Miercoles el 18
As the weather gets nicer, I become increasingly worse at updating. My apologies. If it makes you feel any better, I do have a great tan.
I think part of it also may have to do with the fact that I’m getting used to Spain. Not necessarily the people, but the country.
A great place I get to go to observe said Spaniards is Millennium gym here in Cádiz. I need to go to a gym in order to avoid gaining an extra 50 pounds, and it’s usually too hot to run outside, but whenever I’m there (with my trusty sidekick Paul), we usually just find ourselves getting enraged by all of the ridiculous Spaniards.
Spaniards are a delusional race. I’m convinced. Anyone who wakes up in the morning, puts on a pair of pants that make you look like you pooped your diaper, match your shoes to your shirt to your belt to your purse, poof up your mullet with blunt bangs, and then proceed to look at yourself in the mirror and say “DAMN, I look good, I’m gonna go take on the day now,” has mental issues. They will never look good. They probably shouldn’t take on the day until their hair grows out.
Millennium gym is where the worst of the worst gather on the daily. The bad Spaniards times two. I’m talking ultimate pichas, who are forced to start growing their first mullet/fohawk/rat tail as soon as they leave the womb, and the angry bitchy Spanish women who aren’t actually allowed to leave the womb unless they have a chip on their shoulder. On top of this, the men all have really disproportionate huge muscles, so it looks like they’re smuggling a rolled up mattress on their shoulders that can’t be supported by their little chicken legs. They don’t care, they still think they’re shit don’t stink. If you don’t believe that, simply look at their bicep, where you will find their name tattooed, and you can ask them, “Excuse me, Nacho, I know you’re busy working on ONLY your arms this year, but how cool are you?!”
The women are almost worse. Even if you can find their name tattooed on their lower back surrounded by roses in a tribal design, don’t ask them if they think their shit don’t stink. They are an angry breed. This only makes it even harder for me to not laugh at them. When women go to the gym here, first things first, sports bras are for pussies. You need to wear a wonderbra to bike for 10 minutes, and then struggle with the hip adductor/abductor for another 20. I swear to you, I’ve never seen one wear a sports bra, and I know, because their bras and boobs are always hanging out. It gets funnier though, and harder to not laugh. They usually show up with full jewelry/makeup, hair done, and somehow manage to transfer their “style” over to “workout clothes.” The most common outfit you’re likely to see is a pair of stretch pants, colored or grey (grey is a big no-no if you’re sweating, ESPECIALLY pants. You’re just asking for buttcrack sweat. But they don’t sweat at the gym, because they don’t actually work out, so it’s ok I guess…), a shirt from baby gap or osh kosh b’gosh (made for a 4-year-old, this is why you can see their boobs and push up bras) that’s usually rolled up? Hoop earrings, and really, REALLY weird tennis shoes, usually of the Peter Pan fashion, or high tops. It’s very confusing. I’m just trying to get rid of my fat ass, and these women are trying to…dear God I have no idea what they’re trying to do. It’s even more confusing to try and figure out why the hell they're at the gym in the first place. My conclusion is trying to attract Spanish guys. If that’s the case, and if Spanish guys are ACTUALLY attracted to that, then shit. Match made in heaven I guess.
Bottom line is, Spain, stop trying to work out. You have the highest rate of eating disorders and smokers in the world, yet somehow have a longer life expectancy than us. Don’t ruin the one American type thing that Paul and I have here in Spain.
Until then, I’ll continue to be baffled. Marisa tells me that when I get frustrated with Spanish people (which happens, like, all of the time), I have a very violent face. I can only hope it’s violent enough to make some of the picha masters and angry Spanish women think twice about going in to Millennium gym that day.
Paz afuera.
martes, 17 de marzo de 2009
lunes, 2 de marzo de 2009
How Glitter Ruined My Life
Domingo el 1 de Marzo
I apologize for not writing for so long, but if you happen to make it through this entire entry, you will understand why. Carnaval in Cádiz, and Marisa and Mara’s adventure to Madrid. Every day, the worst thing that could have possibly gone wrong, went wrong. Let me elaborate.
It all began last Saturday. None of us had any idea what we were getting ourselves into. Marisa and I were at my house around 2, getting our costumes perfected and organizing where we were going to meet up with everyone. I was Marilyn Monroe, and she was an Indian, and we left the house accompanied by a cow (Paul, amazing) and a construction worker (Ben). This is where the madness begins.
It is almost impossible for me to describe what goes on during Carnaval. The city is very small, and normally very manageable, but during Carnaval it shoots up by almost 5 times. We all met up in the Plaza de San Antonio, which was absolutely crammed with people. Babies dressed up as ducks and old men, guiris (foreigners) for days. At this point, the only plan we have is to throw ourselves into the thick of it without losing each other. This quickly became easier said than done.
We made our way to the outskirts of the city to have some drinks on the beach and avoid the massive crowds. The trip that would normally take us about 10 minutes took probably 3 times as long as that, weaving through oceans of drunk Spaniards and avoiding the piss that covered the ground (this is a story in and of itself). On top of that, I was literally stopped every minute for a picture. For once I had a name other than just La Rubia, I WAS Marilyn Monroe that day. This continued on throughout the night, even though my costume became increasingly less authentic as it became covered in mystery smudges and dirt, and my false eyelashes began to migrate away from my eyes. I think the fact that everyone was so drunk compensated for that, as they still called me “MARILIIINNN!” all night.
Around 10 we ended up outside of la Catedral. I have never seen anything like it before. Thousands of people were crammed together, singing and drinking and peeing. We all literally stood on the stairs for hours, watching the crowd and chatting with Spaniards. Then, the worst thing that could have happened happened. I lost a contact. I rarely lose contacts, but it just had to happen in the middle of complete chaos. In my panic, I rubbed my other eye and the other contact fell out. I was fucked. I have horrible eyesight, so someone had to lead me home like a drunken blind baby so I could see again. After successfully restoring my sight, we returned to the madness. I made it out til 4 am. Jimmy holds the record; he stayed out until 8 in the morning, AND went to la punta.
The next day was essentially the exact same, except this time Marisa and I wore neon wigs and wings. After getting dressed, I decided to bust out my bottle of glitter spray. It turned out more disastrous than we had imagined. I managed to get glitter in my contacts, where it stayed and scratched my eyes for next three days in Madrid, when I failed to take them out even one time. We made our way to la caleta to watch fireworks, and spend the next 5 hours sitting on corners of the street and drinking. On our way back, I decided I wanted to change into some flops, so Marisa and I and another girl swung by my house. This is where disaster number 2 happens. The girl, who I shall not name, asked me if I could show her where the bathroom was. Sure girl! C’mon follow me! We hardly made it out my bedroom door when I turned around and saw her hand over her mouth. And then she did it. She projectile vomited on me. Luckily it was only one heave, and I shoved her into the bathroom so she could finish up, and I could wash the chunks off my sweatshirt. I pretty much had no idea what to say, because I figured that when you have to yak, you tell someone first, so I was completely taken off guard. We went back to my room, where I grabbed a new sweatshirt and remained completely silent on the entire walk back to the plaza where we met back up with Jimmy and Ben. I had to wait for the girl to excuse herself back to her house so I could tell everyone why I looked so pissed off. Of course they understood, and apparently she didn’t say a word about it to anyone because they had no idea. If I were in that situation where I had to barf, I would go about it completely differently. We ended up sitting in the empty plaza shooting the shit until the basura trucks and cleaners came out.
Monday consisted of 5 hung-over useless people attempting to play beach volleyball. It didn’t really work out so well, but I’m sure whoever was watching got a kick out of it. At around 6 we all went home to pack and head to the bus station where Marisa and I would catch our 8-hour bus from hell. We took off at 11, and the following hours consisted of me having the shittiest sleep of my life. I woke up about every 15 minutes, shouted some obscenity about how fucking badly my back and ass hurt, and then tried to change my position. Nothing worked. Also, Marisa has this condition where she gets paranoid about having to pee, and the bus just happens to not have a bathroom. Every time we had a stop over, she would get up like 3 times and go pee (granted, these stopovers were about 15 minutes). Hilarious. We finally pulled into Madrid at 7 in the morning. We had made it! In order to get to Cat’s, our hostel, we either had to take the metro or a taxi. Being the savvy (and when I say savvy, I mean not savvy) travelers that we are, we decided to try the metro. The whole thing started off badly. We bought the wrong ticket, so we had to go to the other side and buy the right one. We knew we had to get on the 1 line, but instead of following the signs, we sort of just wandered to one of the platforms… a metro pulled up, so we kind of just got on it… when inside, Marisa looks at the wall and says, “We’re on the wrong one!” Here is where the worst thing possible happens. In response to her comment, I turn around and run back out the door as it’s closing. Marisa tries, but there is no time. The door closes. I look at her through the glass as we bang on the doors and try to pry them open. This of course doesn’t work, and the metro begins to move. I watch Marisa’s face disappear as she holds up her hand to her head like a phone and mouths, “I’ll call you?” At this point I just start laughing, because I don’t know what else to do. A metro pulls up, and I sort of just wander on, because I have no idea what is going on. I got off at the first stop, which luckily proved that Marisa and I have the same instincts, because there she was. The only problem was I was on the other side of the tracks, because I can’t catch a fucking break. The next metro pulls up and I decide to go for it, run through as the doors are open. I ran through as fast as I could, body checking all of the Spaniards and just barely made it through the doors. Stupid Americans. Worst thing that could have happened.
We made it to the center of Madrid, god knows how. We still had hours before we could check in, so we decided to get coffee. 2 cracked out Americans trying to order and talk to people. Marisa orders a ham and cheese sandwich, which I find odd, and then realizes it’s still 7:30 in the morning and changes her order to coffee and toast. Post-coffee, we are less cracked out, and ready to take on the city. Kind of.
We finally make it to Cat’s hostel. Amazing. It’s the cleanest one I’ve ever seen, and there’s a courtyard for people to gather in, a sweet bar downstairs, and free internet and breakfast, for 20 euro a night. People come from literally all over the world, and we got to meet them all.
The first people we met were 2 Brazilians who spoke Spanish and English, so we got a good solid amount of intercambio in with them in the bar downstairs. Then, the Brits and Scots and Irish start pouring in. After meeting a big group of them and chatting we found out that there was a huge football game the next day, Real Madrid versus Liverpool. Watching football fans in action is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. There are no Americans who are as passionate about a sport as people from Europe are, NONE. They randomly start breaking out in song, and they ALL know the words and join in, no matter where they are. It’s absolutely incredible. One of the guys we met, Sean (a drummer from Ireland who is going to school in Austria) made a very good point. He said that when he went to a baseball game in the states, the only reason anyone ever cheered was when people would throw them free shit. It’s funny because it’s true. We never break out into song or cheers together. Anyway, it’s quite a sight to watch these fans in action. Marisa ended up putting herself to bed around midnight, and I went out with the group of English guys. We somehow found our way home at about 4, and passed out.
The next morning was interesting. Marisa and I woke up at about 9 so we could go start doing some touristy things. The only problem was that I was hung-over, and she wasn’t. We made it to el Prado and let me tell you, looking at art when you’re hung-over is really fucking hard. I did get to see some good stuff though, Goya and El Greco, and all of these paintings that are like 500 years old. Marisa and I realized that we’re really bad at describing things, so every time we saw a cool painting, we would just say, “Man, that’s so cool! Like, it’s crazy!” At least we understood each other.
We spent the rest of the day walking around the city and looking at cathedrals and parks, and made it home for a much-needed siesta before going out again. After all the guys got back from the game (Liverpool won, which you need to know) we decided to go on a pub crawl that the hostel organizes. This was an interesting experience. We shelled out 10 euro and followed around some weird Spanish guy in a crew neck and tight pants. Aaron, one of the English guys, called him Gippeto, which wasn’t his name. The walk to the first pub was where the madness began. Gippeto wanted to kill us, literally. He had to lead around a group of 20 something loud, excited, singing and screaming people. Every now and then he would try and hush us, but it never worked. You can’t keep people quiet after they’ve won a football game, it is literally impossible. One will start singing a song, and everyone immediately joins in, screaming and clapping. This continued on for the entire night, at pubs, walking to pubs, probably even on the toilet. I got to learn a few, which made me feel slightly as excited as everyone else. We made it home at about 5. Great night.
Thursday, Marisa and I wake up at 1:30, because we suck. We made our way to the Reina Sofia to see some more hung-over art. This place was awesome, we saw shitloads of Picasso. Unfortunately, by the time we made it to Dali, his paintings kind of made us want to barf. It was still amazing to see. We walked around a bit and went back to siesta before our last night in Madrid.
The guys invited us to go out with them again, and we took the “tube” (metro, British people are always making up fake words) to another part of the city. We didn’t end up staying out very late, as our bodies were beginning to rebel against us, but it was still great fun. I spent the majority of the night chatting with the guys and translating for a guy from Glasgow, who was trying to talk to Marisa, even though she had no fucking idea what he was saying to her. After this bar, we took a taxi back to the center of the city with Aaron and Sean so they could get some food. We had some beers and talked about South Park and Family guy and football songs, and how Americans and British people both say weird shit. Things like, “Are you taking a piss on me?” instead of “Are you kidding me?” and rubbish and bollocks and all of those words they make up. One thing they do have figured out is humor. They’re very witty people, always one step ahead, and they love sarcasm and dry humor, so obviously I was thoroughly entertained for the rest of the night.
We finally said goodbye to Madrid on Friday, and Marisa and I decided to take a taxi to the bus station to avoid fucking up again. The ride back was about 309 times worse as the bus there. It was full of people from Madrid who were headed to Cádiz to catch the tail end of Carnaval, so they were all getting drunk and being obnoxious. 8 hours of hell that I will never go through again, with the only upside being that it cost 40 euro round trip. We came back to the madness of Carnaval, which is the same as it was in the beginning.
Last night was our final night of Carnaval participation. I am retiring as Marilyn Monroe and probably not drinking ever again in my life. The rest of my Sunday will consist of me staying in my bed and watching Spanish TV.
If you made it through this blog, I’m shocked. If you survived Carnaval and Madrid, I am shocked. er.
I apologize for not writing for so long, but if you happen to make it through this entire entry, you will understand why. Carnaval in Cádiz, and Marisa and Mara’s adventure to Madrid. Every day, the worst thing that could have possibly gone wrong, went wrong. Let me elaborate.
It all began last Saturday. None of us had any idea what we were getting ourselves into. Marisa and I were at my house around 2, getting our costumes perfected and organizing where we were going to meet up with everyone. I was Marilyn Monroe, and she was an Indian, and we left the house accompanied by a cow (Paul, amazing) and a construction worker (Ben). This is where the madness begins.
It is almost impossible for me to describe what goes on during Carnaval. The city is very small, and normally very manageable, but during Carnaval it shoots up by almost 5 times. We all met up in the Plaza de San Antonio, which was absolutely crammed with people. Babies dressed up as ducks and old men, guiris (foreigners) for days. At this point, the only plan we have is to throw ourselves into the thick of it without losing each other. This quickly became easier said than done.
We made our way to the outskirts of the city to have some drinks on the beach and avoid the massive crowds. The trip that would normally take us about 10 minutes took probably 3 times as long as that, weaving through oceans of drunk Spaniards and avoiding the piss that covered the ground (this is a story in and of itself). On top of that, I was literally stopped every minute for a picture. For once I had a name other than just La Rubia, I WAS Marilyn Monroe that day. This continued on throughout the night, even though my costume became increasingly less authentic as it became covered in mystery smudges and dirt, and my false eyelashes began to migrate away from my eyes. I think the fact that everyone was so drunk compensated for that, as they still called me “MARILIIINNN!” all night.
Around 10 we ended up outside of la Catedral. I have never seen anything like it before. Thousands of people were crammed together, singing and drinking and peeing. We all literally stood on the stairs for hours, watching the crowd and chatting with Spaniards. Then, the worst thing that could have happened happened. I lost a contact. I rarely lose contacts, but it just had to happen in the middle of complete chaos. In my panic, I rubbed my other eye and the other contact fell out. I was fucked. I have horrible eyesight, so someone had to lead me home like a drunken blind baby so I could see again. After successfully restoring my sight, we returned to the madness. I made it out til 4 am. Jimmy holds the record; he stayed out until 8 in the morning, AND went to la punta.
The next day was essentially the exact same, except this time Marisa and I wore neon wigs and wings. After getting dressed, I decided to bust out my bottle of glitter spray. It turned out more disastrous than we had imagined. I managed to get glitter in my contacts, where it stayed and scratched my eyes for next three days in Madrid, when I failed to take them out even one time. We made our way to la caleta to watch fireworks, and spend the next 5 hours sitting on corners of the street and drinking. On our way back, I decided I wanted to change into some flops, so Marisa and I and another girl swung by my house. This is where disaster number 2 happens. The girl, who I shall not name, asked me if I could show her where the bathroom was. Sure girl! C’mon follow me! We hardly made it out my bedroom door when I turned around and saw her hand over her mouth. And then she did it. She projectile vomited on me. Luckily it was only one heave, and I shoved her into the bathroom so she could finish up, and I could wash the chunks off my sweatshirt. I pretty much had no idea what to say, because I figured that when you have to yak, you tell someone first, so I was completely taken off guard. We went back to my room, where I grabbed a new sweatshirt and remained completely silent on the entire walk back to the plaza where we met back up with Jimmy and Ben. I had to wait for the girl to excuse herself back to her house so I could tell everyone why I looked so pissed off. Of course they understood, and apparently she didn’t say a word about it to anyone because they had no idea. If I were in that situation where I had to barf, I would go about it completely differently. We ended up sitting in the empty plaza shooting the shit until the basura trucks and cleaners came out.
Monday consisted of 5 hung-over useless people attempting to play beach volleyball. It didn’t really work out so well, but I’m sure whoever was watching got a kick out of it. At around 6 we all went home to pack and head to the bus station where Marisa and I would catch our 8-hour bus from hell. We took off at 11, and the following hours consisted of me having the shittiest sleep of my life. I woke up about every 15 minutes, shouted some obscenity about how fucking badly my back and ass hurt, and then tried to change my position. Nothing worked. Also, Marisa has this condition where she gets paranoid about having to pee, and the bus just happens to not have a bathroom. Every time we had a stop over, she would get up like 3 times and go pee (granted, these stopovers were about 15 minutes). Hilarious. We finally pulled into Madrid at 7 in the morning. We had made it! In order to get to Cat’s, our hostel, we either had to take the metro or a taxi. Being the savvy (and when I say savvy, I mean not savvy) travelers that we are, we decided to try the metro. The whole thing started off badly. We bought the wrong ticket, so we had to go to the other side and buy the right one. We knew we had to get on the 1 line, but instead of following the signs, we sort of just wandered to one of the platforms… a metro pulled up, so we kind of just got on it… when inside, Marisa looks at the wall and says, “We’re on the wrong one!” Here is where the worst thing possible happens. In response to her comment, I turn around and run back out the door as it’s closing. Marisa tries, but there is no time. The door closes. I look at her through the glass as we bang on the doors and try to pry them open. This of course doesn’t work, and the metro begins to move. I watch Marisa’s face disappear as she holds up her hand to her head like a phone and mouths, “I’ll call you?” At this point I just start laughing, because I don’t know what else to do. A metro pulls up, and I sort of just wander on, because I have no idea what is going on. I got off at the first stop, which luckily proved that Marisa and I have the same instincts, because there she was. The only problem was I was on the other side of the tracks, because I can’t catch a fucking break. The next metro pulls up and I decide to go for it, run through as the doors are open. I ran through as fast as I could, body checking all of the Spaniards and just barely made it through the doors. Stupid Americans. Worst thing that could have happened.
We made it to the center of Madrid, god knows how. We still had hours before we could check in, so we decided to get coffee. 2 cracked out Americans trying to order and talk to people. Marisa orders a ham and cheese sandwich, which I find odd, and then realizes it’s still 7:30 in the morning and changes her order to coffee and toast. Post-coffee, we are less cracked out, and ready to take on the city. Kind of.
We finally make it to Cat’s hostel. Amazing. It’s the cleanest one I’ve ever seen, and there’s a courtyard for people to gather in, a sweet bar downstairs, and free internet and breakfast, for 20 euro a night. People come from literally all over the world, and we got to meet them all.
The first people we met were 2 Brazilians who spoke Spanish and English, so we got a good solid amount of intercambio in with them in the bar downstairs. Then, the Brits and Scots and Irish start pouring in. After meeting a big group of them and chatting we found out that there was a huge football game the next day, Real Madrid versus Liverpool. Watching football fans in action is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. There are no Americans who are as passionate about a sport as people from Europe are, NONE. They randomly start breaking out in song, and they ALL know the words and join in, no matter where they are. It’s absolutely incredible. One of the guys we met, Sean (a drummer from Ireland who is going to school in Austria) made a very good point. He said that when he went to a baseball game in the states, the only reason anyone ever cheered was when people would throw them free shit. It’s funny because it’s true. We never break out into song or cheers together. Anyway, it’s quite a sight to watch these fans in action. Marisa ended up putting herself to bed around midnight, and I went out with the group of English guys. We somehow found our way home at about 4, and passed out.
The next morning was interesting. Marisa and I woke up at about 9 so we could go start doing some touristy things. The only problem was that I was hung-over, and she wasn’t. We made it to el Prado and let me tell you, looking at art when you’re hung-over is really fucking hard. I did get to see some good stuff though, Goya and El Greco, and all of these paintings that are like 500 years old. Marisa and I realized that we’re really bad at describing things, so every time we saw a cool painting, we would just say, “Man, that’s so cool! Like, it’s crazy!” At least we understood each other.
We spent the rest of the day walking around the city and looking at cathedrals and parks, and made it home for a much-needed siesta before going out again. After all the guys got back from the game (Liverpool won, which you need to know) we decided to go on a pub crawl that the hostel organizes. This was an interesting experience. We shelled out 10 euro and followed around some weird Spanish guy in a crew neck and tight pants. Aaron, one of the English guys, called him Gippeto, which wasn’t his name. The walk to the first pub was where the madness began. Gippeto wanted to kill us, literally. He had to lead around a group of 20 something loud, excited, singing and screaming people. Every now and then he would try and hush us, but it never worked. You can’t keep people quiet after they’ve won a football game, it is literally impossible. One will start singing a song, and everyone immediately joins in, screaming and clapping. This continued on for the entire night, at pubs, walking to pubs, probably even on the toilet. I got to learn a few, which made me feel slightly as excited as everyone else. We made it home at about 5. Great night.
Thursday, Marisa and I wake up at 1:30, because we suck. We made our way to the Reina Sofia to see some more hung-over art. This place was awesome, we saw shitloads of Picasso. Unfortunately, by the time we made it to Dali, his paintings kind of made us want to barf. It was still amazing to see. We walked around a bit and went back to siesta before our last night in Madrid.
The guys invited us to go out with them again, and we took the “tube” (metro, British people are always making up fake words) to another part of the city. We didn’t end up staying out very late, as our bodies were beginning to rebel against us, but it was still great fun. I spent the majority of the night chatting with the guys and translating for a guy from Glasgow, who was trying to talk to Marisa, even though she had no fucking idea what he was saying to her. After this bar, we took a taxi back to the center of the city with Aaron and Sean so they could get some food. We had some beers and talked about South Park and Family guy and football songs, and how Americans and British people both say weird shit. Things like, “Are you taking a piss on me?” instead of “Are you kidding me?” and rubbish and bollocks and all of those words they make up. One thing they do have figured out is humor. They’re very witty people, always one step ahead, and they love sarcasm and dry humor, so obviously I was thoroughly entertained for the rest of the night.
We finally said goodbye to Madrid on Friday, and Marisa and I decided to take a taxi to the bus station to avoid fucking up again. The ride back was about 309 times worse as the bus there. It was full of people from Madrid who were headed to Cádiz to catch the tail end of Carnaval, so they were all getting drunk and being obnoxious. 8 hours of hell that I will never go through again, with the only upside being that it cost 40 euro round trip. We came back to the madness of Carnaval, which is the same as it was in the beginning.
Last night was our final night of Carnaval participation. I am retiring as Marilyn Monroe and probably not drinking ever again in my life. The rest of my Sunday will consist of me staying in my bed and watching Spanish TV.
If you made it through this blog, I’m shocked. If you survived Carnaval and Madrid, I am shocked. er.
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