Killing Time In Charles De Ghastly

(Note, this was written earlier in the day)

Being a crisis prone, clumsy, “eternally causing a problem where there is the vague possibility of one appearing” person, I over-prepared for today. Instead of taking a train to arrive two hours before my flight, I caught one SIX hours beforehand. Having arrived on the only train in the history of French “arriving on time is over-achieving” Trains which got there EARLY (yes, two minutes early. I shook my fist at the conductor, don’t you worry), am now bored to tears sitting at my gate waiting for the flight to actually show up on the screen.

Speaking of tears, I’ve had a few of those. Having presumably freaked out a friend (brazilian, for those of you in the know) with a floodgate (fourth time in the last fourteen months, my weeping habit is nearly non-existent), yesterday, I still can’t quite get my head around saying goodbye (best friends anyone could ask for, well and truly).

Yes, I realize more of that phrase is in parentheses than out of them.

Such flood of emotion has shocked my anglo soul.

I joke (this is a direct translation from french, “je déconne.” Sounds better in the original version). Being the most enthusiastic person in the nordic capital of the United States, and embarrassing my british cousins with my self-expression (“M, you can’t love everything, and for heaven’s sake quit shouting about it”) doesn’t make me a stranger to my feelings (Remains of the Day, never eva).

Still, there is something special about the people in Nantes. My host family was DIVINE, and each of my friends were truly special, intelligent, kind and generous people. Darlings, PLEASE come visit, and should you be amenable, I will return the favor. 

CRYING BABIES ARE ALL AROUND ME. I count five. The parents must see me and think “wow, that girl looks un-traumatized and in need of some wailing cacophony about her peaceful self.” I’ve also made friends with a two year old who was so mal-nourished he attempted to eat my boot. Being rather short of shoes at the moment (I’m down to two pairs...), I gently shook my foot from his iron grasp before he could puncture the leather. He moved on to his own foot, and is now howling in pain (but still chomping down... this child is clearly exceptionally clever. Time for a joke about putting your foot in your mouth...). Babies two through five are still screaming their small bright red heads off, to the disregard of their parents.

I’m fairly certain my parents did a similar thing with me when I was a young warthog, usually to convince the people around them to do something (“waiter, serve us quickly” “can we please exchange seats on this flight?” etc). I wonder what these parental units want of me. Whatever it is, YOU CAN’T HAVE IT and I will prevail in a bad tempered way.

Stubborness, my friends, in the most pointless way.

Now, for some actual news, and not just griping about miniature demons.

Tomorrow I fly to Delhi, with my BESTIE AND SISTER AND CO-BLOGGER (who has been absentee on the blog, but still adventuring, never fear) to go work for KHEL charities. After the most complicated formation of flights, we will meet up (should all go well) in the aerodrome tomorrow (my grandfather called the airport this the other day*. No one since World War Two has called the airport an aerodrome, until now!). Once again, another parenthetically heavy sentence.

We will then have a night in Dehli, and catch a train a day later for the north of India to begin the adventures. Internet will be sketchy and probably involve chai coffees (I don’t like coffee, Cosette, so you’re on duty) and super fun cafés. I have no idea what to expect honestly. Everyone who knows the least thing about it tells me things change in the blink of an eye in the Tiger Country. My third world experience has been African and Central American countries as of today (tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow). Given that I get stressed out by crowded Barcelonen/Barcelonan/Barcelona/HOWDOESONESPELLTHIS? bars, I am in for a shock. Though my reaction was exacerbated by having wine spilled on me by a lady (a piece of work I would’ve liked to dump oily patatas bravas on) and my friend snapping her fingers at the bartender and insulting him. But India is probably on another level, so it is good I have Jax to hold hands with.

Those who know me, please take note of how I am now, and be sure to let me know whether I have devolved or improved post-India. In a flattering way.

The babies are now wailing in perfect harmony. I suspect a plot.

Miss you Thi.

*1P, note the CORRECT use of “the other day” in this sentence.

Arrogancia

I am currently preparing my bags and distracting myself with the hilarious blog of my French counterpart currently inhabiting my room. Such a wonderful blog moved me to literary action, and thus this bitty post comes to you and your reading pleasure.

While I can't quite match the jauntily arrogant tone he so artfully maintains (my ego makes itself apparent when you meet me and I brag about my mediocre dancing skills), I have been reading Dorothy Parker's book reviews in an effort to match such sass and wit.

This reading effort however has been cut dreadfully short by trying to see everyone in a far too time constrained week, my futile attempts to get home BEFORE the sun rises (I'm two for five at the moment) and trying to keep my head from falling off at three in the morning when I've been speaking spanish with colombians, spaniards and brazilians (see video below about how effing difficult this is), and then out of courtesy they switch to french. In which place I tell them I "comprends castellano mas o menos, tu vois."

There are many things wrong with that sentence.

Aside from battling the internet in a furious war to post my application video of me teaching a lesson on how to take european metro systems, and wandering the streets in a desperate hunt to see all of my friends before I depart (NO NO NO NO), I have bought a couple films to watch in La India with my sister/bestie IN FRENCH, and successfully gotten rid of half of my clothes. How, a politely curious reader might ask? Well for the first part I wasn't wearing them when I got rid of them (teehee) so the reception was less than enthusiastic one could say. Luckily my grandparents have trips planned to Les Etats Unis and have generously given into my requests for transportation of my beloved sweaters and such winter garb which is less than practical when faced with weather such as the following.

How many inches of frozen precipitation dost thou haveth Minnesnowda? Check me oooooooooout.

And now to take the salt and heat out of that wound, I present you with some spicy music I remembered from last night which tickled me in all the right places.

Ciao mi dearies, more constructive and educational things to come. Sometime soon anyways.

Bref, You See What One Learns On A Gap Year

It is as if I am standing between two cement walls and a floor of spikes. One minute I am banging my head against one wall (let's call it "French") and the next I am smacking my prefrontal cortex against the other (hereby baptized "Spanish"). When I tire of this horizontal sadistic amusement, I resort to impaling my skull on the spikes on the floor, those symbolic skewers of British English and American English.

Currently, I am watching the French version of England's "Question Time." This is much more polite, and without the snide comments about the professions of the other candidates' mothers. Sarkozy defends himself reasonably well (I especially appreciated the line about "reforme sans violence"), although it would take a particularly savvy frenchman or woman to catch the blatant Reagan/Nixon/American ideology references he makes. He referenced outright the "silent majority" and the campaign habits of Americans and their transition to France, piquing my forever aroused curiosity. He also has a clear crush on Angela Merkel, from the way he boyishly smiles whenever they mention her. Wie niedlich.

Other than enjoying the debate, I have fun predicting what party the journalists are from based on their body language. And making fun of the questions "If you win, where will you celebrate?" or "how do you justify your foul language?"

Naughty president.

Anyhow, I ought to catch up with all of y'all. You may have gather from my references to french television that I have exited Spain. This is tearfully true. I left Sunday on the bumpiest, windiest flight ever (I prayed the last ten minutes, as we hurtled comme n'importe quoi across the sky). Before on Saturday that I'd gone to a candy parade. Unclear why (not why I went, duh, why it exists), but anyone who goes to a parade in Spain should know that it is not like in the U.S. where we gently toss sweets to the masses.

Confectionary attempted murder is culturally acceptable in Barcelona. I have bruises where "caramelos" struck me with full force, and a mortal fear of streets full of sticky sugar, horse poop enhanced mess, ground in by trucks and thousands of people. Thirty minutes of grumpily scrubbing my boots, I have sufficiently recovered my sense of humor. It is now vaguely funny.

I also went to a short flamenco show (40 minutes), which was as tapas is to a full meal. Tiny, delicious, spicy and leaves you wanting more.

The first day back in France, I had a massive headache. I spoke in frañol, sometimes starting a sentence in spanish and finishing in french, saying "hola" and "gracias" and using "madre mia" in place of my favorite french muletilla, "oh la vache." My host family and friends are reasonably patient with me, despite me throwing the occasional cork at their face* when they kindly correct me (and take the mickey out of me and my suffering spanish).

Today I am chez Grandparents. We passed a lovely day trading clever comments and eating lunch with a bunch of fellow (except me) Guernsey-ites. Much conversation of boats, taxes and art. I got to visit the house and gallery of the most fantastic artists, and was given lots of teeeea. My granny was also given some presumably fascinating biographical books about some house cats. I mistrust such tomes, but such is my cynical, hating-on-badly-written-cat-books nature. With such an activity filled day, of course I have some quotes to lighten your day and un-furrow (de-furrow?) your beaten brow.

"We were so excited about your return, we bought a carpet." (This is how british people express their emotions. Furniture purchases.)

"They've sold their horrible horrible house... (pointing out a charming french maison) It was like that, but grotty." (Grotty=british slang for "grotesque").

"He's a very intelligent man, but he'll probably be wearing his garden trousers, and spills things all over his sweaters." (Clearly intelligence cannot shield a poor soul from adjudication against poor fashion sense and clumsy table behavior.)

Finally, wish me luck tomorrow as I film my educational video about how to survive metro and train stations in europe. I have an application due (rather soon...) and part of it is me teaching something I know in great detail.

Bref, you see what one learns on a gap year.

*Sorry 1P

Education and The Ocean Between Us

I partially stole this idea.

This confession aside, it was already something I'd been thinking about before I stumbled across this time in one of my bookshop haunts.

That is, how different is Europe from the United States? Is there any reason to demonize those yonder countries, or raise them to a pedestal?

It's an interesting question, as much for personal reactions as it is for the answers it finds. I automatically assume the differences between us, and group 50+ very different states to compare a vastly diverse continent. I eschew my country for something which the media and my country has told me is infinitely more cultured, effective and "better." And it's true, I'd rather live in another country (or countries) when I'm older, and European countries definitely top of my list after my newfound obsession for Brazil.

But what am I exactly getting myself into? Yes France has a health system which is (vastly) superior to America's, but are their crime rates better than say... Minnesota's? Or while it is wonderful x a million to be a mother in Sweden or Norway, can we really lump those two countries with , which rank below the United States even before you pick apart individual states? I'm told in every country I visit that young people want to go to the United States, that it is still viewed as a country of opportunity and wealth. While I usually shrug off these comments, citing Richard Wilkinson's Ted Talk, perhaps this is a bit hasty... Yes class gaps are big in the United States (occasionally huge), but can you really assume that it is the same, or even similar across regions, towns, states or sections? And then if you bring Europe into the picture things get a lot messier, and much more... similar.

So here is my list of things that I see as similar/the same between us, and what this means to me.

1) Money
A common currency goes a long way towards grouping a bunch of otherwise dissimilar countries together. The Euro links separate countries together, in a collective sink or swim mechanism. One country (or several) pays for the follies or imprudent policies of others. The dollar does a similar thing with the states (and El Salvador, which uses the dollar as its official currency).

2) Travel
Travel has never been this easy in the European Union, for Europeans that is. Going across boarders or in planes is as basic as having your identity card, be it Greece, Germany or Spain. While working can get a little trickier, the homogeneity of the experience between crossing state borders is... eerie. You (a hypothetical european citizen) don't need a visa to live in another european country for longer than... forever? I haven't done extensive research on this, but under the Schengen Agreement, internal travel is lax, with an external boarder maintained. Today this zone includes approximately 400 million people.

3) Culture
Our parents and grandparents are different, it is true. But is the younger generation significantly different from one another? You can largely experience the same nightclub, the same texting over make-uped teenager, or American pop music in just about any state or country these days. While this is vastly over simplifying things, I can't help but look at a metro station full of people reading the same books (translated), hooked up to their ipods and texting on their blackberrys (blackberries...?), wearing blue jeans and the same t-shirts day after day and not wonder what happened.

4) Union vs. United
While the Union's hold is considerably lighter than the federal government's, at the same time they both serve a centralizing organizations which unite and organize a group of squirrelly, heterogeneous and complicated "countries" and "states." Depending on the degrees of separation between you and the people who actually make decisions, you vote for people who later decide things for areas which don't include you, and have foreign or out of state representatives make crucial decisions for your country or state.

5) The differences inside us vs. the differences between us
Peter Baldwin makes the argument in his book "The Narcissism of Minor Differences" that what is more important than overall group differences between The U.S. and Europe are the differences between us. In some things, Minnesota, New Hampshire or Vermont has more in common with the nordic countries than some of the southern states. Some of the southern european countries get more of a mirror-like fright looking at budget plagued California or Alabama than their fellow union members.

A final (linguistic) note on life over here. When referring to a rude person, the terms I hear most often is "mal educado" or "mal élevé." These translate into "badly educated" or "badly brought up." There is a direct linguistic connection between the quantity of education you have, or how your parents raised you and how you are perceived as a culturally adapted person.

Something to muse about...

Preposterous Prepositions

You never really have a proper appreciation for grammar until you attempt to learn a language other than your own. Or in unique, strange cases you have an urge to scream,

"Come mierda! I can and will form this sentence however I want!"

Stay away from people like this. They tend to have way too much fun in life, and don't bother memorizing prepositions, which are nasty, unhappy creatures experiencing identity crises in every single language.

For example, the three languages I claim reasonable control over.

-I watched it on the television.

-Lo he mirado en televisión.

-Je l'ai regardé à la télévision.

Three different prepositions, on, in and at (respectively) for the same stupid phrase. Moral of the story: Eat ice cream instead, it is easier to say.

Other Moral: Pay attention to prepositions, and don't waste your time whining about it. In spanish we have a bagillion prepositions, and trying to explain that all argentinians waiters are conquistadores OF spanish teachers, who inevitably fall IN love WITH them, is hella complicated. The phrase is true though. Even if they don't know it yet.

Let's talk about something that doesn't give me a headache or violent urges to break white board markers.

Picnics! I had a lovely picnic in Ciutadella Parc with my brazilian ladies and Madagesh/German friendsie, full of "orgasmic organic food" (seriously, publicity efforts these days...) and ham (originally spelled "jam" by your phonetically challenged friend) and cheese sandwheeeshes.

I wish I could live in moments like these forever, yelling at my friends for speaking portuguese ("porfe, chicas, no entiendo este faceybooky, marshymallow, nossa delicisia cosa.") mangling my french and spanish and basking in warm February weather.

A final note, in the form of a question. In my new classes, there are mostly chinese students. It seems that whenever the professor asks a question (por ejemplo, "hay un estudiante que tenga familia española?") they always respond yes. When the resulting follow up question "who in your family is spanish" draws a  blank stare or a "no entiendo", everyone is confused. "No tengo familia española!" (I don't have spanish family).

I understand that saying yes to questions while lacking a proper understanding happens easily. Welcome to I-Don't-Understand-But-I-Will-Smile-And-Knod-Anyways child. Still, it is confusing, and I would like to know why they always say yes.

Teacher: Is there a student who speaks more than two languages?
Student: Yes.
Teacher: What languages do you speak?
Student: One.
Teacher: One?
Student: One language.
Teacher: Spanish and...
Student: One language.
Teacher: You speak spanish and chinese, no?
Student: Yes. Two languages.
Teacher: And the other one?
Student: No, only chinese and spanish.
Teacher: Okay. Not english?
Student: Yes.
Teacher: You speak english?
Student: Yes. One language.

And it goes on.

Zaragoza

This weekend I had the enormous pleasure of visiting Zaragoza, the 4th largest city in Spain located in the central north and filled with eye candied guapos. And one of the more wonderful human beings to grace this planet, a fellow classmate-to-be who is studying in the Rotary International Program there.

We shall call my friend Smith, (although Gyllenhaal would work as a code name equally effectively), as I am enamored with code names.

I was given the most thorough twenty four hour tour of the city, complete with a high school band type gig (songs mostly in english, and a cafe of multilingual spanish students) and a graffiti exhibit. And a delicious cookie, covered in dark chocolate. An internet search failed to find the name, and succeeded in distracting me enough to go eat a cookie, and resume my weekend summary.

Zaragoza has a gigantic church, shown in this photo I stole from the internet.

Most visitors to Zaragoza only go see the church, and so I counted my lucky stars to be given a personal tour of the many statues, streets, museums and cafés. We were also invited into another, much smaller church by a man who appeared to be the priest. Inside were stone carvings (dating from a ways back... 1300?), a crypt, and a very disturbing nun dummy trapped in a glass case with a expression of dread and despair. I think the mannequin was from more recent times (just a hunch). Lutherans don't have this sort of nonsense. Where are the coffee and doughnuts?

Super Smith and I also spoke only in spanish/castellano, upon my request (I am here to learn, after all). My conversation skills are still fairly basic, and it was a mostly auditory experience for me. Paying super attention to every phrase paid off however, as 24 hours of only spanish has got me into automatic mode.

Speaking of spanish, some songs I've been analyzing/enjoying.

I don't understand everything, but I've been translating the lyrics and can follow the simpler lines easily enough.

With only a week to go, I'm trying to cram as much spanish, activities and excitement as possible into the next seven days. There's a picnic at the beach (22 degrees! Celcius, mind you.), three libraries, a concert and likely more things to tackle, while thumping my head with ser y estar, por y para and masculino y feminino. If those six things would straighten themselves out, I would be much happier/saner.

Hispanohablantes, tienes ideas/consejos?

CARNAVAL: The Excellent, The Tasteful and The Questionable

Where to begin explaining?

The tale which continually pops into my head is the story about the umbrella.

After a night of revelry and Carnaval induced fun, I woke up the next morning with an umbrella in my bag that said "Brasil" on it. There are many surprising situations I've faced in my life, but in 6:30 am post-party mode I could only stare at this plastic toy umbrella for about ten minutes and ask myself...

Did it rain last night? Why on earth do I have an umbrella in my purse? Where did it come from?

Luckily post-hot chocolate I remembered, but this is a boring story and I prefer the confusion about umbrellas astray in one's reticule.

The whole last weekend was CARNAVAL. If you don't know what Carnaval is, I suggest you educate yourself with a quick internet search, align it with the terms "Fat Tuesday" or "Mardi Gras" or visit the wonderful cities of Sitges, Rio de Janeiro, New Orleans or Venice. If you are super intense, you can go to Uruguay, where they celebrate for forty days (after three I'm ready for a year of rest... there is only so much confetti, cross-dressing and samba one's costumed self can handle).

In Barcelona, we don't really do much for it, as far as I can tell. Instead, everyone takes the trains to the small towns where people go potty for this traditionally catholic holiday. The devout go to church, the fanatical go to Sitges.

I wrote a list for myself to remember what to talk about whenever I found time for this blog post, but my 5am, sleepy self decided that to prevent those sitting next to me from reading my notes, I would write in backwards cursive... in french, spanish and the bits of portuguese I've picked up. Multilingualism ftw...

What can be made out by the most astute of eyes is the following list of costumes...
-Frenchmen (from Lille) cross dressed as what appears to be Cruella De Ville
-devils
-angels
-an incredibly ugly cupid (favorite is the side note *he really needs those arrows*)
-cruise boat captains (Costa Concordia anyone?)
-several popes and their dutiful nuns (overheard: "would you like to count my rosary?")
-lots and lots of animals (cats *so uncreative*, sheep, sheep, goats, cows, smurfs (??), a blueberry, and a herd of men dressed in anatomically correct costumes). Yes, most of those are not animals.

And no, that was not "politically correct costumes."

I was also offered a drink of dubious nature by a witch. When I told her no thanks, and "poco a poco", she replied with, "es Carnaval! Mucho a mucho!"

Stolen but quality one-liners, at your service.

A very heartening side of this festival which I haven't yet expounded upon was the respect and safety I felt. Yes, I was amongst thousands of tipsy people in crazy costumes, grooving to samba and reggaeton (shout out to Santorum... "it was groovy.") . But the overall air was one of fiesta, not of purposeful stalking for prey in the shadowy lights of a discoteca. When I was approached to dance with people, I could say no and my answer was respected, often with gallantry. Try the same thing in a disco and it is a silver lined invite to Sir Alarming to TRY HARDER.

Other than attending crazy festivals, I have been cultivating my studious side by giggling louder than prescribed in libraries (Dorothy Parker and spanish comics...), my masochistic side (why did I decide to take the "lost and confused through sketchy neighborhoods" route??) and my sleepy side.

Boa noite and I leave you with a quote, which I was told by my profesora.

"Hay que tener amigos, incluso en el infierno."

Luckily this isn't hell, and my friends are AWESOME!

Sitges, Carnaval, Brazil and The Umbrella Mystery

I intended on explaining why I've only posted photos this week (verbal skills down the drain?) and now some youtube videos (gotsum music on my brain) but this will have to come tomorrow (please gimme time to explain) as I am extraordinarily tired (living life in the fast lane).

I hope you appreciated the lyrics, pilfered from various trash pop songs.

And lastly... My apologies, but I have a major obsession with the Brazilian version of JBiebs. I very pointedly stuck my nose up at the Canadian wonderboy, and karma bit me in the samba-shaker with this stupid (but so addicting) song.

Carnaval!

Spelling Bee/Abeille/Abeja

Whoof. That was a wonderful weekend.


My Friday involved dancing with friendsies from Brazil, Mexico and my spanish profesora. I get rather prone to philosophical thoughts after the first five minutes of bobbing to the music. For instance, most discos are exactly the same... same music, same types of bartenders (this bar had men dressed as women bartenders, which was different but not unique), same creepy guys attempting to corner girls who are probably friends with their daughters. People don't dance particularly creatively, and the routine is exactly the same. I feel like an ant (which I learned about in the science museum), the boring kind, not the cool kind.


Saturday saw the arrival of my colombian bestie. We got chocolate con churros, saw a drum procession (they are super into their bateristas here) and I attempted to keep up my half of the spanish-french-english conversation. More on this linguistic challenge later.


After some fun in a chupitos bar, we went off in search for a salsateca, and ended up wandering for what felt like two hours. Which was the quantity of time which actually passed, in fact. In the cold and slightly snowing calle (my buddy thought I was hallucinating, but got smacked in the face by a killer flake, which served him right). I mastered how to ask for help (disculpe, por favor...) got pushed into several trees/oncoming traffic by my kind and supportive friend, and recounted my life story and opinions on just about everything. Typical late night behavior.


When we finally found our club, it was jam packed and undesirable, so a better bar was found. I have fond memories of chatting in rapid (most likely unintelligible) spanish with some chicas from Mexico.


SUNDAY was educational. It was the festival of Sant Eulalia, who was lucky enough to be the recipient of Roman persecution of the creative variety. Saint Eulalia is the patron saint of Barcelona, and was a thirteen year old christian martyr of the non-sexually active variety (clearly saints who do the dirty deed are not all that common).  The most famous of these tortures was being gently placed in a barrel of glass and rolled down the street now known as "Baixada de Santa Eulalia." Which is catalan for "the descent of Saint Eulalia." How civilized.


Instead of celebrating this (I briefly saw an exhibit of fantastical creatures in honor of the day. Why this? Reasons explained in a language I don't speak) we went to CosmoCaixa, the science museum of Barcelona.


WHICH IS AWESOME. The exhibits on physics are dreamy, and I spent my afternoon shoving small children out of the way to play with the different stations. In a supportive and friendly manner.


I also learned about the differences between ants and octopuses. I like octopuses, I don't like ants, namely. Interestingly enough, ants do not possess flexible intelligence and therefore will make the same mistake a million times and never think to RTFM. This technically makes them insane. Octopuses however are clever creatures who will (instead of beating their mollusk heads to a exoskeletal pulp on plan A(nt)) go to plan B. They can come up with complex solutions to problems (particularly involving food) and in one case, sneak from tank to tank eating fish when zookeepers go home for the night (I know... I thought they lived there too).


I like science museums, even in languages I have middling grasp of.


Speaking of languages, allow me to complain.


My spelling has gone out the door. Particularly with days of the week, months and place names, I confuse myself into a tiny ball of nuanced words and accents. España, Espagne, Spain, or sabado, samedi, Saturday. Mars, Marzo, March, and heaven forbid, onomatopoeia, onomatopeya, and onomatopée. Madre mia.


I also mix/mistranslate words, phrases and sayings, make silly and basic mistakes and have dreams in multilingual garble. I've been informed that my predilection for parenthetical statements is not appreciated in spanish, and there is a long list of mistakes I make every sentence (particularly when I try to exaggerate, things get out of hand and into foot + mouth territory). HOWEVER, I did have my first dream in spanish this week, which was boring compared to my french nightmares about misplacing my squirrel.


Heaven forbid.


Today I exploded my glass of milk in very strange circumstances. I'd heated it up (for hot chocolate purposes) and took it out in the pre-boiling stage (I've overboiled four glasses now...). When I put my cold spoon in the glass, it suddenly exploded and milk went everywhere. I got a chance to use my extensive vocabulaire and live in fear of this happening again. My host family has coined the term "Mariellada," or a tonteria that only I can manage. Torpe...


Sleepy time.

Apologies

Sorry for the lack of post yesterday and now today.... Tomorrow will bring interesting news (discoteca, chocolate con churros again, misadventures in el metro...) and a proper post.

But I gotta go dance!

Honey and Nectar

Spanish food is divine. 


For the first time in my life, I eat five to six servings of fruits and vegetables, which are fresh, delicious and cooked in dishes slathered in olive oil and garlic. We have tomatoes, apples, oranges, clementines, cauliflower, beans (so many beans!), and dozens of other green/purple/red things I don't know the names of in english,


Some of my favorites so far (in all honesty, the only things I haven't gone bananas for was this weird olive spread) have been ANYTHING paired with patatas bravas, omelets with potatoes, kale, peppers, tomatoes, beans and company and this veggie soup with crunchy brown bread. I'm taking notes and have a file twenty pages long of recipes that take thirty minutes or less of preparation time. Cheap and timely food, for life!


And now the day of a foodie....


I eat breakfast at 7:45 (ranges from eggs with tomatoes to unreasonable helpings of spanish nutella and ALWAYS hot chocolate in a bowl. My habit à la francais that I will never give up). 


After a couple hours of school, I have an apple/orange/clementine at 10:45, then another apple/clementine/orange at 13:00. If I forget to pack fruit (like I did today) I hunt around for the best intersection of quality and price in the upper half of Barcelona. Yesterday I broke tradition and got thick, dark hot chocolate with cinnamon churros with a brazilian friend.


According to my host father here, churros are better for you than croissants. Score one for the good guys! (Even if it isn't true... neither is particularly stellar in its health qualities).


I then either walk around, visit a museum, find an adventure or go to a library (or all of them) until 15:00-:30, where I try to be home for lunch. I'm typically late, and my host mom then shakes her finger at me and says that tomorrow there will be no food for late american chicas. When I am on time she called me cariño.


Which brings me to another thing I adore in spanish: The preponderance of terms of endearment. Some favorites include cariño, cielo, chiquito/a, cuchura, querido/a, and muñequita. There is something very special about constantly affirming someone's worth to you, be they friend, family or romantic partner.


This spanish stuff is progressing nicely though. I got taken along to a party last night, and while it is a mystery how and why we were there, I had a great time. Twas choc o bloc with spanish twenty and thirty somethings who looked fresh out of an American Apparel catalogue. I hope you get the term I'm hinting at, but I don't want to offend anyone with a dirty word...


Anyways, I availed myself of the open bar and made friends with people from France (near Marseille and Paris), Spain (Madrid, Barcelona, Sevilla and Valencia principally), England (London west end) and probably more. I accosted a man wearing a Green Bay Packer's hat, and demanded to know what a supporter of my little brother's favorite team was doing at a party in Barcelona. He was in the process of explaining (something to do with his name?) when my friend pulled me away to bust a move or two on the dance floor.


The only other thing I remember poignantly is chatting away happily on the bus in spanish, probably mixing up the half a dozen languages garbled in my head. Well fed and well entertained, I thus collapsed in bed.

Know Thy Country

Thanks to a with-it Canadian friend, I know quite a bit about Canada. Like how many provinces it has (10) territories (3) or how many languages they have official (2).

So I was surprised (in a bad way) today when a guy in my spanish class announced that Canada is a republic and the head of state is the Prime Minister.

Wrong. Canada is (and has been for ages) a constitutional monarchy (it is worth noting they are also democratic parliament). As in, they have a queen, who calls herself Elizabeth II, who is the head of government. Don't believe me? Pull out your wad of Canadian money, and check out who is beaming back at you (no, I don't mean the beaver). Still don't believe? Check out wikipedia, the site which never lies.

It is important to know thy country as well, lest some obnoxious foreigner correct you (I kept my mouth shut guys...for once). For example, my country is a ______ (insert type of government) with ______ (number) branches, called ______________. We rank _______ on the Corruption Perceptions Index.

My answers:

1st) Federal constitutional republic (unsure how to order this in english... my wikipedia is permanently in french), 3, Judicial, Legislative, Executive, 24.

2nd) Parliamentary monarchy, Unclear... at least a couple. Methinks legislative and monarchial, 16.

That was an interesting experiment. While some answers were easy, I haven't the foggiest how to codify Britain's government. I get the chamber system and MPs and PMs and the weird relationship with the Queen. But they don't have a constitution, so it is rather challenging to name the branches.

Meh, better hope I don't get quizzed tomorrow.

The Best Homework Is The Homework You Assign Yourself

Today, for homework, I decided to watch a Dandy Warhols' documentary in Spanish.

But it turned out to be rubbish, and the spanish translations left out all the naughty words.

So instead, I shut it off and read Pablo Neruda's poetry (in spanish, vale?). And promptly collapsed into a happy puddle of romantic literary bliss. A great joy of being able to read another language is reading things which don't quite translate. You can't quite portray the elegance of spanish in english, bringing together the wonderfully hung sentences in a way which lights them up quite the way their original form does.

I now have library passes in three cities, and cannot say how wonderful they are. My only complaint is a tiny one with the biblioteca on Carrers Urgell y Provença. The floor squeaks with my shoes (hiking boots... don't ask why), and this makes me feel self-concious when I snoop. And self-concious bookworms are not happy ones, particularly when they get lectured in Catalan (why bilingualism, WHY?) about wearing shoes at all times while indoors.

Seriously, I was trying to make less noise, not air out my feet.

Things I've Learned Recently

-Wear shoes EN TODO MOMENTO in public libraries, irregardless of how squeaky your shoes are.

-Bring a scarf along in the emergency kit, as things like to go from nice and sunny to sleeting in very quick intervals. Include in this kit two (2) oranges, a book in french, a book in spanish, a doodlebook, less than five (5) euros, a metro pass and a bag of napkins. And a map.

-Also socks make very good mittens for people who are too lazy to go buy some.

-Whoever put the idea in your head that Barcelona is warm in February was LYING. It is the coldest month of the year. Rage.

-Some Spanish Vocab:

Amigos con derecho: friends with benefits.
Mi lechuza doméstica: My domesticated owl.
Perdone: Excuse me (polite)
Perdona: Excuse me (el metro style)
Dejame en paz: Leave me alone.
Qué locura!: What craziness!
Viejos verdes: Creepy old men.
Enamorarse: To fall in love.
Emborracharse: To get drunk.
A causa de las zarzas: Because of the brambles.
Tontéria: Nonsense.
Bollicao: Toy boy.
Braguetazo: Gold digger.
Tableta de chocolat: Six pack (the muscley kind).
Campo de nabos: Sausage fest (if you don't know what this is, ask your teenage son).
Tia qué fuerte!: Something teenage girls say all the time on the metro. I don't understand it, but I appreciate the drama they say it with.
Sonrisa gamberra: Mischievous smile.

You could say I've learned a lot (check me out past tense!) but I'd also like to mention in my defense that I learned almost all of those words from my teachers. Except for the bit about the domesticated owl, I read that in a book. I've been following in a french poet's footsteps, and making artistic word lists about n'importe quoi, which are excellent ways to see what you've learned that day (A LOT).

-I also attended a vocabulary course on "primeros auxilos", or first aid. For example, I now know the correct order to give information when dialing 1-1-2 here. (1) Is the victim conscious? (2) Are they breathing? (3) Do they have a pulse? (4) Are you calling for a good reason? (jokes...)

And so forth. So if the worst strikes, I can whip out my handy dandy notebook and slowly read my way through the steps, hopefully not messing up any of the vocab.

-The general assumption that spanish people are nutso about food is correct. 100%. I eat so well here, probably in preparation for my host family's plot to cook and eat me. The food is so good, I don't really mind.

-Probably more, but I want to go back to my romantic poetry. Ciao!

WHY DOES IT SNOW?

It may snow here in Barcelona, which makes me scrunch my face up like an unhappy kitten. And then I mew petulantly.


I am newly sensitive to cold. After a break from 18 years of godawful winters (JB je sympathise avec toi...)  the idea of going back for more after comparatively mild weather in France and Spain is... Wah. At the same time, what is freezing cold for my host family here (bundled up in blankets, drinking hot cocoa like it's their business) is t-shirt weather for me. I proved a point (in a rather cocky manner no less) to my friend that I could deal with cold by stripping off my coat and scarf and walking home thus undressed.


It's hard to view most temperatures as drastic when you've lived through what was a 150 degree (F) change in 2011. One month you are dealing with snowstorms and gale force winds, the next you are cranking up the air conditioner and swimming in jungle-esque humidity. Welcome to a mid-continental state with a hardy population.


Seriously though, I came to an oceanic, mild weathered city to sit out a potentially brutal winter. What happens? It snows, damnit. It's THE SAME TEMPERATURE IN MINNEAPOLIS RIGHT NOW. I left the house this morning wearing some light trousers and a thin shirt, and my raincoat. And nearly shivered when I got outside (my pride doesn't allow me to admit to cold above -20 degrees... but it was borderline chilly).


When I go to India, it had better not snow, or I'll cross that line from "put out" to "apoplectically wrathful." The only other thing that plays with my emotions as much as weather is food.

Speaking of which, I calmed myself down this afternoon post-glacial meltdown (PUNS) with a zucchini and cheese snack, as seen above. I've been plotting different recipes to master (anything involving apples) and have found the BEST IDEA EVER. (Not mine, of course, but then again no explorer ever invented a new land/country/continent. They just discovered it).


Thick hot chocolate. I've been tinkering with the best method, and am on the verge of something beautiful. Slightly spicy, steaming hot, and very chocolatey.