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.

better late than never: Granada photos

So I left my camera in Granada but I just got it back! Granada was kind of one of those everything went wrong kind of trips. Here I am coming to visit Federico García Lorca's birth place when it was closed.

Then I took pictures of the outside of the Alhambra because I didn't know you needed to get tickets in advance.


A street in a market.



Pomegranates galore. Granada is Spanish for pomegranate.

Postmas

Christmas drags on and on here, and if Christmas day itself went pretty well the remaining 11 were kind of lonely. Luckily, my parents arrived on the night of January 5th the same night as the Three Kings, the traditional Spanish gift givers (though Santa is definitely sneaking in on their turf). It was great to see them, but the ensuing seven day whirlwind of tourism was exhausting especially since I was waking up on my parents' midwestern empty-nester schedule and going to bed on my roommate's crazy young madrileño schedule. I saw a lot of stuff I had wanted to see, ate at lots of great restaurants, and above all got to hang out with my folks.

It's good to get back to routine though. I'm starting to feel more connected to Alberto and Greg the new roomies. Last night they bent over backwards to help me finally get wireless on my computer, even after I got really impatient and almost yelled at them and went in my room and closed but at least didn't slam my door. But then it worked and we jumped and yelled and hugged and it was our first real sober bonding experience. I think Alberto and I are doomed to be perpetually slightly confused by the way one another do things, but luckily we both are willing to laugh at it. He will never understand the thrifty homemaker side of me, and I will never understand how he doesn't like vegetables! Ever! At all! Greg is just an incredibly chill, no worries kind of guy but not in an irresponsible kind of way.


It's already time to start thinking about next year too. How did that happen? I'm seriously considering another year here. I really like the work at school and in my private lessons, but it is starting to feel more and more like a real job. Then again the sooner I come back the sooner I have to get a real real job. The other top contender is Teaching Fellows in St. Paul, but I just realized that application is due in a week! yikes! No transcripts or recommendations yet though, so it's doable. Grad school is on the back burner because I missed the deadlines. This experience was partly intended to help me decide if I want to teach or keep studying linguistics, but really I'm still clueless, not that the two things are really mutually exclusive.