Jueves el 30
So, I just got back from Granada on Sunday night, on our second and final excursion (essentially a group of 20-somethings shoved on a bus for 5 hours, then spending 3 days and nights together wreaking havoc on whatever city we’re in). On the way there, we made a stop over in Córdoba, to see the mesquita (it’s a really old mosque, at least it was a mosque until the Christians took it over, now it’s a cathedral, but still really big and cool). Amazing little city, and gave us a peek into how Granada was going to be. Granada is this crazy city in the mountains, and it’s full of hippies, gypsies, sweet Arab shops (this obviously means kebabs, too). The most important part), and la Alhambra, which is a huge Arab palace that’s still standing. It has big, pretty gardens, tons of different rooms and buildings, and lots of cool things to see. We spent our full day exploring that, and the other two nights struggling not to get kicked out of the hotel we were staying at. Something about a group of 30 Americans really rattles old Spanish people. For one thing, they pulled the same shit on us that they did in Ubescubeda, complaining about us being there before we actually did anything. And I’m pretty sure they were pulling room numbers out of hats and calling in complaints. I will tell you why. Marisa and I roomed together. We were in room 122. Room 114 (which is surprisingly far, I have a theory that the hotel we stayed at is an old crazy house, and they made the hallways super narrow so they could fit in even MORE shitty little rooms into the shithole. Seriously, I think they paid someone off to earn that second star) is where a group of about 15 people were hanging out and having some drinks before we left to go out the first night. I should add screaming to that, too. We all went out after this at about 11, and groups of us came home at various points of the night. Marisa, Jimmy and I were one of the early groups, returning at about 2. The three of us sat in our room, listened to some quiet music on my laptop (laptop speakers are the anti-loud, they suck), and chatted, quietly. We were rudely interrupted by the hotel manager coming up in through our door, telling Jimmy to get out and for us to go to bed. I said sorry, this is in Spanish, and he says, “NO, no sorrys, you guys have already caused enough problems for us! We’re going to call the police!”
Ok… well, didn’t know it was a crime being 21 and going to bed after Jeopardy gets done. We followed his instructions, because none of us really feel like getting arrested for a dumb reason like that. The next morning, our director, Ciara, pulls Marisa and I aside telling us that our room had gotten multiple complaints the night before (if you got more than 5 calls, you get called up and scolded, or as we liked to call it that weekend, black-listed). Seems strange, considering that from about 8 until 2 our room was completely empty. And I KNOW Spanish people don’t have good hearing, because they’re always too busy yelling and listening to themselves talk. This will remain a mystery. I mean, if I would’ve known we were gonna get complaints like rock stars, I probably would’ve at least broken some shit and flooded something while throwing a rager of a party.
The rest of the half days we had, we spent looking through all of the Arab shops, and the little street vendors, dodging gypsies, and seeing how many kebabs we could each eat in one weekend. I ate 4 I’m pretty sure. Could be 5. Gross…
Now, I’m sitting in the Madrid Barajas airport, remembering how much I hate this place. I woke up at 4:30 this morning to catch at train to Jerez, where I caught a plane to here, Madrid. Here I will catch my plane to London, where I will get really fucking lost and probably cry a couple of times before I get to my hotel.
I also just bought a 7 euro sandwich, which was the cheapest thing I could find in the airport that still had vegetables on it.
At least Yumi lent me her iPod so I can pretend I always know where I’m going. People don’t think you don’t know where you’re going when you look straight ahead and have headphones in. Trust me, I do it a LOT.
Cheers.
martes, 12 de mayo de 2009
jueves, 23 de abril de 2009
I Fought the Wall, and the Wall Won.
Jueves el 23
So, Lagos. A group of 8 of us set out for Lagos, Portugal last Thursday afternoon to have our own little weekend getaway. That is exactly what it turned out to be. We arrived via 2 hilarious looking cars (some sort of Opel model) which essentially looked like metal boxes on wheels. Jimmy and I had a caravan going the entire way, a 4 hour drive full of lots of green, trees, hills, and little white houses with orange roofs. Portugal is an incredibly beautiful country, and it costs next to nothing to live like a king there. We each paid just over 20 euro for the entire weekend in an enormous and luxurious apartment. Whoever let us do that obviously didn't know that a group of 20-somethings were about to invade and take full advantage of such freedom.
Every day we would make a trip to the grocery store, buy food essentials for each of our themed dinners (which included Mexican fiesta, spaghetti night, and a good ol' all AMERICAN BBQ), get some fresh ingredients for drinks, and Jimmy and I went to town in the kitchen, cooking and bar tending for our friends. After our enormous, once-a-day meal, we would head out and check out the night life, which was awesome, and I got to practice one of my favorite pastimes, meeting people.
The last day was by far the best. After enjoying our American-sized American all American BBQ, we decided to start up an intense game of wiffle ball. This game started with Jimmy, Paul and I in our living room. Our apartment was THAT big. Somewhere in there Paul tackeld me in to a wall, where I hit my head and got what we all believe was a mild concussion. No matter though, after the first injury of the day, we decided to continue the game outside, where everyone else managed to hurt themselves in some other way throughout the rest of the day/night. Scraped and bloodied knees seemed to be the theme of the day, luckily I escaped without any external bleeding (who knows about the internal though). Paul managed to get his pants so grassy that he changed into Jimmy's bright red, skin-tight pants. He wore them out that night (one of the many reasons that I love my friends here). To shake of the injuries, we electric slid the night away. Good warm up before hitting the bars downtown.
The drive home was a bit more brutal than the one there, but we made it in one piece. One of my favorite vacations to date. If you're ever in Europe, Portugal is another one of those places that you have to make a stop through.
At this point, I have little left of the welt/egg on my head. Wiffle ball. It's a power sport.
So, Lagos. A group of 8 of us set out for Lagos, Portugal last Thursday afternoon to have our own little weekend getaway. That is exactly what it turned out to be. We arrived via 2 hilarious looking cars (some sort of Opel model) which essentially looked like metal boxes on wheels. Jimmy and I had a caravan going the entire way, a 4 hour drive full of lots of green, trees, hills, and little white houses with orange roofs. Portugal is an incredibly beautiful country, and it costs next to nothing to live like a king there. We each paid just over 20 euro for the entire weekend in an enormous and luxurious apartment. Whoever let us do that obviously didn't know that a group of 20-somethings were about to invade and take full advantage of such freedom.
Every day we would make a trip to the grocery store, buy food essentials for each of our themed dinners (which included Mexican fiesta, spaghetti night, and a good ol' all AMERICAN BBQ), get some fresh ingredients for drinks, and Jimmy and I went to town in the kitchen, cooking and bar tending for our friends. After our enormous, once-a-day meal, we would head out and check out the night life, which was awesome, and I got to practice one of my favorite pastimes, meeting people.
The last day was by far the best. After enjoying our American-sized American all American BBQ, we decided to start up an intense game of wiffle ball. This game started with Jimmy, Paul and I in our living room. Our apartment was THAT big. Somewhere in there Paul tackeld me in to a wall, where I hit my head and got what we all believe was a mild concussion. No matter though, after the first injury of the day, we decided to continue the game outside, where everyone else managed to hurt themselves in some other way throughout the rest of the day/night. Scraped and bloodied knees seemed to be the theme of the day, luckily I escaped without any external bleeding (who knows about the internal though). Paul managed to get his pants so grassy that he changed into Jimmy's bright red, skin-tight pants. He wore them out that night (one of the many reasons that I love my friends here). To shake of the injuries, we electric slid the night away. Good warm up before hitting the bars downtown.
The drive home was a bit more brutal than the one there, but we made it in one piece. One of my favorite vacations to date. If you're ever in Europe, Portugal is another one of those places that you have to make a stop through.
At this point, I have little left of the welt/egg on my head. Wiffle ball. It's a power sport.
lunes, 13 de abril de 2009
WHAT WOULD RICK DO?
Ok. I know that I suck at blogging. I kind of figured this would happen. But, along with traveling and studying comes a shortage of time and internet. So really, it makes sense.
WHERE. IN. THA WORLD. IS. MA RA ZANDIEGO? If you didn’t grow up watching PBS, you won’t understand that.
This is where I’ve been for the past weeks. Contrary to popular belief, I haven’t just been frying myself at the beach.
Barcelona, followed by Valencia (which included a trip to Baeza and Úbeda[scubeda-dubeda]), and 9 days in Italy, including Pisa, Cinque Terre, and ROMA! I just got home yesterday. I am still trying to get all the pasta and gelato out of my small intestine.
Ok, we’ll go in order here.
Barcelona. Hands down one of the coolest cities in Spain. Although the people there are a little stand-offish (people there speak Cátalan, which is a Spanish dialect, but you can’t understand it. If you ask someone a question in Spanish, they will answer you in English), but the city has a lot to offer. We saw all of the incredible architecture of Gaudí, which if you’ve never heard of him, look him up. He died before finishing one of his biggest projects, Sagrada familia, which is an insane cathedral. It won’t be done for about another 75 years because of the amount of detail that goes into it. Seriously. Insane. He also has 2 apartment buildings, equally amazing, and a park, where he lived for a while. Besides all of that, we spent a lot of time walking around, exploring las ramblas, which is a main stretch of street covered in little booths and about a million street performers (which, by the way, freak the fuck out of me). Along here you’ll also run into the most amazing market in the world, filled with fresh fruit and veggies, fresh squeezed fruit juice, meat fish, and all of that. There’s more to see around the city and port, too much to write. Guess you’ll have to go see it for yourself.
The nightlife there was amazing too. Although we had a little mishap the first night, which resulted in us jumping about 23 metro gates and being lost for 2 hours underground, the second night made up for it. We saw Girl Talk, live in concert, in the best club in Barcelona, Razzmatazz. If I could write about how cool that guy is, I would, but I can’t. You just gotta see him.
Valencia. We took a group trip here with all the people from our program. By “trip.” I mean 10 hour bus ride that left at 1 am and made us all want to kill ourselves. Once there, we made up for it in having fun together. We played some drinking games the first night, and a group of about 5 of us headed out to try and find some nighttime activities to participate in. Apparently, Valencia doesn’t do anything on Thursday nights. We ended up stumbling upon a bar called Beer (probably the best name I could ever think of for a bar. It’s really all you need to know), and stayed there about 30 minutes when we realized we were the only people in the joint. The walk home consisted of us throwing oranges across the road to see if we could hit the other side of the median, and failing at this. The next day, we went to an amazing aquarium, which I couldn’t get enough of, and saw a dolphin show. It’s not as stupid as you think. I am now seriously considering changing my career path to dolphin trainer, easily the sweetest job in the world. You hang out with dolphins all day, get tan and fit and hot, and they throw you up in the air and do flips with you. Think of a better job, I dare you. After that was the science museum, and a quiet afternoon. We stayed in the new part, which resembled something out of the Jetsons, and later explored the old part, about 30 minutes away and WAY sweeter looking at night. If you go there, stay in the old part. The new part kind of makes you wonder what planet you’re on.
Whew. Ok, Baeza and Úbeda (Jimmy nicknamed Úbescubeda, because calling it that is the coolest thing you can associate with the city) which are essentially two little mountain towns that probably hate having anyone under the age of 50 in their presence. We found this out when we arrived at around 7 pm, and some old Spanish guy warned us that if we made any noise, he would call the cops on us. Mind you, we were opening our doors to our rooms, and we were under the influence of water and bocadillos, dead sober. We tried to go out that night, but we ended up sitting around in a gazebo and having some drinks and deep conversation in the pouring rain. I only wish I were joking about that.
So, finally, ITALIA. We lived and breathed Rick Steves: the best of Italy during this trip. He is a god among men, and he told us all of the best places to go, and how to not spend money. He was right. Because he is a god. A group of about 10 of us went for Semana Santa, which is a crazy festival (festival in Cádiz? NEVER!) they hold here to celebrate all the pre-funk to Easter. We started out our journey on RyanAir, the shittiest airline in the universe. Somehow my bag made weight for the plane (you can only take 1 carry on, meaning I had to stuff my purse into one bag, and this bag can only weigh 10 kilos, or about 20 pounds. I was packing for 9 days. Let’s just say I wore the same thing a lot, and smelled REAL bad), but they somehow sucked 20 euro out of me for checking in at the airport? I was livid. Lauren looks at me when I come back from the counter and says, “Mara, you got some color from the beach this week!” “Nope, just really fucking pissed,” says I. I could write an entire other blog about how much I hate that airline, but I’ll spare you. So, we get to Pisa, where we stay in the nicest little B&B. It even had a CAT, with 3 legs mind you, but still cute. We only spent a night there, just long enough to experience our first encounter with real Italian food, and see the leaning tower of Pisa and all that jazz. I’m glad I didn’t study abroad in Italy. I would come back weighing at least 80 pounds more.
From Pisa, we headed up to Cinque Terre. If you’ve never heard of it, wiki that too. It’s this small coastal town that consists of 5 pueblitos, which you can hike to and from. It’s the kind of place that makes you believe that there is a god out there somewhere. Incredibly beautiful, right on the Mediterranean, trees, greenery, the most amazing hiking (and hard too, Rick didn’t lie when he said they were strenuous), AND, it’s the birth place of PESTO, so lord knows I ate about 2 times my body weight every day. We ended the amazing 5 days of hiking, eating, and having an all around blast by jumping in the Mediterranean at 9 in the morning. Probably could have though this through a little better, I’ve never felt so close to hypothermia in my life, but it was also quite refreshing. And luckily, it’s really salty, so when I lost control of my limbs and my heart stopped, I kind of just floated to the shore. Marisa said it best, right before her, Lauren, and I jumped off our little rock. “1, 2, 3…” (jump off ledge and look at each other) “Fuck.”
If you ever go to Italy that is one place you have to see.
Lauren and I ended our trip in ROMA where we met up with Yumi, when Paul and Marisa broke off and went to go play in the adult candy land, Amsterdam. Rome is one of the most incredible cities on the planet. Being there blew my mind, seeing ruins from hundreds and hundreds of years ago, and just trying to fathom how much history it held. We saw everything, thanks to Rick, we bought the Roma Pass, which allowed us to get into 2 places free (Coliseum and Forum, which are both around 10 euro) and then we got discounts on all of the rest. We also visited the museum of Rome, which is filled with the largest collection of artifacts, old coins, statues, even pieces of paintings and walls, mosaics, the craziest things ever. Also, the Trevi fountain and Spanish steps. Seeing all of these places is impossible to describe. It made me want to time travel. That’s really all I can say. I took over 200 pictures, so you’ll all see what I did. We also got to go on an awesome pub crawl, and meet lots more people from all over the U.S. and U.K. The only downfall was that I went to bed at around 4 that night, and then woke up at 6 to go sit outside the Vatican until it opened. As pissed off as I was that I was awake, it was totally worth it. We got to see everything without waiting in any 3 hour lines, which we saw as we were leaving. The Sistine Chapel, the statue collections, the Vatican museum, and the biggest cathedral in the world. I tried to find the pope, but it was harder than I thought it was going to be. I did find the dead one they have in the cathedral though, that counts right?
We flew back, making a 3 hour stopover in Frankfurt, where we had a beer and a brat (DUH), and spent most of our 20-hour day of travel trying to sleep on the food trays on the plane and on cement floors.
And I didn’t get mugged ONCE. Knock on wood..
So here I am, back in the Diz. I leave for Lagos, Portugal on Thursday. I’ll be sure and let you know how that goes, and anything else cool that may happen in between.
Ciao! Italia! Grazie! Tos! Pizza! Latte! Penne! Arrabiatta!
That’s all of the Italian I picked up. I’m basically a polyglot now.
WHERE. IN. THA WORLD. IS. MA RA ZANDIEGO? If you didn’t grow up watching PBS, you won’t understand that.
This is where I’ve been for the past weeks. Contrary to popular belief, I haven’t just been frying myself at the beach.
Barcelona, followed by Valencia (which included a trip to Baeza and Úbeda[scubeda-dubeda]), and 9 days in Italy, including Pisa, Cinque Terre, and ROMA! I just got home yesterday. I am still trying to get all the pasta and gelato out of my small intestine.
Ok, we’ll go in order here.
Barcelona. Hands down one of the coolest cities in Spain. Although the people there are a little stand-offish (people there speak Cátalan, which is a Spanish dialect, but you can’t understand it. If you ask someone a question in Spanish, they will answer you in English), but the city has a lot to offer. We saw all of the incredible architecture of Gaudí, which if you’ve never heard of him, look him up. He died before finishing one of his biggest projects, Sagrada familia, which is an insane cathedral. It won’t be done for about another 75 years because of the amount of detail that goes into it. Seriously. Insane. He also has 2 apartment buildings, equally amazing, and a park, where he lived for a while. Besides all of that, we spent a lot of time walking around, exploring las ramblas, which is a main stretch of street covered in little booths and about a million street performers (which, by the way, freak the fuck out of me). Along here you’ll also run into the most amazing market in the world, filled with fresh fruit and veggies, fresh squeezed fruit juice, meat fish, and all of that. There’s more to see around the city and port, too much to write. Guess you’ll have to go see it for yourself.
The nightlife there was amazing too. Although we had a little mishap the first night, which resulted in us jumping about 23 metro gates and being lost for 2 hours underground, the second night made up for it. We saw Girl Talk, live in concert, in the best club in Barcelona, Razzmatazz. If I could write about how cool that guy is, I would, but I can’t. You just gotta see him.
Valencia. We took a group trip here with all the people from our program. By “trip.” I mean 10 hour bus ride that left at 1 am and made us all want to kill ourselves. Once there, we made up for it in having fun together. We played some drinking games the first night, and a group of about 5 of us headed out to try and find some nighttime activities to participate in. Apparently, Valencia doesn’t do anything on Thursday nights. We ended up stumbling upon a bar called Beer (probably the best name I could ever think of for a bar. It’s really all you need to know), and stayed there about 30 minutes when we realized we were the only people in the joint. The walk home consisted of us throwing oranges across the road to see if we could hit the other side of the median, and failing at this. The next day, we went to an amazing aquarium, which I couldn’t get enough of, and saw a dolphin show. It’s not as stupid as you think. I am now seriously considering changing my career path to dolphin trainer, easily the sweetest job in the world. You hang out with dolphins all day, get tan and fit and hot, and they throw you up in the air and do flips with you. Think of a better job, I dare you. After that was the science museum, and a quiet afternoon. We stayed in the new part, which resembled something out of the Jetsons, and later explored the old part, about 30 minutes away and WAY sweeter looking at night. If you go there, stay in the old part. The new part kind of makes you wonder what planet you’re on.
Whew. Ok, Baeza and Úbeda (Jimmy nicknamed Úbescubeda, because calling it that is the coolest thing you can associate with the city) which are essentially two little mountain towns that probably hate having anyone under the age of 50 in their presence. We found this out when we arrived at around 7 pm, and some old Spanish guy warned us that if we made any noise, he would call the cops on us. Mind you, we were opening our doors to our rooms, and we were under the influence of water and bocadillos, dead sober. We tried to go out that night, but we ended up sitting around in a gazebo and having some drinks and deep conversation in the pouring rain. I only wish I were joking about that.
So, finally, ITALIA. We lived and breathed Rick Steves: the best of Italy during this trip. He is a god among men, and he told us all of the best places to go, and how to not spend money. He was right. Because he is a god. A group of about 10 of us went for Semana Santa, which is a crazy festival (festival in Cádiz? NEVER!) they hold here to celebrate all the pre-funk to Easter. We started out our journey on RyanAir, the shittiest airline in the universe. Somehow my bag made weight for the plane (you can only take 1 carry on, meaning I had to stuff my purse into one bag, and this bag can only weigh 10 kilos, or about 20 pounds. I was packing for 9 days. Let’s just say I wore the same thing a lot, and smelled REAL bad), but they somehow sucked 20 euro out of me for checking in at the airport? I was livid. Lauren looks at me when I come back from the counter and says, “Mara, you got some color from the beach this week!” “Nope, just really fucking pissed,” says I. I could write an entire other blog about how much I hate that airline, but I’ll spare you. So, we get to Pisa, where we stay in the nicest little B&B. It even had a CAT, with 3 legs mind you, but still cute. We only spent a night there, just long enough to experience our first encounter with real Italian food, and see the leaning tower of Pisa and all that jazz. I’m glad I didn’t study abroad in Italy. I would come back weighing at least 80 pounds more.
From Pisa, we headed up to Cinque Terre. If you’ve never heard of it, wiki that too. It’s this small coastal town that consists of 5 pueblitos, which you can hike to and from. It’s the kind of place that makes you believe that there is a god out there somewhere. Incredibly beautiful, right on the Mediterranean, trees, greenery, the most amazing hiking (and hard too, Rick didn’t lie when he said they were strenuous), AND, it’s the birth place of PESTO, so lord knows I ate about 2 times my body weight every day. We ended the amazing 5 days of hiking, eating, and having an all around blast by jumping in the Mediterranean at 9 in the morning. Probably could have though this through a little better, I’ve never felt so close to hypothermia in my life, but it was also quite refreshing. And luckily, it’s really salty, so when I lost control of my limbs and my heart stopped, I kind of just floated to the shore. Marisa said it best, right before her, Lauren, and I jumped off our little rock. “1, 2, 3…” (jump off ledge and look at each other) “Fuck.”
If you ever go to Italy that is one place you have to see.
Lauren and I ended our trip in ROMA where we met up with Yumi, when Paul and Marisa broke off and went to go play in the adult candy land, Amsterdam. Rome is one of the most incredible cities on the planet. Being there blew my mind, seeing ruins from hundreds and hundreds of years ago, and just trying to fathom how much history it held. We saw everything, thanks to Rick, we bought the Roma Pass, which allowed us to get into 2 places free (Coliseum and Forum, which are both around 10 euro) and then we got discounts on all of the rest. We also visited the museum of Rome, which is filled with the largest collection of artifacts, old coins, statues, even pieces of paintings and walls, mosaics, the craziest things ever. Also, the Trevi fountain and Spanish steps. Seeing all of these places is impossible to describe. It made me want to time travel. That’s really all I can say. I took over 200 pictures, so you’ll all see what I did. We also got to go on an awesome pub crawl, and meet lots more people from all over the U.S. and U.K. The only downfall was that I went to bed at around 4 that night, and then woke up at 6 to go sit outside the Vatican until it opened. As pissed off as I was that I was awake, it was totally worth it. We got to see everything without waiting in any 3 hour lines, which we saw as we were leaving. The Sistine Chapel, the statue collections, the Vatican museum, and the biggest cathedral in the world. I tried to find the pope, but it was harder than I thought it was going to be. I did find the dead one they have in the cathedral though, that counts right?
We flew back, making a 3 hour stopover in Frankfurt, where we had a beer and a brat (DUH), and spent most of our 20-hour day of travel trying to sleep on the food trays on the plane and on cement floors.
And I didn’t get mugged ONCE. Knock on wood..
So here I am, back in the Diz. I leave for Lagos, Portugal on Thursday. I’ll be sure and let you know how that goes, and anything else cool that may happen in between.
Ciao! Italia! Grazie! Tos! Pizza! Latte! Penne! Arrabiatta!
That’s all of the Italian I picked up. I’m basically a polyglot now.
martes, 17 de marzo de 2009
Just TRY doing squats in a 4x4 room
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.
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.
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.
sábado, 7 de febrero de 2009
I got pwned by a 1st grader.
Viernes el 6
So, the grandkids come over about 4 days a week to eat lunch, right? I usually try to avoid them, because they make me feel stupid. My madre usually just feeds me before they even get here, but today I was late. Awesome. I got served by that little girl.
Me: (takes a bite of soup, then a little nibble of salad)
Ana: Why are you eating your salad and your soup at the same time?
Me: (smiles) I just eat them at the same time usually
Ana: Well, you’re supposed to eat one before the other. It’s better to eat your soup, AND THEN eat your salad.
Me: (smiles awkwardly and pushes soup to the side)
I’m waiting for the part when it gets EASIER to communicate, and I feel LESS stupid all the god damn time.
So, the grandkids come over about 4 days a week to eat lunch, right? I usually try to avoid them, because they make me feel stupid. My madre usually just feeds me before they even get here, but today I was late. Awesome. I got served by that little girl.
Me: (takes a bite of soup, then a little nibble of salad)
Ana: Why are you eating your salad and your soup at the same time?
Me: (smiles) I just eat them at the same time usually
Ana: Well, you’re supposed to eat one before the other. It’s better to eat your soup, AND THEN eat your salad.
Me: (smiles awkwardly and pushes soup to the side)
I’m waiting for the part when it gets EASIER to communicate, and I feel LESS stupid all the god damn time.
Fear Factor: Cádiz
Jueves el 5
Today, my soup had eyes.
I have encountered and eaten many things that I never would have thought of even putting near a dinner table. I tasted sea urchin. Fish egg sacks. Things that still have their heads. I never had a mental thing with food, but I’m starting to get one.
Sea urchin was the easiest. It was during a pre-carnaval festival, and everyone was drinking beer and doing it. So why not. Like I said before, tastes like sand and dead fish. Had one bite, never again.
My madre puts this thing (I can’t remember the name, but I’ll ask again) in a lot of random salads, or just by itself. It is essentially an egg sack of some fish. It looks like a veiny ball, and it is filled with tiny fish eggs. At first, I had a hunch that that was what I was eating, but I couldn’t really tell since it was cooked, and so it was white all the way through instead of that vivid, orange color. I’ve eaten this many times, and I don’t mind the texture or anything, but it tastes like shit.
AND THEN, I accidentally ate liver. I thought it was a fillet, but after chewing a couple bites, I realized what it was. That nasty mealy texture. I will eat pate, like in a spread for toast or something, but I don’t like cutting up the intact organ and eating it bite by bite.
I think the worst thing here is that a) the majority of meat is seafood (which I don’t really consider meat) and b) everything still has heads/extremities. I don’t really trust mollusks or crustaceans, or anything that has a main diet of shit and garbage (literally) and carries its house around with it for its entire life. The problem is that every meal includes either one of those two, or fish, which I don’t really mind. It’s just the fact that all the fish still have heads and eyes, and all the mariscos (shrimp or monster shrimp the size of my arm) have eyes, feelers, feet, everything. I literally have to shell them before I eat them, and pop the heads off. Today my madre made a veggie soup, which I loved, but it had whole mariscos, which I didn’t love. When I say whole, I mean each one was cut into thirds, so some pieces had the ass, some pieces had the torso with little legs, and my favorite, the ones that have the faces and eyes still on that look back at you, point their feelers at you, and say “PWEASE DON’T EAT ME MAWA!” She told me to just chew them a lot, because the shells were still on, and she forced me to try them in front of her.
I am not down with that.
Today, my soup had eyes.
I have encountered and eaten many things that I never would have thought of even putting near a dinner table. I tasted sea urchin. Fish egg sacks. Things that still have their heads. I never had a mental thing with food, but I’m starting to get one.
Sea urchin was the easiest. It was during a pre-carnaval festival, and everyone was drinking beer and doing it. So why not. Like I said before, tastes like sand and dead fish. Had one bite, never again.
My madre puts this thing (I can’t remember the name, but I’ll ask again) in a lot of random salads, or just by itself. It is essentially an egg sack of some fish. It looks like a veiny ball, and it is filled with tiny fish eggs. At first, I had a hunch that that was what I was eating, but I couldn’t really tell since it was cooked, and so it was white all the way through instead of that vivid, orange color. I’ve eaten this many times, and I don’t mind the texture or anything, but it tastes like shit.
AND THEN, I accidentally ate liver. I thought it was a fillet, but after chewing a couple bites, I realized what it was. That nasty mealy texture. I will eat pate, like in a spread for toast or something, but I don’t like cutting up the intact organ and eating it bite by bite.
I think the worst thing here is that a) the majority of meat is seafood (which I don’t really consider meat) and b) everything still has heads/extremities. I don’t really trust mollusks or crustaceans, or anything that has a main diet of shit and garbage (literally) and carries its house around with it for its entire life. The problem is that every meal includes either one of those two, or fish, which I don’t really mind. It’s just the fact that all the fish still have heads and eyes, and all the mariscos (shrimp or monster shrimp the size of my arm) have eyes, feelers, feet, everything. I literally have to shell them before I eat them, and pop the heads off. Today my madre made a veggie soup, which I loved, but it had whole mariscos, which I didn’t love. When I say whole, I mean each one was cut into thirds, so some pieces had the ass, some pieces had the torso with little legs, and my favorite, the ones that have the faces and eyes still on that look back at you, point their feelers at you, and say “PWEASE DON’T EAT ME MAWA!” She told me to just chew them a lot, because the shells were still on, and she forced me to try them in front of her.
I am not down with that.
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