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!

Growing

Taking a walk down memory lane (thanks to facebook), I suddenly realized how long my hair has gotten over these last few months. What's funny is that my hair normally takes ages to grow even an inch. In the past 8 months, my hair has gone from being a bit under the shoulder to nearly touching the middle of my back. I'd say its grown a good 4 fingers-length.

I've also noticed that my nails grow much faster as well. Could it be the fantastic Spanish water, encouraging my roots and nail follicles to speed up the growth process? Maybe its all those fruits and veggies that I eat on a much more regular basis. Or perhaps its due to the fact that even when I'm the most stressed out, it's still nothing compared to the anxiety I would feel while at NU when four papers, three exams, working for 12 hours and meetings would pile up on my plate.

Looking at things that way, life is pretty sweet right now. My biggest worry is whether or not I should try to book a trip to Florence or get a new camera. Yep, I'm definitely living the good life.

New jams

Thanks to my friend Andrea's blog, I am now able to keep track of exactly how much time needs to pass before I find myself back in the Mile High City, back in a country where eating on the street and wearing flats without stockings isn't offensive, and where cafes aren't literally covered with garbage.

In anticipation of my return, I have given up on trying to find Spanish music that I can listen to. Most of the stuff I've found is either heavily influenced by the Gypsy rhythms of Flamenco (see Ojos de Brujo), or they are yet another imitation of some modern rock/emo/pop fusion that's been done to death by bands throughout the UK and the US (see El Canto del Loco).

Rather than focusing my efforts on Spanish music, I am re-kindling my love with "rock en Ingles" and discovering cool new bands. Well, new to me. Amongst my favourites: The Horrors, a London-based band that remind me quite a lot of Joy Division. The heavy bass lines, the use of synthesizers and the lead singer's voice, especially in the song "Primary Colours," reminds me of the jams off "Unknown Pleasures."

I'm convinced that all of this has already been explained much more eloquently and analyzed to death by those better in touch with music in the States, but cut me a break. I've been in Spain for 8 months!

Is this a joke?

Creed to reunite

Really Creed? Really? Didn't you do enough damage to humanity the first-time around?

The end is near...

So I just spent 28 minutes on Skype with Air Canada to change my flight back home. This was necessary for two reasons:

1. I was slated to return to the States on July 6th, keeping me hostage in Madrid two whole weeks longer than necessary (my last day at school is June 19th).

2. I was slated to return to Chicago, not Denver (it was cheaper for me to purchase a flight from Chicago to Madrid and buy a separate flight from Denver to Chicago than to get a flight from Denver straight to Madrid).

In any case, I am now set to return to Denver on Saturday, June 27th. Which means that if I know my father (which I think I do), there will be some MAD CARNE ASADA on Sunday, June 28th. And that suits me just fine and dandy.

Sadly, I spent $55 more than I had anticipated spending on getting a flight back on that day. And since its on my credit card, it makes me feel yucky on the inside. However, I am planning on visiting one of my favorite Arabic-speaking, curly-haired super-Jew NU friends in Cairo right after I finish school, and this date was necessary in order for me to maximize time with her and ensure a speedily return home. Plus, I am going to be paying off my own debts soon (pending getting a job when I return, which hopefully will happen) and I'll feel less bad. AND this is the last bit of traveling I'm going to be doing for a long, long time I think. So in the long run, $55 USD is not much, really. It's the same thing I'd make tutoring on a Monday night. At least this is how I'm justifying these things.

I am so exhausted...

Back in the old days of Northwestern, a sure sign of springtime was seeing the hoards of students (myself included) heading to the Lakefill to enjoy some sunshine, some good tunes, and the beautiful scenery of Lake Michigan. Today, I had enough of missing that and had my own little "day at the Lakefill" -- Madrid-style, of course.

Amy and I went to a little hill on Madrid's Engineering School campus, located right off one of Madrid's principal boulevards. After settling ourselves down for an afternoon of chilling in the sunshine, we were joined by my friend and co-worker Mike. The three of us spent 4 hours (no joke!) sitting on that hill, watching Spanish lovers make-out hardcore, eating candy, having boxed sangria, and petting dogs. It was quite an enjoyable afternoon.

Interestingly enough, as Amy and I walked from our apartment to the hill a few blocks away, I had a brief moment of complete ignorance. For about two seconds, I was transported back to those moments in Evanston when the two of us would bring a blanket and a good book to read at the Lakefill. For those two seconds, I completely forgot I was in the middle of a huge metropolitan city. For those two seconds, there was absolutely nothing strange about Amy's appearance. The flip flops, running shorts, sunglasses, and flowered shirt were perfectly normal, as was the big blue blanket she was carrying under her arm. But the comfort bubble was popped pretty quickly when we crossed paths with the students and parents of the Italian School two blocks down. They certainly didn't think Amy's "ready for the Lakefill" appearance was as normal. But they are the ones missing out.

On a completely random brainwave, I have to rant about how upset I am that other people are taking photos of awesome street graffiti. Obviously, I am aware that I didn't invent photography or graffiti, nor was I the first to think to take photos of some of the REALLY awesome stuff, but it just chops my hide when I see other people doing it. That was MY thing, like being bilingual at age 10 and having been to Mexico. Then I grow up and realize all of that is much more common than I thought and that I'm really not such a special snowflake. How the hell am I supposed to be an individual, dammit? Guess I'll have to go back to coloring my hair extravagant colors -- or better yet, shaving it all off...

Rediscovery

I absolutely love it when I find myself in a funk and turn to some good tunes to cheer me up (or help me wallow through my self-pity). Even better than that is when I re-discover fantastic jams that I hadn't listened to in ages.

Take, for instance, The Stills' "Logic Will Break Your Heart." Fantastic album, with some really memorable songs for me. "Still In Love" really takes me back to my high school years. Equally fantastic was my re-discovery of Cursive, a band I initially despised, came to adore, and subsequently forgot. Both "The Ugly Organ" and "Happy Hollow" got me through some particularly dramatic moments in college.

Although I often complain that I'm out of touch with the newest "hot" thing in the States, for the moment I'm happy being taken back to a previous era in my life.

Spanish police

In the past, I've complained about the complete lack of "customer service" Spanish culture has. By this, I'm referring to people who won't take an extra 10 seconds to tell you the price difference between two items, not telling you the location of where you can obtain a particular vaccine if its not in that office, etc. But today I stumbled upon my as-of-now favorite "screw customers" moment in Spain, which features none other than two Spanish police officers.

As I was walking back home today, I saw a crowd of teenage school children standing in a wide circle in front of the Ejercito del Aire, a building I assume is Madrid's version of an Air Force. As I neared the group to cross the street, I saw two teenage boys throwing punches at each other merely meters away from two police officers standing next to a parked van in the building's parking lot. The two boys were really going at it -- one kid even had a bloody nose! As I looked around to see if anyone was going to try and break up the fight, I made eye contact with one of the police officers and told him the boys were fighting. He shrugged at me, and turned to speak to his colleague, completely ignoring the fighting going on in his face.

I paused, standing in the middle of the street for a few seconds, my brain trying to work out what the hell was going on. How could 2 boys be fighting and having 2 policemen watching them? "Shouldn't the officers try breaking something like that up?," I thought. Well, I was wrong. Because two random men in suits came to break it up instead of the people who are paid to keep the peace.

Just another "WTF" moment in Madrid.

inadequacies

My trip to Dublin this weekend was incredible. Despite not having visited the Guiness Brewery (truly tragic, I know), I had my fill of fantastic Irish beer, food, folk songs and singing Irishmen. Pretty much everything I could ask for.

Except for the part where we (my roommates and I) almost didn't make it back out of Dublin. After being screwed over by Ryan Air (surprise!), we had to buy a separate ticket to get back to Madrid on Iberia. The weekend was extremely enjoyable until the minute the man at the gate told me, "You don't have a stamp. That means you don't get to travel today."

I'm still not sure how I stayed the rational one in that situation -- I think I had a delayed reaction to the news. But, on the positive side, at least I made it back.

This week, I've been thinking a lot. About lots of things. I've come to the realization that my time here is coming to an end (just three months left) and I need to start thinking about what the next step will be. I already know that whatever may come, I expect it will come in Denver. I miss it, I miss being close to home, and really, what is a better place to figure out what the heck to do with yourself than your own home? I keep thinking that I have been wasting my time here by not experimenting more on my own with videos of my vacation, or even really blogging about them. How am I going to get a job in this new media field if I've had the most fantastic opportunity and I've let it slip through my fingers? It makes me think about how I should really be more of a go-getter, and it makes me wonder what happened to me. I used to be one of those people with a fire under my ass, always trying to do whatever I could to get myself ahead. But now, I'm OK with just taking things a day at a time.

I've been trying to live by the Buddhist philosophy of living in the present moment, but I'm having trouble finding a good balance between enjoying the moment and reconciling it with my former work ethic and need to know what comes next. Perhaps it's a nasty circle, and worrying about not worrying enough means that I'm not really yet at the point where I live in the moment.

Many updates

Cherry blossom trees are turning pink, green leaves are appearing on trees, people are flocking to Plaza de España to suntan, and I am enjoying not wearing a wool coat to school anymore. Ah yes, spring has arrived to Madrid.

Since the sunshine has been calling me to enjoy time outdoors, I've been neglecting updating here for a bit. To remedy that, I'm writing a digest of brief updates on mi vida.

** I went on a trip to Amsterdam two weeks ago. The weather was a bit cloudy, but the city itself is really beautiful and a bit funky. After visiting the Van Gogh museum (and seeing "Starry Night" up close!) and Anne Frank's home, there wasn't much to do outside of the stereotypical coffee shops and partying. Although I did have Dutch pancakes, which were a delicious. They reminded me of an oversized crepe laid out instead of being folded up.



While in Holland, my 3 friends and I rented Dutch bicycles to take a ride outside of Amsterdam and find the scenic traditional Dutch windmills. As expected, the ride was somewhat of an adventure in itself, involving taking our bikes on 3 ferries, getting lost in the quiet and pretty Amsterdam suburbs, becoming an expert at "pedal and click" photography, and finding the Mecca of graffiti artists underneath a large highway. Plus, I was left with the best souvenir of all: A sore butt for 2 days.




** My good friend Angela from Northwestern came to visit! We spent the weekend exploring Madrid, visiting the Prado and the Reina Sofia, and having cheese and chorizo sandwiches at Retiro, Madrid's version of Central Park. We went to a new bar, made some new friends, and discovered the gem that is "calimocho," a very Spanish drink consisting of red wine and Coca Cola. We had the most fantastic tacos at this little Mexican chain restaurant, and shared stories about our experiences in Spain and our frustrations here. It was really fantastic to see her again and hear about what other parts of Spain are like from someone who has a perspective much closer to mine.

** The weekend ended on somewhat of a downer, when my camera was pick pocketed from my purse during our "Gran Noche Madrileña" on early Sunday morning. A blond Spanish girl came up to me and one of our new French friends asking for directions. After a bit, I heard the familiar jingle of my keys and looked down to find her putting them in her coat pocket. I asked her to empty her pockets, ended up sticking my hand in it, and getting my keys back. After checking to make sure my wallet, cell phone, and bus pass were still in my purse, I gave her a piece of my mind and went about my way, satisfied with myself for not becoming a victim. About an hour later, as I reached into my purse to take a photo of Angela and myself, my pride was shot when I realized the Spanish [expletive] had taken my camera. So much for my dignity -- and more importantly, my camera. I guess now I will be remembering my last few months in Europe through the photos of my fellow traveling buddies.

** On Monday, the principal at my school asked me if I planned on returning to the school next year. She chose to do it in front of the entire staff during our lunch hour, at the table where the staff sits to have a buffet-style lunch together. As they all grew quiet to listen to my answer, I had to find the most diplomatic way to tell them that I'd rather eat rotten fish that's been sitting out for 3 months than return. I was rather flustered, and frankly found the situation rather awkward. They were less than happy, but I'm looking out for Numero Uno here, and that would be me. It's a dog-eat-dog world, right? To me, it was just another example of cultural differences. I was thinking of turning her down in her office, where I could tell her. And her alone. Instead, I told her as other teachers stuffed calamari stew in their mouths.

** I'm heading to Dublin this weekend and rather excited about it. I keep meaning to buy a raincoat or at least water-resistant jacket, but I haven't yet. It seems as though every time I visit somewhere, it starts raining or the weather is at least drizzly. Welcome to Europe!

So sick of my "fleco"

I cut my bangs short before heading to Spain in the spirit of starting a new, more fashionable Marcy. Six months later, my "fleco" is at an awkward "too long to wear straight" but "too short to pull back" phase, and I'm still pretty unfashionable. Probably even more than I was before.

My excuses are varied, but I've made my peace with being totally "un-fashionable" and not wearing boots, having crazy hair, and loving my black hoodie. At least I don't have a she-mullet (because yes, they are still rather common here) and I don't look like a 16-year-old Amy Winehouse wannabe (sadly, also popular).

Spanish Medicine

This rant is technically a few days outdated, but last week was a rather busy week.

Last Tuesday, as I was finishing up the last hour of class with my first graders, cutting and decorating some shamrocks for St. Patrick's Day, my middle finger befell a tragic fate -- the extra skin around my phalanges was snipped off by a playful 6-yr-old.

After going to the school nurse (unlike most other Spanish schools, my school has one of these), she asked when I last had a tetanus vaccine. Since I stuttered for a bit, she took that to mean "quite a while" and suggested I get one. The following day, I set about securing said vaccine, and quite the adventure ensued.

I should have taken the difficulties in finding the doctor's office as a sign of what was to come. There were two buildings with the same number; I went through all five floors of the tall building with apartments trying to find the "Consultorio" or Doctor's Office. It was the building next door.

After arriving at the right place, I inquired about the vaccination. I had calld the day before asking to make an appointment, and I was informed that all that was necessary was to show up between 9 am and noon. It was about 10:30 am when I arrived, and the woman behind the desk asked if I'd brought the vaccine with me. Apparently, I was supposed to purchase the vaccine on my own; they were merely going to do me the favor of injecting me with it. After visits to three different pharmacies, I discovered that I could no longer purchase the tetanus vaccine without a prescription. And since I'm not a Spanish resident, and therefore unable to go to the public clinics, I had to call my insurance provider to ask where I could go for a vaccine.

Fourteen euros in pre-paid phone credit later, I was finally on my way to a different clinic in the posh area of town, where I was still going to pay out of pocket for my vaccine, since the vaccine against tetanus is "outside" the calendar of vaccinations. After arriving, paying my 9 euros, and getting shot in the left arm, I was finally on my way back to school, commuting one hour each way to spend a thrilling 90 minutes coloring some more.

Conclusion: Trying to get decent health care sucks, whether in the States or in Spain. In the former, you don't get decent health unless you have the money for an awesome insurance provider. On the contrary, in the latter, you don't get any attention if you're an outsider of any kind. Next time I need medical attention, I'll just throw myself in front of a bus and hope they figure out whether the private or public sector should cover me before I bleed to death.

Castellano vs. Español

Being the product of two Mexican immigrants makes me one of those first-generation Mexican-Americans that speaks Spanish because it is absolutely necessary to communicate with my parents. Spanish was probably my first language, with English following shortly thereafter. And my education, which was mostly in the States and therefore in English, makes me much more comfortable speaking, reading, and writing English.

This having been the case, however, has always meant that I am less than 100 percent confident in my Spanish-speaking abilities. I know sufficient Spanish to get by, and my pronunciation is good, but one of the reasons I came to Spain was to really improve my grammar and gain more confidence in my Spanish. I have this (now not-so) secret fear that when native Spanish speakers hear me, they silently correct my improperly conjugated verbs. When does "dormir" change to "durmir," if ever? What about the REAL difference between "ser" and "estar" and knowing whether I "soy" morena for life or I "estoy" morena after coming back from the beach?

"What better way to really make me as comfortable in Spanish as I am in English than by spending a year in a country where it is the native tongue?," I thought to myself stupidly. Then I came to Spain.

Below is a short list of words I thought I knew -- until arriving in Spain and being "corrected" by a Spaniard. These words are totally different in "Español Mexicano" versus "Castellano" or Spanish Spanish.

*GRAPEFRUIT: "toronja" (EM), "pomelo" (C)

*ANGRY: "enojado" (EM), "enfadado" (C)

*BUTT: "nalgas" (EM), "culo" (C)

*BUS: "camion" (EM), "autobus" (C)

*The verb "TO TAKE": "agarra" (EM), "cojer" (C)

A yucky feeling

Whatever bug had been incubating in my body for the last few weeks finally exploded in my system, resulting in me having some major mucus this past week. It seems as though it is finally subsiding, although I spent most of this afternoon trying to ignore the queasy feeling in my tummy.

One of my co-workers skipped out on work last Thursday because of what she said was some sort of 24-hr flu virus. She also left work early today because it seemed to have made a comeback. I'm slightly fearful that whatever attacked her doesn't come after me as well. As much as I'd love to skip out on a day of work, I'm not sure I'd really like to do it because I'm barfing all over the bathroom.

A fantastic day

Days lately have been pretty good.

I've been much more optimistic, happier even, and upbeat lately. I think it's due to the beautiful weather Madrid has been experiencing lately. It's been in the 50s (F) with really sunny, cloudless days. All I've wanted to do is eat ice cream at the park.

This weekend was the big weekend before Carnaval. Most Spaniards who are really into Carnaval travel to Cadiz, in southern Spain, where the biggest celebrations in the country take place. Those who are not such great planners (like myself) opted for a quiet weekend in the city. I attended a parade and attempted to go to a costume ball, but things didn't really go according to plan (as usual). But I still had an enjoyable weekend getting much more dressed up than usual, and exploring Madrid a bit. Plus, the weekend ended with a fantastic evening of watching great films (who can argue with the greatness that is Step Up 2: The Streets?) with my best mates here. And, of course, eating lots of junk food, which will certainly be ending starting on Wednesday, when Cuaresma (Lent) begins. This year, I'll be making an attempt to give up something I've sort of become addicted to unknowingly: processed sugar.

Yes, from the Oreos and Chips Ahoy that I crave to the delicious pastries covered in sugar that I'm served at school, to sugar in my coffee and tea, it's all going adios for the next 40 days. Lent is supposed to be about determination and self-sacrifice, and I'm going to give it my best shot. Wish me luck -- I don't know if I'll have the will to say no to those scrumptious cakes they place at the table during lunchtime.

Also, after a minor technological/viral scare, I'm going to cut back on the downloads for the next 40 days. I'd rather not have another Trojan virus and think I'm about to lose all of my music and photos, not to mention having to take my computer to a Spanish tech guy to fix it (ni lo mande Dios). So I'm going to give La Negra some time to get healthy again, and I'm giving her a break from too much exposure to the crap that's floating online. I've got Season 1 of 30 Rock and Meagan's DVD collection to get me through. And I can stream stuff online as well.

Wish me luck as I embark on what will inevitably be one of the hardest Lents I will endure. Seriously, you've got no idea how addicted I am to sugar.

At least I realize it

I traveled to Berlin this weekend, and had this fantastic realization: I am so incredibly lucky. For whatever reason, exploring Berlin really made me realize how truly fortunate and blessed I am -- despite any grievances and complaints I may have. I've been fortunate to have the opportunity to visit fantastic places, to see different parts of the world, to meet amazing people who have become my friends and who constantly challenge me to see things in a different light, even if I disagree with it. I can't even begin to realize just how good I've got it. Not everyone has this opportunity in life, and I have to remind myself of that during the rough patches.

Twist & Shout

As most of you know, I have a deep passion for dancing, and wish to all goodness that my parents had enrolled me in dance classes as a child. Maybe then I would have been able to fulfill my now-impossible dreams of being a dancer.

But I haven't found the key to time-travel, and for the moment I'll leave you with this sweet video I stumbled upon. This lady is my new dancing icon -- no one can get down in those 2-inch heels quite like she can.

anarchists across the world

Stumbled upon this on a semi-posh street in my 'hood, next to the Starbucks.

yeah boi...

holy hell yes!

ed. note: After the original video I was posted was deleted due to copyright violations, I have re-posted the best thing I could find.

The original video was from Radiohead's performance of "15 Step" at the Grammys. Now, the video is a series of screen shots with the sound dubbed over. It does no justice to the performance, but when life gives you lemons, make lemonade, right?

My first visit to the African continent

It has been one of my goals since finding myself living in Madrid to make it to Morocco. After this past weekend, I am able to cross off another country from my "Places to Visit" list.

In addition to the usual suspects (Meagan and Amy), another friend of ours took a break from her studies this quarter in London to join us for our two-day Moroccan extravaganza in Casablanca and Marrakesh. While it was rather short, it was well-worthwhile.

I have to admit that I was way more paranoid and nervous than I need have been to visit. People are much more friendly than I'm used to here in Madrid (whether it's because they're not Spanish or not city people I'm still unsure), but they are generally harmless. Getting lost in Moroccan markets was pretty awesome, and it was really funny to be confused for so many ethnicities. I mean, I was asked a number of times if I was Moroccan -- my Mom got quite a kick out of that when I told her.

One of the define highlights of the trip was drinking Moroccan tea -- or mint tea, as they call it. It's the greatest thing to come from mankind since chocolate, I think. It's actually quite simple -- green tea, mint leaves, and sugar. Moroccans have a particular method for mixing the tea, which I learned from my awesome new Moroccan best friend Hakeem (I'm only 90 percent sure that is actually his name). In any case, this new tea is my new favorite beverage. For the realz...

PLUS, I bought a sweet-ass leather purse (I think it's made from camel leather!) for 7 euros after I haggled it down from 100 or so. I'm usually terrible at haggling, so this is quite a feat for me. And I did trade a $5 Wal-Mart watch for a henna tattoo I really didn't want...but these things happen, right?

I didn't take nearly as many photos as I would have liked, but getting lost in the Marrakesh sooks for 4 hours really limited what I could photograph. Spices, carpenters, mosques and leather goods are only interesting for so long. This just means that I'll have to save my pennies and come back for an extended trip to Morocco -- maybe next time I'll be armed with better French or even some Arabic -- and I'll do a better job of fitting in with the locals.

Below are some photos. Hopefully, I'll take the time this weekend to really write some more about the sights and sounds of Morocco.


Looking out onto the streets of Casablanca from a restaurant with the best falafel.


The port in Casablanca.


The spectacular Moroccan countryside, viewed from our Casablanca-Marrakesh train.


The Royal Theater in Marrakesh.


Meagan at Djemaa El Fna, Marrakesh's main plaza.


Marrakesh's biggest mosque, Koutoubia.

Too much "jamon"

Today I made the mistake of trying to eat ham, Spain's No. 1 food source, it seems.

The Spanish love their ham, whether steamed, cured, fried, spiced, sliced, etc. I was a fan as well, at first. And then the excessive ham became, well excessive.

So it had been a while since I'd tried eating ham. It didn't ever really seem appetizing, until I saw some at the lunch buffet this afternoon. The ham was a nice rosy color, and the olive oil used to cook it gave the thin slices a slight sparkle. It looked delicious. But it tasted awful.

There was an excess of fat, and a terrible taste in general. A bit too much salt, too greasy and an awfully chewy consistency. It sort of made me want to throw up, to be honest.

So today I learned that I'm over ham, chorizo, and all the other produced meats the citizens of this country depend on so much. I'm so over meat that the idea of turning pseudo-vegetarian is starting to sound quite appetizing...

How to define being "Latin"

From the various Latino Studies courses I took at Northwestern, one of the most memorable topics I learned about was the different meanings and history behind the two words used to describe people of Latin/Central/South American and Caribbean ancestry, "Latino" and "Hispanic."

I specifically recall one heated discussion in my Latino Studies class in which students disputed whether "Latino" or "Hispanic" should become part of the common-use lexicon. Hispanic, some disputed, was a label created by the U.S. government to classify an ethnic group of people descending from Spanish-speaking countries. The problem was that this term included the Spanish themselves, who always placed themselves as belonging to a different category, that of Europeans (aka White).

Latino, on the other hand, commonly refers to the ethnic group of people strictly descending from Latin/Central/South American and Caribbean countries, and who have a shared history of exploitation and colonization from the Spanish. Technically, I think the term can be used to describe any person whose language has Latin roots, but that would include Italians, Portuguese, French and Romanians. When I refer to Latinos here, I'm talking about the people with this shared history of exploitation and colonization.

In any case, I've come to really notice the distinct cultural differences between Spaniards and Latinos, and I've realized that Spaniards don't generally categorize themselves as "Hispanic" in the same way Americans do. Besides the superiority complex some Spanish hold over other Spanish-speakers of darker skin tone, some Spaniards also like to consider the Spanish-language used by Latinos as archaic. The Spanish are Europeans, plain and simple, while South Americans (which in Spain encompass people from Mexico, Central America and the Caribbean as well as those from the South American continent), are Latino. There is no Hispanic.

So I found it strange today when one of the teachers at school referred to our "collective Latin blood" as the reason behind our happy-go-lucky attitude and our love for silly rhymes (such as "Ready Freddy?" or "See ya later, alligator"). Because I've come to see the Spanish in a different category too, and all the things that make me Latin don't really apply to her. My dark hair, my tan skin, my sense of rhythm (which the Spanish really don't have). The one shared "Latin" stereotype we have is that we're loud. So why the sudden urge to group ourselves together?

What I wonder is: If I were to ask a Spaniard in the United States, where would he/she categorize him/herself? Would the cultural similarities and the shared language make them more inclined to group themselves with the Latinos from Mexico, Guatemala, Colombia and Puerto Rico? Or would they still consider themselves closer to the White Man from Europe? When the good people in the Census Bureau are making up these labels for us all, what is the most accurate way to do it? By a shared history? A shared culture? A shared language? Since we know that none of those are mutually exclusive, it certainly makes things a bit more complicated to try and put everyone in to a clean little box. And really, why the need for the box and the categories and labels anyway?

So that's my random thought for the day. And keep in mind my disclaimer: I'm obviously making blatant generalizations, and over-simplifying things. I know things aren't always black and white (or brown and white, in this case), and there's always exceptions. But these are just some random thoughts I have at times that I want to share with y'all.

Except for the Spanish-can't-dance-thing. That's not a generalization -- I'm pretty sure that is true. Particularly since I have yet to see a Spaniard really get down and bust out a good merengue.

Happy President Obama day

I rushed home from school, trying to catch as much of the inauguration as I could. Of course, my pathetically slow internet made it nearly impossible to catch any of the streaming video from CNN. That, however, led me to this fantastic multimedia presentation on the NY Times website about "Obama's People." There are some really fantastic photographs in that slide show, and it gave me the chance to really see the faces of diversity President Obama is hoping to include in his Cabinet. I ended the day with some good old fashioned American burgers and desert at TGIF's. God bless America, indeed.

Modern European art

Reading my Metro Madrid (a free daily paper distributed at numerous entrances to Metro stops)earlier this week, I came upon a hilarious article.

An artist from the Czech Republic was commissioned to create a piece in celebration of the Czech Republic taking over the presidency of the EU council. The artist, David Cerny, was also to find 26 other artists from countries belonging to the EU to help him with the piece.

The piece, "Entropia," was revealed this week and was reported to have caused an outrage in the Czech Republic, as well as other EU countries. In the piece, each EU country was represented by its worst stereotype.

Some examples:
Germany is shown with roads criss-crossing the country.
France has a banner with "strike" written across it.
Bulgaria is represented by a toilet.
Sweden is covered in a cardboard box with an Ikea sticker on it.
Spain is an ant farm, and each Spaniard is an ant.

Cerdy also forged the names, resumes and work of the other artists that were supposed to help him with the piece. The Czech Prime Minister has apologized on behalf of his country, while Cerdy has explained that his piece was an experiment of sorts, to see if the EU could laugh at itself. I think he got his answer. Oh,

More here.

Feliz Dia de los Reyes

In my time here thus far, I've really learned just how much the Spanish love their holidays. Not content with just having Christmas and New Years' (and of course, Christmas Eve (Noche Buena) and New Years' Eve (Noche Vieja), the Spanish must save the best celebration for last: Three Kings' Day (Dia de los Reyes Magos).

In case you're not familiar with the Three Kings, the gist of the story is that three Zoroastrian priests, who were really into astrology, read the stars and recognized that Baby Jesus was born. They came "from the East" and each brought a gift to Baby Jesus.



In modern times, some Latin American countries still celebrate Three Kings' Day, usually eating a "rosca de reyes" and often giving small gifts to children. I myself remember getting a small gold bracelet from my godparents when I was 7 for Three Kings' Day. In Spain, however, all major presents are reserved for Three Kings Day. So it's a pretty big deal.

Madrid has a huge parade, which conveniently starts about 3 blocks from my house. You'd better believe I attended. The parade has lots of the usual stuff -- lots of floats, costumes, etc. -- in addition to throwing out candy and small toys from the floats.

What I found most interesting about the holidays, however, occurred while I was riding the train earlier that day. As I sat to observe the people around me, I saw a family of Asian immigrants (I assume Chinese, as that seems to be the majority here) carrying a roscon and a bag of wrapped gifts. They were speaking Spanish with an accent, and making jokes. As I eavesdropped on the family, I began thinking about the tradition of eating this roscon, something I have always heard about but never really done (in this city, the lines in the bakeries selling the roscon were often out the door and down the street).

While looking at this immigrant family, I started thinking about assimilation. I wondered when this family first started buying a roscon, and why they did it? Is this also a Chinese tradition that I was unfamiliar with? Like me, did they cave into buying a roscon because they saw that everyone (and their mothers) bought one as well? Do they enjoy this tradition, or do they do it to fit in with the other families? Are the pressures to assimilate too great for them to maintain their old traditions? And is it right for them to give up their old traditions and take up the ones of their new homeland?

I often think about these thoughts in the context of American immigrants, but that incident made me think about the pressures of immigrants in general. Losing your culture, picking up new traditions and the like aren't only problems for immigrants to a certain country; it's really something that people all over the world have to deal with. Maybe, as I'm here trying to avoid falling into the Spanish lisp trap, some Spaniard in the States is trying to convince his coworkers that just because he's Hispanic doesn't mean he loves to eat spicy food.

Feli(th) Año Nuevo!

So the new year is off, and I started it in the middle of Puerta del Sol, Madrid's No. 1 tourist spot. Madrid really doesn't have one single tourist trap, like Paris' Eiffel Tower or London's Big Ben, Tower of London, etc (you name it). Puerta del Sol is probably the closest thing to a monumental tourist trap, and every noche vieja (new years' eve), Madrileños ring in the new year here, sipping champagne and eating 12 grapes as soon as the clock strikes midnight. Think of it like Spain's version of the hubbub of Times Square in NYC.

I headed out to Puerta del Sol with my two roommates, another friend from our program and her friend visiting from LA. Pushing through the crowd, we realized we arrived much too late to catch a good view of the clock. Instead, we settled for one of the streets leading off from the main square, which was also jammed with excited revelers. As we waited for the countdown to commence, we de-seeded our grapes, took some photos, and talked about how fortunate we all were to be ringing in the new year in someplace completely different than usual, and thousands of miles from home.

About 45 minuotes after the clock struck midnight -- when we were finally able to follow the heard of people out of the Plaza -- the 5 of us headed to the Bilbao neighborhood to find a place to spend the rest of the night. Fortunately, we ended up at my favorite dinosaur-themed bar (and to be honest, my favorite bar in Madrid, period), Diplodocus Rock Bar. Along the way, we met another group of Americans who were being followed by a pair of Austrians and a pair of Australians, and we all joined forces to have a fantastic time jamming along to the 80s metal played at Diplodocus. The Americans were from Chicago and Wisconsin, so I reminisced a bit about the cold Chicago winters and road trips I've taken with friends through Wisconsin and into Minneapolis (Two words... Mall. Of. America. Wait, three words...).

Drinking dinosaur-themed beverages, thrashing along to AC/DC and chilling with friends, both new and old, I must say this new year is off to a fantastic start.

As for my resolutions, you ask? Well, I've decided to try this little thing called optimism. Things don't always work out the way you want them to; in fact I'm sure they rarely do. But maybe that saying that attitude is everything really does have some truth to it. Perhaps going in with a more optimistic and open attitude will make things turn out a bit better in 2009. Here's to hope!