Final transmission

Just a quick update: To those of you I met while in Spain (or elsewhere in Europe) and who'd like to stay updated on my life, I've started a new, post-Madrid blog.

Find the new Marcy here

Wrap up

So technically, I've been stateside for two weeks now. But I wanted to get a few last-minute, across the pond thoughts and memories out of my system before pulling the plug on my blog, which will be no more as my days as a "Madrilena" have ended.

For those interested, moving day went well, and my trip to Cairo was fantastic! Not only was it great to see Aliza, but Cairo itself was really swell too! My impression of the city is that it was really glorious in its heyday, but its been pretty neglected too. Plus, all that damn desert sand probably doesn't help much. It was really interesting to be in a country where I had absolutely no clue how to even begin trying to express myself. Arabic is not at all like any other language I'm familiar with. I might not know more than 2 languages, but I got lucky during my travels and got a few words in when traveling in Germanic and Romantic-speaking countries. Not the case in Cairo. My favorite "Marcy's a lost tourist moment:" Asking the soldier with two huge rifles at the Nigerian Embassy to point me to a nice garden/park thing in Zamalek, the area where Aliza lives. The guard, not speaking any English, and myself, not speaking any Arabic (I assume it was Arabic), had a 5-minute exchange via hand signs and facial expressions. Our exchange also included the help of about 3 other Egyptian men walking down the street, and another guard who also spoke no English. It was sort of funny and frustrating at the same time, but it gave me an appreciation for the similarities humans across the globe have, in spite of religious, cultural or language differences.

While in Cairo, I checked out the Pyramids at Giza (a must-see), saw a bunch of old mosques and churches, chilled with some mummies (King Ramses II and his clan, you know), pretended to be married, was asked if I wanted to be married, bought tons of souvenirs and got in a fight with a taxi driver. Plus, ate lots and lots of delicious food -- no joke, Egyptian food is pretty legit. Beans, rice, shawarma and spices, what's there NOT to love?



Getting back to the States was quite a struggle, though. After being screwed by Air Canada, it took me three days to make it back. Below is a quick breakdown of what my return trip looked like:

Thursday, June 25th.
12 am: Departed the Cairo Airport for Madrid.
4 am: Arrive at Madrid, chill next to the Metro for two hours.
6 am: Take Metro back to Rios Rosas to pick up my luggage.
10 am: Take a 30 euro cab to the airport after realizing my luggage is way too much to handle on the Metro.
10:45 am: Attempt checking in to my flight, scheduled to depart at 12:45 pm. Lady at counter tells me the Air Canada person I spoke to in April about changing my flight never charged my card. As such, I must go settle that at the Lufthansa desk.
11:15 am: Attempt checking in again, and must return to Lufthansa desk to pay 70 euros for my one overweight bag.
12 pm: Finally waiting in line for my departure flight to Toronto. Two hours later, I'm still waiting.
2 pm: Passengers are told the flight is canceled due to some mechanical problems on the plane. We'll have to wait until the following day.
4 pm: Get to a hotel where I'll be spending the evening. Start watching "Fama," Spain's version of "So You Think You Can Dance" and fall asleep. The dancing is terrible.
9 pm: Wake up, go to dinner, get back to my room. Start sorting through my bags and re-packing.

Friday, June 26th.
8 am: Get up and run downstairs to catch a bus to the airport.
9 am: Get to the airport, wait in line for about an hour before I'm able to check in. When I do, I'm told that my connecting flight from the previous day doesn't run on Fridays, so I'll be re-routed to another Canadian city and won't make it into Denver until Saturday morning. After throwing a fit and checking other airlines for flights, I bite my tongue, swallow my pride and get on that plane to Toronto. I figure that at least spending a night in North America is a bit closer to home, right?
8-hour flight across the Atlantic: I keep having to listen to Spanish boys ages 8 to 11 be little twats as they tell each other how excited they are go visit Canada and learn English -- without ever speaking a lick of English to any of the Canadian flight attendants who don't speak Spanish. Oh the children...
3 pm, Toronto-time: Arrive, go through customs and ask about changing my flight. It can't be done, so I'm taking a midnight flight to Winnipeg, spending the night there, and heading to Denver in the morning.
11:30 pm: Board flight to Winnipeg.


Saturday, June 27th:
1 am: Arrive in Winnipeg. The airport is so tiny it only has about 12 gates (so it seems) and the gate area closes until 5 am. I'm shuffled off to spend the night in the uncomfortable chairs outside the Gift Shop.
5 am: I wake up to check in. I discover I have to go through customs again (this time, U.S. Customs), and that I have to bring in my checked bags. Which I should have picked up the night before. And which no one, of course, mentioned to me previously. I frantically ask Air Canada employees who has a key to the lost baggage area, which no one does, except for the baggage workers. Their best advice? Ask United Airways, who is operating my flight to Denver, to put me on a later flight. There's no way I can get my baggage on the 6 am flight I'm supposed to take, because baggage employees don't start working until 7:30 am. I cry some more, throw more fits to no avail.
6 am: Nice United Airlines woman agrees to put me on an 8:10 am flight, which probably won't take off until 9:30 am because of weather delays. Surprisingly, Air Canada baggage guy shows up early (he always gets in at 6 am) and I get my bags. I feel tired, greasy and overall disgusting, but hopeful that my journey will end soon

9:3o am:Finally board the delayed flight to Denver. After everyone is buckled in and the safety demonstrations have been done, the captain comes on the intercom and says the passengers have to get off while mechanics check out a problem that has arisen. He's not sure how long it will take, but at the minimum, probably 30 minutes.
10am: We re-board the flight, and after the safety demonstrations again, the flight is canceled.
12 pm:After waiting in line with all of my bags AGAIN, I get on standby for a 2 pm flight to Denver. I lug my 130+ lbs of baggage around the Winnipeg airport and go through US Customs AGAIN. Hating my life, to say the least.
2 pm: Get lucky, get one of two spots on the flight.
4 pm: Finally get to Denver. My parents didn't get my message that I was on the 2 pm flight, I take my time getting my luggage and wait about 20 minutes for the 'rents to come pick me up. Some homecoming.

And since then, I've been doing a lot of babysitting and sweating in Denver. I'm on the hunt for a job and completely confused as to what my future goals are. Stick with journalism? Go back to school? Opt for a new career path? My future's pretty gray right now, and I'm doing my best to cope with it. But for the moment, I have to end by saying that it's good to be home, and that like I've expressed before, I'm incredibly grateful for the opportunity I was given, and I don't regret a minute of it.

Hoy te dejo Madrid...

I'm down to my last few hours in Madrid, and as much as I hate to say it, there are some things I am certainly going to miss about this place. Saying goodbye to the kids at school, some of my co-workers, the kids I tutor and the friends I've made here has been more difficult than I imagined it would be. As hard as I may have tried not to let myself have "too much" of a life for fear of attachment, it happened. And saying goodbye, knowing I'm not coming back next year, is a bit scary.

It's really a deja-vu feeling from last summer, when I had to say goodbye to Northwestern and the life I'd made in Evanston. It feels like I'm dying -- I'm saying goodbye to everyone, knowing that life will continue without me there to see and hear what's happening.

As I told a number of co-workers yesterday, moving to Madrid was nothing like I expected. From the apartment to my school, things were totally different. At the same time, my decision to move here for a year was probably one of the best choices I've made in life, and I don't regret it for a second. And even if I could start over again, I don't think there's a thing I would have changed about the experience. Everything I've gone through has taught me a lesson, and I've matured way beyond what I imagined I could. I've learned how to be financially independent and responsible, how to appreciate people for better or worse, and how life is really about what you make it. Plus, I've met some fantastic people along the way, some really bright kids, and seen exquisite places this world has to offer.

Ultimo Domingo

v

Much like Palm Sunday, today feels like something special is around the corner.

Today is my last Sunday in Madrid. It's the last day for picnics at Retiro, the last day for sleeping in and waking up to the screams of my Spanish neighbors across the courtyard, the last Sunday of waking up and considering going to El Rastro, the flea market, before opting to watch something on the Internet instead. It's a little bittersweet. I'm really excited to go home, to see my family, to have carne asada after Mass on Sundays in Denver. But I'm also -- dare I say it? -- a bit sad to leave Madrid. I'm going to miss the freedom I have here, and I'll miss stepping out everyday to 5 lanes of Spanish traffic. I'll miss the little posh dogs on their leashes out for a walk, I'll miss the old Spanish women dressed to the nines and on their way to the grocery store. I'll certainly miss some of the people at my school, and I might even miss one or two of the kids.

But enough for nostalgia. This weekend, I did my best to enjoy the last nights of freedom I'm going to have before moving back in with my parents. I went to a house party with Meagan on Wednesday night, where I spent the evening dodging an old, very drunk Spanish man who kept trying to rest his head against my shoulder. Instead, I met two great Dutch guys who taught me some Dutch phrases, geography, and history. One of them has a Mexican internet girlfriend from Michoacan, and I warned him to tread carefully with the verb "coger" when he visits her at the end of the summer. Needless to say, he was my favorite Dutchman.

Friday night, I went out with a few other Americans and we spent the night dancing away at Club Me Da Igual, to Latin beats. There was some Thalia, some Chayanne, and even a little Lady Gaga. I got down with my bad self, as usual, spinning, jiving and even throwing a bit of elbows in there for a little harddcore-ness. We arrived home at 4:30 am, still very early by Spanish standards. I stank of cigarettes and sweat. Fantastic.

I spent the day yesterday packing, and taking trips down memory lane, remembering the different places and people I've met on this nine-month adventure. I just know that when I get home, I'll wake up in my bedroom and think the whole experience was just a dream. All I'll have will be "photos y recuerdos," much like Selena said.



For now, I plan on going to Retiro one last time, and talking to the group of people who have an African drumming circle. I'm writing an article about them for In Madrid, although I'm not sure exactly when I'll be turning it in, since I'm headed for Cairo on Friday, and back home a week from then. I guess technology can bridge the gap between a Spanish publication, an English editor, and a Mexican-American writer.

The past, the present

It's a well-known fact that I've been bitten by the travel bug, but now this is just getting ridiculous. I've realized that this weekend will be my third consecutive weekend outside of Madrid.

In late May, I went to the Spanish province of Andalucia, birthplace of Flamenco, Spanish guitar and huge cathedrals. You know, all things typically Spanish.

While visiting Angela in Huelva, I went swimming at the beach. I can't even think of the last time I actually swam in a beach -- usually I only get in hip-deep before the paranoia of floating trash, sharks and my poor swimming skills get the better of me and I splash about on the shore. At this beach, however, the waves were calm and the water somewhat warm, making it a rather pleasant experience overall. Less pleasant is the sunburn and subsequent peeling of my back and shoulders.



Last weekend, I took a trip to Italy on a whim. I found a cheap flight to Milan, and took a train to Genoa (birthplace of Cristopher Columbus), Pisa (no time for sight-seeing outside the train station, sadly), and eventually, Florence. Since I didn't plan anything outside of the flight, I ended up spending way more money than I meant to, and being too stressed about being homeless in Florence for a night to really experience Italy properly. Plus, I've discovered that traveling by yourself kind of sucks. At least in my opinion. I need someone next to me to hear my witty remarks and to appreciate the beauty of whatever place you're seeing. Going into Europe's largest Gothic cathedral and enjoying a Mass in Italian isn't the same when you can't turn to someone and share that moment.







Saturday I'm off to Copenhagen for a few days to check out a statue of the Little Mermaid, visit some Danish beachtowns, couchsurf and hear some up-and-coming Danish bands. I'm actually really excited to visit Scandinavia, and it will be nice to take a break from the 90+ degree weather Madrid's been having. It's making me miss winter.

90s throwback

When I think of late 90s hip hop and rappers like Tupac Shakur, Notorious B.I.G., old school Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre, my mind inevitably thinks of the so-called Coast Battles and the violent way in which Tupac and Biggie ultimately died. But seeing big-name rappers get involved with fatal shootings seemed to be a thing of the past in my mind.

Thus my shock upon reading about the death of Dolla, a relatively new rapper who was shot today in Los Angeles. Now, I neither know much about hip hop or Dolla himself, but from what I can gather here, it's obvious that homicide and assassination were in play, and the obvious question that arises (besides who committed this crime) is the motive for the crime.

Without knowing anything about the rapper himself, and trying to make as few judgments and assumptions as possible, I still find it very interesting that in 2009, rappers and homicide can still be linked together. It's situations like these that lead people to make the assumption that violence in music leads to violence in America. Whether its violence in hip hop, punk, heavy metal or even country (for example, The Dixie Chicks song "Earl"), terrible situations like these serve as the evidence for those arguments.

It's official: I'm allergic to Spain

Yesterday, I took a visit to the doctor in hopes that he could tell me something about the incessant itching and runny nose I have. During my 10-minute consultation (no joke!), he prescribed me some antihistamines and some ointment for the inside of my nose. Much as I imagined, he confirmed my theory that there's something in the air giving me that stuffed up feeling in my sinuses as if I'm getting sick, without the mucus, coughing and tiredness that actually accompanies a cold.

But in addition to the pollen and pollution in the air giving my nose a hard time, apparently Madrid also has particles of cocaine making it difficult for me to breathe.

It's...interesting, perhaps, to know that in addition to all other grievances I have against the people of this country, I can add "likely to be a coke head" to the list. Jo'e, macho!