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.

Noche Buena y Navidad

Christmas back in Madrid was not as depressing as I'd thought it would be. Partly because after the marathon of finishing up work at school, getting ready for Christmas, planning Lisbon and then actually travelling there it was good to have some time to chill on my own.

I got back to Madrid late on the 23rd and got some much needed sleep in my own bed. Then the afternoon of Christmas Eve I had to brave the grocery store. The only one that was open was the Corte Ingles, a huge department store cum grocery store that dominates two blocks of my new neighborhood. It was of course frantic as if some strangely decadent doomsday sect was stocking up on bombons and sparkling wine. That's how I felt anyway. Knowing eeeeeverything would be closed the next day I went a little crazy. Of course I need that brie... Oooo look at this giant sack of walnuts. But it wouldn't be Christmas without a little over-consumption.

It seems like Christmas Eve is traditionally the most important time, celebrated with dinner and midnight mass. I ate witha friend of mine from the English group at COGAM, Valdimir, and a couple of his friends. There was an incredible over-abundance of food, which Vladimir tells me is a Russian tradition. It reminded me a little of Christmas with the Polish side of my family where there is always too much food, but not quite that much too much. Maybe it's a Slavic thing. After dinner we skipped the mass in favor of drunken karaoke (is there any other kind?) and tarot card readings (my out look seems good, in case you're wondering).

I woke up late Christmas day. Slowly opened the packages from my family. Talked to them on the phone. Made myself a nice dinner. Watched Snakes on a Plane dubbed in Spanish, and called it an early night. Not the best Christmas ever, but not too shabby either.