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.