A Teenybopper Christmas!

I never knew the true meaning of holiday stress until I became an elementary school teacher. Man, the turkey was nothing in comparison with the Christmas mix CD. Last year my private lesson students and their slightly overbearing mothers showered me with gifts for Christmas, and I hadn't thought to so much as bring some candy to our last class. So this year I wanted to think of some cool but cheap gift for the six tweenage girls I teach when it hit me: The. Jonas. Brothers. What does a twelve year old girl want more than Kevin, Joe and Nick crooning, "All I want for Christmas is the girl of my dreams"?  Easy, right? And I would feel no guilt downloading their songs off the internet, because these kids (or their exploitive parents) make ten cents every time one of their adoring fans buy a pocket folder.

But from there, in the true spirit of any holiday project it spiraled quickly out of control. Of course I wanted to maximize the educational value too, so I would need to give them the lyrics. And if I was going to give them the lyrics I would need to make sure they correspond exactly to the version I was giving them and were grammatically correct. No one was "gonna" do anything in my libretto. (Eek! Teaching has also changed me from a descriptivist linguist into a prescreptivist schoolmarm.) And if I'm going to go through all the effort to get the words just right, of course I have to present them in a cute little book. And if I'm going to make a cute little book, I'm going to need craft supplies. And before I knew it quick, easy and cheap, became slow, painstaking and not as cheap. And then there's the fact I don't want to hear another Christmas carol for a year. One of the best parts of Christmas ruined.

Thanksgiving Proselytizing

I think Thanksgiving is pretty much my favorite holiday, and after more or less ignoring it last year this year I went crazy...

Me and my co-auxiliar Darío prepared a fun yet edifying Thanksgiving lesson. After a youtube video of the history of the feast, we had each of the kids write what they were thankful for on the back of a coloring sheet of a piece of fruit. Then each of them came up to the front of the class, shared their thoughts and hung it on a giant construction paper cornucopia. It was fun and really kind of touching. And you know I'm a big sap, but even my tough and serious co-worker Eva was moved. Of course the other teacher I work with was quick to point out the ensuing genocide part, which I had to agree with. But even if the First Thanksgiving is a little legendary, and totally misrepresents greater trend I like the symbolism. So I proudly taught the legend and its values of thankfulness, generosity and tolerance, even knowing that it all went to hell once those pilgrims got the information they needed out of Squanto. After school and three hours of private classes (not only did I have to work I had to work a long day), I crashed Syreeta's program's Thanksgiving potluck empty-handed, called my family, and passed out.

Then Friday and Saturday I scrambled around like a maniac getting ready to roast my first turkey! Friday I found the bird itself an 8 pound little pavita from the Corte Inglés, where I breifly had a panic attack until Molly talked me down. Luckily, Molly had my back on the bird. She had offered to bring stuffing ingredients and help with the prep. Then Saturday I realized I would need a meat thermometer, and ran around looking for that. Serendipitously, I stumbled across a bunch of fresh thyme at a frutería on the way back from buying the thermometer. It was good Molly was helping with prep because my roomies were blissfully unaware of the cultural significance of roasting your first bird and it seemed like they were almost willfully getting in the way. In a kitchen that's barely big enough for two people to work, if they are working together. One roomie was assembling a fish tank and the other making frozen pizza as Molly and I wrestled both physically and emotionally with the raw bird. There was blood and feathers and it was all a bit too much for me. It was quite a comic scene really. We took to referring to the bird as she, and somehow that helped me deal with it. Anyway it turned out great. Just the right number of guests showed up with just the right amount of food and drink and cheer. We feasted and then we zoned out and it was good. One of the Spanish guests was hit with such a Turkey-coma that he was convinced that I had drugged the bird. Eating a Thanksgiving dinner on a Spanish schedule is the perfect recipe for calling it an early night, which we did pretty shortly after the meal.

Finde de Cine

I have been working too much lately. I found this gig doing 10 (!) hours of conversation classes on occasional Saturdays, which seemed nicer than being overloaded all week long with private lessons, but in the end I don't know. Working 10 hours on Saturday, as I have the past two weekends, pretty much eats up the weekend. And on top of it I was preparing my school's Halloween pageant. But, por fin, I have a whole weekend to myself.

And what a weekend it will be! I'm making up for lost time here. Last night I went to the grand premiere party of a short film Jodienda Warrick, a sort of James Bond parody where drag-queen-spies are competing to either kill or save Madonna, that would have been more funny if I could have understood more of the actors highly stylized accent. You can see other people's pictures of the party if you follow the link.

Me and roomie Alberto waited in line next to nationally famous actor Paco León. Neither me or Al were brave/shameless enough to talk to him, but he was cool. One of his friends was like "Ojalá que no me hagan tacto rectal" that is "I hope they don't give me a prostate exam." To which Paco responded, "Pero qué dices, hombre" or "What are you talking about, man."

It was kind of a symbolic moment for me. Last year the breaking point when I decided to move to the centro, was when I missed the LesGaiCine festival because I lived so far outside the center. This year through Al's connections I not only made it to see part of this festival I made it into the after-party. Symbolism aside though, in the end it makes me realize, even if you make it into the party I'm still the one who has to reach out and connect. I ended up with Al and three of his friends. The four of them had each paired off, and were shouting in each other's ears for ten minutes that seemed like an hour, while I sat there like a bump on a log. It was fine, the night was an over-all success, but it was just a reminder that in the end how many friendships I form here in Madrid, is a function of how much I put myself out there more than anything else.

So this afternoon I am going to put myself out there, and try out for a Voces de Ida y Vuelta, a sort of world music choir with members form all over the world. The idea is that everyone teaches each other songs from their country building up a repertoire of traditional music from all over the world. Sounds awesome and I sorely miss singing with people, I'm not sure if I can make the cut though. Either way it will be low key, apparently my audition is taking place over a couple of beers after their rehearsal, so no worries.

Then tomorrow night I hope to go to the Filmoteca, a sort of government subsidized arthouse cinema to see Tudo isto é fado. I don't know much about it, but it was recommended by a friend and I assume has something to do with fado, that gut-wrenching style of Lisboeta folk music that makes the blues sound like Zippity-doo-dah.

Supposedly I'm also going for a hike in the mountains outside Madrid, and one supposes doing my laundry and grocery shopping. All this will be much more fun but potentially just as much work as ten hours of conversation classes.

Clementine Season!

If there is one food emblematic of Spain it is jamón ibérico, a kind of cured ham. Spaniards are seriously proud of this stuff, and would take great offense at what I'm about to say: it's o.k. After months of hanging in a musty barn the stuff is imbued with subtle hints of... musty barn. And unless it's the good stuff carefully carved into thin slices by a pro it can be just tough and stringy. When I leave Spain I will miss olives, tortilla, gazpacho, red wine, bread, all of which seem more delicious here. But on a rainy, October day like today, I was in the mood for a more under the radar Spanish classic: puré de verduras, vegetable puree (uy, translation does it no justice). So I went to the Corte Inglés in search of acelgas, white chard I think, and a crucial ingredient in the soup. Now you may balk at the idea of vegetable puree, but let me just say puré is the one form of green vegetable my carnivorous roommate Alberto will eat. It is that good. I polished off two bowls of soup and some crusty bread, followed by my first clementines of the year. Thank god these droplets of Valencian sunshine come into season just as the rains hit. Yum!

Photo Highlights of Morocco and Holy Week

I tagged along with my co-worker Natasha, the other native speaker at my school, and two of her friends Ashley and Rachel for a weekend in Morocco at the end of March.We had planned on going to Fez but once I saw Chef Chaouen I was sold. The hostal owner talked us into staying two days. Chef Chaouen is an established stop on the dirty hippy backpacker circuit, but for good reason. It is beautiful. All of the buildings are painted white and blue. Plus it is small enough and sincere enough, that you can enjoy the overwhelming generosity of people without fearing much worse than a pushy rug salesman.This is an abandoned mosque on the edge of town. Lower left you see my companions. From the left Ashley, Natasha and Rachel.One of the things that tends to get left out of the whole Muslim-women-head-scarf debate is the fact that many older men still where traditional robes that don't show much more. (And that at least in Tangier many young women where western dress.)The town as seen from the mosque at dusk.Then we went to Tangier, a modern, bustling, diiirty port city, and it was shocking in comparison. I took this picture because I thought the upside down English was funny.But Tangier also had its photogenic side.
The wall of the Casbah, which it turns out just means fortress, and is not necessarily rockin'.

The Bay of Tangier and the port.


Then during Holy Week Johanna and Kelly, my old roomies , came to visit and we headed south for the typical processions in Sevilla. I had this idea that Catholicism had this dichotomy between Carnival and Lent, yet the processions of Sevilla are a solemn Lenten occasion with plenty of party. It can be confusing for an outsider. Once the three of us ended up in this bar packed full of happy drunken people, then suddenly it was empty and everyone was out in the street silently watching a bloody crucifixion pass by. Except for us, we were still in the bar being oblivious and noisy until someone gave us a dirty look.Jesus.The Klan modeled their get up on the penitents in medieval processions, the same costume survives here with its original meaning. It can still be weird for folks from the US though.This one goes out to Lis, and all the other French horn player who had to learn a new instrument for marching band. These bad asses march with French horns.

The whole procession environment ended up being a little intense, and we fled to the beach in Cádiz. It was slightly to cold for the beach, and it was the first times any of us had sun bathed, so we didn't realize we were getting burned. I think on the ensuing train ride to Córdoba we went a little crazy. (Obama advisors note the placement of the accent in Córdoba; he's taking a lot of flack here in Spain for mispronouncing it in the big Cairo speech.)

I enjoy a bocadillo de tortilla y pimiento. Spanish omlette and roasted peppers . Yum. I put this horribly embarassing picture of myself so Kelly and Johanna can't get mad at me for the following:Kelly models salt-water, the best of all hair products. Johanna rocks out on an imaginary bass as part of a game. Kelly shouted a character then took a picture of me or Johanna. I sucked; I always just laughed. Last night in Madrid we went to a tango show at a Café Central.

The return of the Blogger of the Woeful Countenance!

Yes dear readers, I am back on the internet, but are you, my loyal Sancho Panzas, still reading? I hope so...

Today was one those extraodinary days where I got to do several ordinary but pleasant things. Right now I am sitting on the terrace, munching on watermelon and watching the swallows swoop about. Directly across the street is a police station. It's an older, shorter building with a leafy courtyard full of sycamores, and every dusk fifteen or twenty swallows come out to eat. Now I love my work- it is one of the most fulfilling things I have done- but at the end of the day I am socially and intellectually drained. I don't make it to watch the swallows every day, but I should, because watching them fly around as the light gradually changes is the perfect amount of stimulation to keep me entertained as I digest the day. Much better than say watching the news to which many Spanish networks bring the same bloody sensationalism that I imagine defines a bull fight.

I had my last class today with two of my private classes. Almudena organized the groups for her two sons: Aarón, a really bright sixth grader fascinated with language, and David, an equally smart second grader fascinated with wiggling around. Aarón is accompanied by Laura and David by Pablo. Almudena made me croquetas, which the family calls "cocretas," I think it's one of those baby-talk words that stuck. David has a slightly difficult time with his r's. Today he unwittingly produced the archaism "celebro" for "cerebro" included in the quote at the top of the page (fascinating to me at least) and trying to get him to say "crocodile" when the Spanish equivalent is "cocodrillo," was a long hard fight. Almudena let me skip Aarón and Laura's lesson because Laura was sick, and sent me off with some kind words and a full stomach as always. I don't think love is to strong a word for how I feel about Almudena, she mothers me just the right amount without being overbearing.

I seized the extra hour to go to the organic shop I frequent in Chueca aptly named The Organic Shop. The friendly woman who I assume is the proprietress was there. It makes me feel good that she recognizes me now. Then I walked home callejeando through two of my favorite neighborhoods: Chueca and Malasaña. Chueca I've mentioned before, the gentrifying gay ghetto of Madrid. I am not sure if gentrifying is the right word, it's still frequented mainly by gay guys (and some other LGBT folk) but it's more affluent and less marginalized than it used to be (I'm told). COGAM the LGBT collective where I help at an English conversation class, was priced out of the neighborhood, for example. Chueca is fun, but predictably full of shallow scene queens, the achuecados. Okay, I'm judging a library by a handful of books, but they're the books in the special display by the entrance. The bad thing isn't really them but my insecurities that they play on. They make me feel like I need to fill a closet just with underwear that costs twenty euros a piece so that I can carefully co-ordinate my underwear with my pants in order to best marcar paquete. I'll spare you the translation on that.

Malasaña on the other hand is the neighborhood in madrid most like the West Bank in Minneapolis, minus the university and the Somalis though. Greasy hipsters in ironic T's drink in cafés where intellectual conversations alternate with live music. Alberto's friend Iván, an example of an achuecado who has not sold his soul for more underwear, took me to a disco there called Nasti last weekend. I'm pretty sure it's the first place in Madrid where I've heard MGMT, and it is my new favorite disco. It confirms my long held suspicion that I should hang out more in Malasaña, and disproved my assumption that it would be impossible to meet gay guys in Malasaña. There was no romantic connection but I did talk to three or four guys I didn't know, which is more than usually happens in Chueca.

I'm starting to swing back from the assimilation bent I was on at the beginning of my time here. After months of trying to fit in with two Madrid communities, Chueca and the teachers' lounge, at the expense of pretty much everything else, I'm realizing some things are more important than that, and in fact people like me better when I stand up for them. Shit that sounds obvious now that I'm writing it, but it wasn't til Johanna and Kelly came to town that I really got it. I mean of course the teachers like me better when I speak up when they're hating on our Muslim students than when I sit there in indignant silence. Alberto likes it better when I nag him about recycling than when I sit there in indgnant silence. Hmm. Maybe this indignant silence thing is a bad idea.

Of course, I'm over simplifying. It's more of a course correction than an about face. Nor is it a choice between assimilating or being true to yourself, you can integrate yourself without changing too much. In fact, I often had made that argument when defending those Muslim students, but only recently did I begin to really apply it to myself. I guess I'm also realizing how hard I was on myself at first. It's okay to have English speaking friends. It's okay to mildly dislike the famed jamón serrano. And it's definitely okay to spend a weekend night not in Chueca. Not that Chueca is bad, but one night a week is plenty. This Sunday I'm going to check out the workday at a community garden in Malasaña, El Jardin de las Maravillas. If that cruel mistress Chueca doesn't leave me too hung over. Naw, I won't let her, she hates my Hanes.

queda cinco minutos para terminar

I'm at the library watching my last five minutes of internet tick down. It seems the cyber-gods do not want me to have internet. If my roommate pays the bill, my charger breaks. If I replace the charger the USB plug in wireless device, breaks. Anyone want to buy me a new Macbook for my birthday? I'll write a blog entry every week. I promise.

So since February... I fell in love with Morocco. I applied for another year in Madrid. College roomies Kelly and Johanna visited for Easter vacation. I did not die, 0nly my internet did.

Feel it with your heart, man.

So in Science in first grade we are learning the five senses. "We smell with our nose." etc. And Eva was quizzing the kids. She starts with "How do we feel a concert?"

Someone comes up with "We hear it with our ears."

"Good job. You get an M&M."
(I'm not sure how I feel about this, but yes we bribe the kids with candy.)

"Okay, how do we feel El Guernica?"

The textbook answer was, "We see it with our eyes." But sweet little Beti, whose emotional intelligence is higher than her linguistic intelligence, doesn't miss a beat.

"Con el corazón," she says.

With the heart. Eva rolls her eyes, but I am deeply moved, and clutch my hands to my heart in the universal sign for "I am deeply moved. I feel your pain, we are in this together, Beti."

You probably don't want to be my friend once I have kids; there will be lots of stories like this one.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

Here is my corner of Madrid. It’s a little peninsula of the Argüelles neighborhood that juts down along the west side of Calle de la Princesa from Moncloa to Plaza España. A modern, quiet residential neighborhood populated largely by rich old ladies in fur coats and hipster-yuppies in jazzy tennis shoes.

This is the stained glass I see as I rush down the stairs every morning. I like it; it reminds me of my family’s church in Crystal Lake.


Heading down Martin de los Heros we come to the neighborhood teashop, Lfont Tea Mountain. The proprietor is super friendly, and fills the akward pauses as I waffle about my tea choice with pleasant conversation.

Club Low is the coolest discoteca I’ve been to around these parts.

At the end of Martin de los Heros near Plaza España there are two or three little theaters that play movies in their original languages (most foreign flicks are dubbed here). I went here to see My Name is Harvey Milk two weekends ago. It was pretty great.

Those theaters are in, around and under the Plaza de Cubos, named for these cubes, which also features a VIPs (pronounced “beeps” of course) a Spanish attempt at Shake’n’Steak.

Across the street, behind this sphinx and the overgrown hedge lives the eccentric cradling-robbing Duquesa de Alba. She holds more titles than any other noble in Europe.

Calle de la Princesa. Hotel Melia Madrid is the beacon that guides me home at night.

Don Quijote, Sancho Panza and a man I assume is Cervantes in Plaza España

I think this is the tallest building in the Centro. I forget what it’s called.

A peek of the peak of the Royal Palace from Plaza España.

El Templo de Debod, an Egyptian temple saved piece by piece from the floodwaters of the Aswan High Dam.

The southwest of Madrid as seen from the temple. I used to live out there.
The sidewalk along Parque del Oeste. Prime strolling ground.
Looking west from Parque del Oeste. This place is really nice as the sun goes down. The picture doesn't do it justice.

The Renfe Railroad tracks.

Parque del Oeste is a really nice green space, but not really an escape from the city. There's a big street through the middle complete with buses.

This is el Faro de Moncloa (The Moncloa Light House) built to commemorate the 500th of Columbus's arrival in"the Indies." A light house in a landlocked city is a fitting tribute to such a profoundly lost man.

One of the spire of the Spanish Air Force headquarters.

Entrance to the bus station where I catch the bus to work. Basically the reason I live here.

I tried to furtively take a picture of one of the old ladies in a fur coat and got the sidewalk instead.

The Air Force headquarters from the front. It's right next to the bus station.


The other end of Calle de la Princesa is a shopping district.

"I'm from the tribe of the cute-purses!" Princesa has pricey boutiques...


currently featuring big discounts.

The main building of the Corte Inglés. There are two annexes one for books and music and one for furniture. All in all it sprawls across three blocks.

My metro stop.The mural inside.

The Corte Inglés is the one thing open Sunday afternoons.

Well, Corte Inglés and church.

My bank.
The bread shop I go to. I like it because the proprietress teaches me bread words without making me feel dumb. I go in there and point at a loaf of bread and say, "That one, please," and then she says, "Oh, the gallega, good choice."

The discount grocery store I normally use for most things.

The library. It's small and always packed, but it has a decent selection .


This is the corner nearest my house. There is a lot of road and sidewalk construction in Madrid.

The corner bar I would hang out in if I were a Spanish man age 50-70.

A typical Madrid sidewalk.

Okay I exagerate, but not that much.