Careful what you wish for...

About a month ago, halfway through my second academic year here, I found myself wishing I had made a more romantic choice of living arrangements. The place I had was nice enough. Strategically placed in between work and the places I go for fun. Seemingly nice roommates. Una terraza de puta madre. Yet still when I walked down the street, pretty much all I saw were block after block of boring mid-twentieth century apartment buildings largely filled with disgruntled old rich people. The president of my building's association, for example, was a man who had proudly worked the way to the tops of Franco's air force, and hated our appartment (the only one filled with twenty-something subletters) with a passion. After he abruptly forced us to cancel my birthday party last year, I can't say I was a big fan either. So from time to time I found myself daydreaming about living in Malasaña, La Latina, or Lavapies, one of those neighborhoods filled with young, poor but hopeful people.

Well, I got my wish.... but the road that's taken me to Malasaña has been a little bumpier than I would have liked. After dwelling on the negative for more than a week I'm trying to focus on the good things. Suffice it to say one of the old roomies hiked up the rest of our shares of the rent, a move that hurt me more emotionally than it would have hurt my finances. At any rate I decided to leave, and by great luck in my friend Syreeta's appartment there was a room available that was very fitting for my bohemian fantasies. Maybe too fitting. It's small, about big enough for a dress and a twin bed, which is fine. The killer is there's no window, but it's only for three months, and I will be able to save for the next phase of my life. The current game plan is to leave Madrid in June and backpack around until fall if possible, maybe with some camp-counseling or wwoofing worked in there.

And the location is perfect in all the most impractical ways. The morning commute will be slightly longer but the neighborhood features several of my favorite things: the best pizza in town, the best vegetarian restaurant in town,  a store with second-hand books in English, and just that dirty but vibrant charm I love. (Check the neighborhood newspaper which features not one but two articles about graffiti. )

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.

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!

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.

a travel parable

I burnt myself today trying to make a grilled cheese sandwich. It seems like it should be simple, but using a baguette instead of a gringo style loaf bread, and a kind of cheese I´m not used to, and olive oil instead of butter, and a stove I´m still not entirely used to, it quickly got complicated. If on the other hand I had tried to make a bocadillo de jamón serrano...