coffee shop/bookstore owned by 2 American ex-pats. The selection of books in English is pretty good, and they have nights for language exchanges, quizzes, and teachers. The people who frequent the shop are usually American or English, although its known to be a great place for non-native English speakers to go and practice.

I haven't done much to try and keep up on my journalism skills these last 3 months -- It's like I've taken a sabbatical from journalism -- but I really miss writing regularly. The good news is that I'm slated to begin writing regularly for InMadrid, one of the largest (English) publications in the city. It's a monthly publication, so its more of a Lifestyles magazine for ex-pats in Madrid. I'm really exited to be flexing my writing muscles again, although I've suddenly developed this interest in doing more video stuff. I made a short photo slide show about my trip to Barcelona, and I really enjoyed that. Hopefully I can develop those skills further and see where it takes me.

For the past week, I've been in Greece on vacation. It was the best week of my life -- Greece is so beautiful, the food is fantastic, and the people are extremely nice. I have posted some photos on facebook, and I'll be adding some more here as well. Holiday break will be going on for two more weeks (the Spanish don't return to work and school until after the Three Kings' day -- hooray for more vacation!), so I'm planning on creating a different blog to post my photos, videos and thoughts about the different places I visit. I'm thinking of making it a bit more formal, and giving some travel writing a shot. Once I have that up and running, I'll post a link.
In the meantime, I'll have to do some more exploration of Madrid to keep myself entertained.

Starbucks and their effort to "save" the world

As I logged on to read the New York Times today, the usual slew of full-screen advertisements impeded my view of the headlines -- but one ad in particular caught my eye...

A Starbucks ad posted online is informing customers that for every cup of coffee purchased, $.05 will go towards saving lives in Africa.

The fact that Starbucks is now trying to guilt me into buying coffee makes me rather upset. I've always been a sucker for guilt (it's my Mom's brand of medicine), so to me, trying to appeal to consumers' ethos is just hitting below the belt.

But, if you're going to do it anyway, Starbucks, at least give a little more than $.05. I already pay $.50 more for a cup of coffee in Madrid than I did in Chicago, so can't you take at least half of that to add to the nickel you're donating?

Oh wait, I forgot: I'm talking about Corporate America. They don't really care about Africa. They just pretend.

Terrorism in Spain

A few weekends ago, I took a trip with some friends to Segovia, as I’ve already written before.

While we were sitting in the train station, waiting for our train back to Madrid, the three of us saw a “Spain’s Most Wanted” poster. I remember looking at that poster, and I recall the three of us having a conversation about the people on the poster. They were all members of the ETA, Spain’s terrorist group. The ETA, found in the northern region of Spain near the French border, seeks the region’s independence from Spain, claiming they are a separate ethnic group than the rest of Spain and the southern part of France. Many of the violent terrorist attacks which occur in Spain are traced back to the ETA and their “struggle” against the government.

Looking at the photos of the highly sought-after terrorists, my friends and I discussed how utterly normal these people looked. There were five men and one woman in this poster, and none of them looked anything like the typical terrorists we Americans (and one Australian) were used to seeing. These terrorists looked like they were in their late 20s, early 30s, with a slight bohemian flair. The men wore scraggly beards and some had longer hair, their look overall reminding me of what some big fan of grunge music from the 90s might wear on an everyday basis. None of them looked evil, crazy, or anything short of alternative, really. I specifically recall staring at the photograph of the woman, who looked like any other Spanish chick on the street. She had a slight smile on her face, and I remember thinking how easily she could have been someone I’ve met on the street or in a cafeteria somewhere.

I hadn’t given much thought to the poster, or the people on the poster, again until Tuesday, when the main headline in my free morning paper (as well as the other papers) was about the capture of Txeroki, the military chief of the ETA. When I looked at the photo, it somehow seemed familiar, as if I’d seen this man before. Turning to read the story jump, I saw another face, one I recognized immediately: the woman whose photograph was among those in the poster we’d seen at the Segovia train station. The pair was operating out of a stolen vehicle in southern France and was detained because of the plates on the vehicle, which were not the up-to-date plates many countries in the EU have switched to. In the vehicle, officials found plans for several civilian attacks during the coming months, as well as notes about the group and its operations.

In thinking about the situation, I’ve come to realize that I’ve fallen into the belief that a terrorist somehow has a distinct look. When we think of terrorists in America, we (or at least I) picture an Arab man with a long beard, long hair and wearing a turban, as those as the terrorists we deal with. They are strangers to us, speaking another language, having different cultural customs, and living in places very dissimilar to our front yards and back porches. For the people of other countries, terrorists could be their neighbors, their co-workers, or any old acquaintances. When dealing with issues of national security, their priorities don’t always lie in protecting their national borders or sending agents to deserts across the world to look for the biggest threat to their country. Sometimes, the biggest threat is literally next door.

So the search is different, and even more difficult. How do you begin finding your biggest enemy when chances are great that they’re in country? How do you keep the population safe without infringing on their rights? One surely can’t go Big Brother on the entire country in order to find the enemy. When the enemy is in your house, how do you keep everyone safe without becoming paranoid, distrustful of everyone, or tyrannical?

I pity the fool(s) who has (have) to find the solutions to these problems. Leaders of the world, here is my message to you: Good luck.

For more on the arrests: here.

The Metro

First, a disclaimer: This is a rant about public transportation.

Now, in the last five years that I have been car-less, I have become a huge fan of public transportation. While it sucks sometimes having to wait on an outdoor platform in the cold for a train (or bus) that is rarely on time or doesn't smell like urine, it's nice when you don't have to worry about parking.

So one of the things that I enjoy the most about Madrid is its fantastic transportation system: An underground train (the Metro) with 12 lines, and each station has neon signs that tell you how long before the next train arrives. Over 200 lines of buses that run in the city streets, and another few that operate from the city to the outlying suburban areas also. In addition to the sheer size of the system, the buses and trains are clean (no pee smell!), and above all, they are always on time. Like, down to the minute. If you are going to catch the 10:00 am bus, you'd better be there by 9:58 at least, because the instant the clock hits 10 am, the bus is rolling out of the station.

Since I've been here a month now, my morning routine has been boiled down to a formula. My departure by 9:20 + 10 minute walk to Nuevos Ministerios + 15 minute ride to Moncloa = Marcy is waiting for the 9:50 bus, but usually waits to take the less-crowded 10 am. But the last few days have proven to really screw with my formula, and take me back to the days of my former best friend, the El.

Last Thursday, my usual 15-minute ride to the Moncloa station where I catch my bus turned into a 25-minute odyssey because the train I take was not functioning. Rather than taking my usual train 5 stops, I was forced to take 4 different trains to get to the same station. As such, I arrived at approximately 10:03, missing the 10 am bus by a few minutes. On Monday, I was allowed back on Line 6, but the train remained stationary sat for about 5 minutes in three different stations. Again, I arrived at Moncloa a few minutes too late to catch the 10 am bus, and consequently, I was about 15 minutes late to work both days.

For me, it's not about having sat on the train doing nothing for 15 minutes or so (although at least on the El they tell you why you're waiting). It's not about making repairs ( I get it, they're necessary). It's about the trust I've built with the Metro, trust which has now been violated.

I'm over you, Line 6. No longer will I tell my friends and roommates about how easy my commute is to work, because in order to avoid you, I now have to take 2 trains, exit the station and walk about 7 minutes, then re-enter another station in order to catch the bus.

Elecciones Estadounidenses

Happy Election Day USA!

One of the most surprising things I have found about reading the newspapers here is the amount of coverage they have on the U.S., particularly regarding the election. Not a day goes by that McCain and Obama aren't somehow mentioned in the paper, whether the story relates directly to the campaign and its issues or not. Apparently, I'm not the only one who has noticed.

At lunch today, a conversation broke out amongst the teachers about the American election. A handful of teachers began commenting on how much the Spanish media has been covering the election, and one teacher in particular said she felt the media here was cramming information about America down her throat. The teachers began discussing whether or not Americans were as well-informed about the Spanish political landscape as the Spanish were about the US', and they also discussed whether or not the extensive coverage was necessary.

As a well-trained journalist, I didn't actively participate in the conversation. I don't think I can really say with accuracy if the Spanish media covers the US too much. As an American reader living abroad, I like the amount of coverage they have, but I obviously can't speak for the average Madrileño (despite what my blog name might imply). By the same token, I can't defend the US population for not being well-versed in international affairs -- actually, that has been one of my biggest criticisms about the general US population. So instead of throwing in my two cents, I ate my double-baked potato and green beans with ham instead.

While savoring my potato and green beans, my mind wandered back to a conversation I had about two weeks ago with a German guy, Mark, who I met at a party. At some point in the conversation, Mark started talking about how much he hated Americans and how ridiculous he thought Sarah Palin was -- even he mocked her now-infamous "I can see Russia from my house" phrase. She's an idiot; how could she even be considered as for such an important position? he asked.

In that moment, the more interesting question in my mind was, "Why does this random German dude care what happens if McCain is elected president and later kicks the bucket?" I wondered if the American sphere of influence in the world truly is as potent as I'd heard, instead of simply considering it a remark made by Americans with big egos.

After hearing the teachers at my school discussing it too, I have come to believe in the potency of American influence. I do think the US sphere of influence is greater than I imagined it to be. The few Spanish people I have met here seem to have vast knowledge about US culture, and they certainly do know more about America, a country across the Atlantic, than I do about Canada. This being my first time living abroad, I guess this is the point where I say, "Geez, people really do look to America as the leader of the free world." And this is also the point where I say, "Geez, I sure was lucky to have been born on the northern side of the man-made (mostly) imaginary line between Mexico and the US." This is the point where I recognize the importance of democracy, and where I recognize the unique situation I'm in where I have the opportunity to get an outsider's view of the whole situation.

Two weeks ago, I gladly took an hour out of my day off to show up and vote at the American Embassy, as did many of my fellow Americans. What I've done, what my other friends and acquaintances living abroad have done, and what 130 million Americans are doing right now as I prepare to go to bed, really is going to change history. Not just in America, but across the globe. Because the world really is holding its breath and waiting to see who the next American president will be, and how his policies will affect the future.


For now, enjoy this video. Mostly relevant to this post, and in memory of Mark the German dude.

A Spanish Halloween

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays. As a kid, I remember being absolutely mad about TV shows like "Bewitched" and the movies "Hocus Pocus" and "The Witches." They really captivated my attention, and I remember a period when I was obsessed with witches. I read loads of books about the Salem Witch trials, and I still really love the book "The Witch of Blackbird Pond." Creatures of the occult, like Frankenstein, Dracula and werewolves, still fascinate me, for some inexplicable reason.

As I've gotten older, I've come to realize that perhaps one of the reasons I've always loved Halloween is because there is just something completely liberating about letting your imagination run wild and let you be or do whatever your heart desires, even just for a night. It's not so much about the candy (anymore), or even the costumes, to an extent -- I think I really just like the freedom it stands for. I enjoy that it allows creatures (like werewolves, etc) who are normally in the margins the chance to have their day in the shadow, when being a freak or outside of the norm is tolerated. I'm not saying I believe in werewolves, but I mean to use it more as a metaphor for a time when even freaks have their day.

In any case, I was slightly disappointed with the way the Spanish celebrate Halloween. Several of the teachers at my school expressed strong disapproval of Halloween during our lunch break, saying that the day is just another commercialized American holiday coming into their culture and tainting it. I agree with their arguments, and if I were in their shoes, I'm sure I'd be singing the same tune. But it made me miss the States and the celebrations and traditions we have during such a remarkable day.

My school had a small celebration with the bilingual classes (1st to 3rd grade). I found the party super-enjoyable, and my fake witch nose and chin (complete with a gross mole) were a complete hit! Kids, and even unenthusiastic staffers seemed to enjoy the extra effort I put into my costume, and not to brag, but my witch voice was also pretty sweet.

As a language and culture assistant, I thought it was a fantastic opportunity to share my favorite American holiday with the kids, and so I set about making sure they had a memorable Halloween.

Aside from the party, during the usual English class on Thursday (there was no school on Friday), I began taking a trio of kids out of the classroom and having them participate in mock "trick or treating." They'd come to the English classroom, knock on the door, say "trick or treat," and I'd make them stick their hands into black bags of mystery, filled, of course, with frog eyes, horse brains, or rat tails (yes, I did the most ancient and cherished Halloween activities). For the most part, the kids enjoyed it, I think, although a few are still rather gullible and actually thought I had bought frog eyes at El Rastro, a local flea market that takes place each Sunday in Madrid. I had an amazing time scaring the children and forcing them to speak English to me, something they detest doing. To the point that a few of them have it in for me, watching me like hawks to see if I ever speak Spanish at school (which I do, all the time, with the other teachers). It's a bit nerve-wracking to think that I have a clan of 8-year-olds after me, but c'est la vie, right?

At night, Meagan and I hit up the Malasaña neighborhood, the alternative/rocker 'hood, for some bar-hoping ( the 'making friends' thing is a work in progress). We hit up three bars, trying to find places that were at least sort-of celebrating Hallows' Eve. The first two we went to were somewhat successful. The decorations were pretty cool, with the typical pumpkins and spiderwebs associated with the holiday, although the crowd was a slightly different story. The bars were full of stuffy Spaniards who had an awkward way of dancing (there was a stiffness in it that made me think 'flamenco). After a drink, we left each place, hoping the next bar might have tunes that were a) from a more recent time period than Madrid's golden era of rock (the 90s) or b) stuff in English!



We finally found our niche at Molly Malone's, an Irish pub (of course, the closest thing to an American bar in Malasaña). Meagan got a free shiny red devils' wig, we danced the Twist and sang along to Grease songs (not sure how they're related to Halloween, but whatever). I even made a new friend, some Mexican guy who works as a photographer for a big media company in Madrid. He got a kick out of my costume (Frida Kahlo), and kept telling me I was cool -- like I need an ego boost. But he was pretty sloshed, so Meagan and I took the first chance we got to ditch the joint and walk on home. It was 4 am, so I'd say it was a pretty good night, by American standards. Madrid is well-known for their "marchas" or "noches Madrileñas, which begin around 11 pm and end when the sun comes up. I'm not there yet, but maybe someday...

As a final thought, I must say that I'm a bit upset that such an amazing costume idea was wasted on a country that doesn't even know to appreciate Halloween. I mean, I walked around with a unibrow and chongos wrapped around my head for the night, and only one person had the decency to laugh and comment on my costume. As they'd say here, "Que hijos de la gran puta..."

Socializing in Madrid

In my ever-growing pool of knowledge and self-awareness, I recognized an interesting phenomenon occurring to me here in Madrid: My friends are everything but Spanish.

Outside of our three original Spanish roommates and the people at school, I haven't really made any Spanish friends. I've befriended people from other random parts of the world (Australia, Germany, Columbia, Venezuela, the UK, even Iceland), but no one from Spain. This concerns me slightly because it makes me feel as though it removes me further from my goal of really getting into the nitty-gritty of the culture. Plus, if all of the people I know aren't from here, how am I supposed to find the cool places to hang out and buy stuff? I've been looking for an arts and crafts store for a while now to no avail. Damn the Spanish and their need to have a different store for everything...

In any case, I spent the weekend meeting loads of new people (mostly non-Spanish). Amy has a French friend whom she met in Argentina who has a sister who took us out to dinner in La Latina on Friday. The three of us were nervous as hell to meet this girl because she's what we call a "real person" -- she has a job, a house, a real life in Madrid. Her piso (Spanish for apartment) probably has a living room, too, unlike ours.

The chick was super-nice and not much older than us, and she brought her Spanish boyfriend along (finally! a Spaniard!). We made the usual awkward conversation, I asked loads of questions that made sense, loads of questions that were completely random (Marcy-style), and some innocent questions that were answered rather awkwardly (for example: I asked, "Where did you two meet?" They glanced at each other, did lots of "umming" amd "emmming" before saying "at the gym...").

For dinner, she suggested we order "huevos estrellados" which I've always thought was just scrambled eggs. Pero no. Here in Spain, huevos estrellados is a typical dish consisting of an egg (sunnyside up) served on top of a plate of fried potato chips (which were not totally crispy) and ham. They would have gone super-well with some salsa Valentina, but the Spanish don't believe in "salsa picante." Grr...

After dinner, nice French girl and her Spanish boyfriend took us for a short joyride through the streets of Madrid. The ride was awesome -- I loved seeing the city streets and buildings all lit up at night. Traveling around loads of roundabouts at fast speeds, with multi-colored lights flashing past the windows was a fantastic feeling I hadn't experienced in a while. Man, I miss cars...

We hung out with the French girl and her Spanish boy for a while before heading over to Meagan's friend's roommate's goodbye party (phwew). The party consisted mainly of a bunch of Americans working as Auxilliares (the same program I'm in) who were chatting it up with a bunch of Germans (friends with the departing roommate). Boy, do I love America, but man I hate Americans. Or at least a good chunk of people from this bunch -- they were the exact picture of the type of Americans that make me cringe on the Metro. They talk too loudly, attract too much attention to themselves, and are just generally obnoxious. If everyone on the train is in their own world, minding their own business and doing their thing, why do you think you can make an ass of yourself and people won't look down on you, annoying Americans? Why can't you take a page from the Spanish books and just chill in the Metro? Additionally, making the assumption that people won't understand you if you speak in English is an asinine thing to do -- just ask the obnoxious American dude riding the Metro who thought we had no clue what he was talking about on Friday night (as he made googly eyes at his sister. Or much-older girlfriend. But I digress...)

In any case, if you are to take anything away from this random rant, please let it be this: I have a new goal of making Spanish friends. When and how this will happen, I do not know yet, but rest assured, it will happen.

And I'll work on making my rants more meaningful, or at least more organized.

Finally the Spain I imagined

These last few days have been somewhat difficult for me, not because I'm homesick or having trouble adjusting but because I've come to the realization that I've been here about a month and I haven't had a "moment" yet. What I mean by a "moment" is that minute period (a nanosecond or so) where time stops and you realize the gravity of the moment/place/situation you find yourself in. It's almost like some type of euphoria, or a transcendental experience where your being is both in your body and outside your body at the same time. Your heart stops beating, you stop breathing, and suddenly its just you and the world -- its almost an indescribable feeling.



I remember the first time I had one of these moments in Chicago -- it was freshman year, and I was embarking on my first trip downtown by myself. As I came out of the Red Line train stop, I found myself on State and Washington. Macy's was to my left, I could see the Chicago Theatre sign. A few feet in front, the El train made a stop on its route around the Loop. I remember standing there, taking it all in: the cars whizzing by beside me, people walking around me, the homeless man with his cardboard sign, the smell of the city, the mannequins on display. I just realized, "Man this is it, this is Chicago. This is life, this is my life for now."

I remember having these moments in other cities as well. I recall going home to Denver and seeing the Rockies erupting from the earth in the distance; I remember walking down Bourbon St. in New Orleans and getting shivers as I heard jazz and Mardi Gras revelers having a great time. I even remember having a "moment" in San Antonio my last night there as I looked out to the city lights from the top of the Tower of the Americas with some new friends.



It's not to say that I'm miserable in Madrid; I'm not. I'm starting to meet more people besides my two Northwestern friends, I'm starting to familiarize myself with the city streets and the Metro system, and I'm definitely feeling very much a part of my school. But its not what I expected -- not by any stretch of the imagination -- and I sort of feel cheated. Where is the culture shock? Where is the life-changing experience? Sure smoking hookah at a park at midnight with an Australian chick isn't something I'd be doing back home, but I'm not sure that its going to be something I cherish for the rest of my life (although it was quite fun). Then again, perhaps I'm just seeing the world presently with a narrow vision and I'll be singing a different tune in 12 months.



In any case, what I intended to write about (instead of whining) was my trip to Toledo today. Erin (the Australian chick) and I took a bus about 50 minutes south of Madrid to Toledo, the religious capital of Spain. Within this tiny, ancient town, there are about half a dozen Catholic churches built in the 15th century, as well as 2 synagogues and a Mosque built in 1090-something.

Toledo is everything I expected Spain to be like; full of culture, history, and beauty at every corner. The streets of Toledo are cobblestone and narrow, some so narrow I could almost touch both sides of the streets when I extended my arms. The whole city is situated on a little hill in the valleys of the Castilla-La Mancha comunidad (like a US state). The city dates back to the 8th century, and it was used as the capital of Moorish Spain (or Iberia, as it was called then). Parts of a protective mural built in the Middle Ages still stands, complete with a gargantuan wood and iron door.



In spite of its ancient structure and history (anyone up for a tour of Medieval torture devices? Only 8 Euros!), downtown Toledo is full of modern stores, like Bershka and Springfield, that lie a block from the city's Cathedral. And speaking of Cathedrals, HOLY GOD was it magnificent. While I only saw the inside of the Cathedral from a fenced-in quarter (I refused to pay 7E to go to church), the intricate details, statues, stained glass and ironwork did not go unnoticed. The main altar is full of statues, masterfully crafted and very well preserved. On the outside, statues of popes and cardinals rest alongside saints and apostles. Above the main arch of the Cathedral, carved in marble and stone, is a copy of The Last Supper.

The detail and amount of work that went into creating the Cathedral is breathtaking. I wasn't able to visit the mosque and the synagogues this time, but I will most certainly be back to Toledo. I absolutely fell in love.




AND if the religious history wasn't enough, Nada Surf was totally playing a concert there tonight. If my rent wasn't due on Monday, I would have made Erin stay for the show and return to Madrid tomorrow. But alas...

Spanish children are sassy

One of the things I find the most interesting about the Spanish education system is the children, and just how mouthy they can be. Here's an example:

Nacho, a third grader, is sitting at the front of the classroom, already separated from the rest of the class for something grave he's done within the first hour of school. As the hour continues, so does Nacho's acting out. He picks a fight with young Pablo next to him, then he throws his pencils off his desk and does other disruptive things. While the teacher is trying to tame him without giving him too much attention (which is clearly all the kid wants), he begins to talk back to her, telling her he will not comply with changing his card (a system put in place to check behavior issues)and even going so far as to curse out loud (hearing "joder" come out of an 8-year-old's mouth wasn't something I was preparing to experience).

Additionally, all of the children are allowed to get up and do whatever they want pretty much whenever they want. While the teacher is lecturing them because they can't seem to be quiet for longer than 3 seconds, someone inevitably gets up, sharpen their pencils, blow their nose, or does something else nonsensical that has nothing to do with the task at hand. Now, I know I've been out of the third grade for some time now, but I don't recall ever being allowed to just get up and walk around the classroom without permission, and much less in the middle of a lecture when the teacher is visibly seething with rage.

In any case, this is the situation I have been dealing with over the last week and a half of teaching at La Encina. I help teach both third-grade classes at the elementary school every day for an hour, and I also help teach the science classes twice a week. I also spend 90 minutes teaching 5-year-olds, who are cute but find me quite unique. The first day I went to help with the 5-year-olds, one of the little boys turned to the girl next to him and asked her in Spanish, "Is she from Africa?" The following day, in another classroom full of kindergarteners, a little girl came up to me, gave me a hug, grabbed my arm and started stroking it, telling me at the same time that I was quite "morenita" (tan). Yes, all of this from children that are 5.

The irony of the situation is that the first kid who called me African looks Philipino himself, and the second girl who called me "morenita" was amongst the most tan in the classroom. Both kids are among the few that make the school look somewhat diverse, considering that the majority of heads I see on the playground have blonde or light brown hair and blue/green eyes. Ana, the coordinator and actual teacher I work with, told me that Las Rozas is one of the more wealthy suburbs in the area, which I could tell by the amount of gated communities I see along the bus route I take to school each day.

From speaking to other teachers about the behavior of these third graders, I came to the realization that they are indeed, spoiled brats. Their fathers are lawyers, their mothers stay at home, and they get whatever they want, whenever they want it. Because Mommy and Daddy treat them like princes and princesses at home, they feel as though they have the right to do whatever they want in the classroom as well. And worse, the parents are so aloof that they don't seem to want to help deal with the behavioral problems some children have at school. One teacher told me that once she kept a student after school because of his behavior. After about 30 minutes, the students' father burst into her classroom, demanding to know where his son was. After the teacher explained she kept the student after school as a form of punishment, the father yelled to his son -- and in front of the teacher -- "Well when these assholes let you go home, call me so I can come pick you up."

I know better than to paint everyone with the same brushstroke, and I'm sure there are parents at that school who are more than involved in their child's education and who do discipline their children. But I find it very interesting to reflect on my education in the United States and how it differs from the education given to students here in Spain, and even to the one I received while living in Mexico for two years. Never can I recall a student sassing back to a teacher, and if he/she did, they certainly were not applauded by their parents for doing so. It was disrespectful, and if nothing else, the issue was something taken up in private. The parents themselves were much less likely to be outwardly rude to the teachers, and even less likely to do it in front of their child -- Monkey see, monkey do.

Even more interesting is that parental involvement and a child's behavior isn't at all related to the income level of parents, much to my surprise. I'd always heard that children were better behaved when their parents were better-educated, but I guess I didn't have to look so far to disprove that theory. I mean, I did spend my senior year of high school obsessed with watching The OC. Those kids were rich and snobby, extremely spoiled and they did pretty much whatever they wanted. In Spain or in the U.S., rotten children are just rotten, and no silk stockings will ever change that.

Las Rozas and an evening of sangria

One of my favorite scenes from the entire Harry Potter series occurs in the third book, the Prisoner of Azkaban, when Harry feels (more) out of place in the magical world (than usual). Harry prepares to board the Night Bus, hesitating for a second and not knowing what to expect or even how it works.

In a different city, where language, customs and the everyday life is a world away from what I know, I finally sympathized with Harry when I boarded my bus back from Las Rozas on Friday. As the green bus taking me back to the city stopped a few yards ahead of me, I hesitated for a second, thinking that, like Harry, I really had no idea where this bus was taking me. I started to think about the greater, deeper meaning of my time in Madrid, and how I really don't know where this adventure will take me.

Alas, as far as Friday went, it was rather dull. I was at Las Rozas de Madrid, a suburb on the northwest outskirts of Madrid. Most well-known for its outlet mall (with includes a Nike Factory outlet among its businesses), Las Rozas is also the place where the elementary school I will be teaching at is located (conveniently, only 5 blocks or so from the outlet mall). I went out to visit the school and get a sense of what the commute would be like. It was rather short, only about 45 minutes away, and I discovered upon getting there that the English language coordinator also commutes from the city.

The school itself, La Encina, is an elementary school, educating about 570 students total from grades K-6. I will be assisting with the third graders four days a week, and I'll also be working with the 5-year-olds twice a week. I used to love children, until I went to college. Four years of rarely seeing anyone under 18 years old has made me lose my patience and my old way with kids. Guess I'm going to have to quickly work on that one...

I met the principal of my school, Marisa, and a bunch of the secretaries and administrative staff. They did the uber-European kiss-on-both-cheeks thing, which took me by surprise and left my right hand hanging in midair. I spent about 90 minutes at the school, chatting with some of the teachers and explaining myself again and again. "Yes, I'm the new English Language Assistant," "Yes, I am from the state of Colorado, its sort-of close to California," and "I was born in the States, but my parents are Mexican, so that is why I speak Spanish."

After riding the bus back to my aparment (or "piso" as they call it here), I considered getting off at a random stop to explore, but it was near siesta time, when the majority of shops and stores close between the day for people to go on their lunch break and take a nap. Typically between 1 and 5 pm, there isn't much to do besides go to a restaurant, and I didn't want to sit by myself and eat lunch, so I went home and watched hours of "So You Think You Can Dance" videos, which I think is always a good time.

In the evening, my roommates and I tried to find an authentic yet reasonably-priced tapas and sangria bar. We headed to the Lavapies neighborhood, an eclectic neighborhood south of touristy downtown Madrid. Emerging from the Metro, we were greeted by tons of pedestrians on foot, many with dreadlocks. As we walked down Calle de Argumosa, we saw more and more Rastas, musicians and intellectuals. The whole neighborhood had a strong feeling of Bohemia, and from the conversations and saludos which I could overhear, the community is very tight-knit.

The restaurant we went to, El Economico, had some of the most fantastic sangria I've ever had -- not a lot of kick at first, but bubbly and with some zest. The restaurant didn't actually have tapas despite what Fromers said but the food was indeed fantastic. The chicken on the shishkabobs I had was some of the juiciest I've tasted, and the salsa brava was fantastic.

After dinner, we wandered around the streets in our neighborhood for a while. We found two taverns across the street from each other where people were sitting in benches outside the bar and drinking. We proceeded to do the same, making a new friend in the meantime -- a pleasantly well-dressed (and rather inebriated) gay man who called himself "Ramon" who cracked me up. He was wearing a great hat, which I complimented him on. Now, most people would say "Thanks" or something cordial like that, but Romeo just turned to me and said, "Girl, I already know that. Do you think I'd be wearing if it wasn't fabulous?" I wanted to make him my bestie right then, but he slapped some blonde girl in the ass and began to get chased down by another equally drunk gentleman wearing a suit, so I left him alone. He clearly had other problems now.

We headed over to another Irish pub near the house next, where we met up with our roommate and neighbor. The pub, O'Malleys, had loads of American music, and a grand ol' flag drapped on the ceiling, which looked red white and gray due to the cigarette smoke. A bit odd, but a great place to dance until 4 am on Friday night in Madrid.

Finally Settled

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday were spent pretty much the same way -- waking up at noon or so, finding our way around the Metro and the area to find stores and purchase things we need to get settled. So far, we've discovered a wonderful Target-like store called Carrefour. The one nearest us, about 7 blocks, is an Express store, meaning they stock mainly the grocery items: fresh fish, meats, pantry items, etc. We bought a few items, although we are still waiting for the roach problem to get fixed before we set out on a big grocery expedition.

The realization that eating out for lunch and dinner is quickly emptying our pockets has encouraged us to seek food alternatives that don't require much cooking or a need to be stored (Amy has spent countless hours researching roaches and has become the expert, and we all agreed it would be best to not give the roaches any more reasons to nest. And to avoid opening my box of Spanish cereal and having a crunchy surprise in there).

Yesterday we took a trip to IKEA, the very same Swedish-made furniture that was such a big part of apartment living at Northwestern. We took a bus out to San Sebastian de los Reyes, a small suburban town about 30 minutes outside of Madrid. On our way back to the bus stop, we found ourselves caught in a downpour, so we ran across the IKEA parking lot to a Burger King to seek shelter. Ten minutes later, semi-wet and grumpy, we returned to the bus stop and made our way back to Rios Rosas.

At night, we opted to find a Tapas bar and have a night of authentic Spanish cuisine (instead of the pizza, tacos, and sandwiches we had been eating for dinner). Setting out in search of El Tigre, a tapas bar in Madrid's Chueca neighborhood, we were lost for about 20 minutes before finding El Tigre, closed of course, just as our roomshare-mate Luisma (who joined us for dinner) had suggested earlier. We ended up having Turkish kebabs (kabobs) for dinner (so much for authentic Spanish). After dinner, we stopped at the oldest McDonald's in Madrid, found off the Gran Via Metro stop, for a McFlurry, before meeting our other roomshare-mates Eucevio and his friend Jaime. The six of us went to O'Donnells, an Irish pub filled with Americans and which was blasting music in English, from 50 Cent and Ludacris to Gloria Gaynor, Bruce Springsteen, and Timbaland ("Give It To Me," a song which holds so many memories for me, made me feel almost at home, -- big ups to Emmet!). Although the pub's music was quite loud, we had a great time. I asked about 30 billion questions, from Spanish futbol (soccer) teams to the depth of American cultural influence in Spain. Apparently, there are many Spaniards who think they are "thugs" too!

I've been learning so much already in these last few days, mostly about Castilian vocabulary -- bleach, mopping, and beef are completely different words here than in Mexico/the U.S. I also find it very amusing that I am "obviously" Mexican here. At Northwestern, I was always ethnically ambiguous, some days appearing Indian or Persian and others looking half-black. Not in Madrid. Here, there is never a doubt that I'm Mexican. I've heard that my accent (I have one?) gives it away. My Spanish neighbors were getting a kick out of hearing me speak last night, using Mexican slang and a very "charra" intonation. I'll take that as a compliment...

Day 1: Arriving in Madrid

After a 14-hour flight from Denver to Madrid (with layovers in Chicago and Toronto), it was nice to feel my butt again( I mean, I did spent a day and a half meandering about different airports) Saturday morning.

Madrid's Barajas Airport was a lot like the Guadalajara Airport in Mexico -- the same long lines for a passport stamp at the airport. I picked up my bags, met my two friends Meagan and Amy (whom I'll be sharing many a Spanish adventure with), and we hopped on the Metro to look at the apartment where the three of us will be living.

The apartment is actually a roomshare on the northern outskirts of the Chamberi neighborhood, located on the northern end of Madrid. Six separate rooms with a lock-and-key share a kitchen and bathroom -- it's partly dorm, partly apartment. In truth, it reminds me a lot of the Tit, the apartment I lived in with six great friends during my senior year of college. This new place has the same dingy, well-used feeling the Tit has, with an added bonus: the permanent smell of cigarette smoke. We spent most of the afternoon trying to find ATMs that would allow us to take out enough money to cover the first months' rent plus a fianza, a deposit on the apartment which is also the same as a month's rent. Amy and I had trouble taking out the needed amounts ($440 euro for me, or about $650 USD), so the three of us set out (sans the needed amount of money) for the apartment on Rios Rosas street, to meet Luis, the landlord.

Luis the Argentine, a 50-something year old man with gray hair, was a bit peeved about having waited nearly an hour before our arrival (Amy had called from the airport to tell him we were on our way over, but we were sidetracked by our financial woes). After more waiting as he went to see another potential customer, we were able to secure our rooms. Only two minor problems existed:
1) The kitchen has a minor cockroach problem, minor of course being a relative term. Several teeny-weeny cockroaches would peak out from under the sink, behind the TV (yes, our only TV lives in the kitchen), or at night, from around the light switch. Luis promised to take care of this roach problem by calling an exterminator first thing Monday morning.
2) My assigned room, No. 2, is currently inhabited by a 6'6" tall basketball journalist named Eusebi. Until then, Meagan and I will spending the next three weeks re-living our sophomore year of college as roommates. In all honesty, the room we are currently sharing is probably bigger than the space we shared living together in 1835 Hinman two years ago. Sharing a room isn't a problem, really; more like a minor glitch. I just feel too lazy to unpack my things and get comfortable if I'm going to be moving two rooms over in a few days.

The three of us set out to find sheets and possibly, new pillows for our beds. We took the Metro again to La Corte Ingles, an everything store I remembered my friend Aliza telling us about (gra-thi-as ali-tha!). We asked the woman helping us there to point us to whatever was cheapest, a set of 50/50 cotton/polyester sheets which really weren't all that cheap. But they're getting the job done.

The most vivid memory I have of day 1 is the immense feeling of tiredness. Between my lack of sleep on the flight (too many good movies to watch), fighting with my body to realize we're functioning 8 hours ahead now, and the potpourri of mixed emotions, hitting the sack (which feels more like a cot) never felt better.