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.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
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..."
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..."
Sunday, October 26, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
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...
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...
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