¡Ay Madrid!

Overdue housekeeping

2011-05-30T22:21:00.001+02:00

Hello! I just wanted to let you know that I'm still blogging over at Tumblr. I'm still living in Spain. I'm still happy.

Thank you for reading, still!

-S xoxo

The 365th day

2009-12-31T19:25:00.075+01:00

The man at the bike shop was surprised to see me walk through the door. Te vas a animar? he asked, looking out at the rain. "You're really up for it?"

“It’s not raining too hard," I said.

I picked the bike with the basket, paid seven euros and left my library card as collateral.

It was raining harder when I arrived at El Retiro. The bike was a little big but I managed. Squinting through the rain, I pedaled over puddles and around joggers. My boots were soon covered in mud.

The park was nearly empty and I could occasionally hear the sound of wet gravel underneath Charlotte Gainsbourg's voice. The rain finally stopped and the sun appeared through the dark clouds.

An old man was walking past as I rode by. I smiled at him. I've developed a soft spot for old Spanish men. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, took off his hat and mouthed "Hola guapa."

....

Sitting at the bar at Hernani, with a café con leche and a damp copy of Anna Karenina, I glanced at the group of tourists sitting next to me, consulting a guide book. There was something really cute about the way they pronounced street names and places. "We have to get to SOUL," one of the men said.

I opted against taking the metro and walked the long way home, past Banco de España, Palacio de Comunicaciones and down Gran Via into Sol, where the festivities were already getting started. Walking is the best way to really get to know a city. Walking is also the best way to clear your head.

Sore and tired from the two-hour ride and walk, I curled up in bed, trying to sleep, trying to shut off my brain. Everyone is where they should be tonight. At home.

....

At 11 p.m., I put on my coat and boots and walked back out into the empty street. There was a blue moon that night.

I didn't want to be alone. I wanted noise, the company of strangers and fireworks. Lots and lots of fireworks. So I headed for Sol, and was startled by several firecrackers along the way.

Sol was chaos. There was confetti, broken glass, prostitutes, drunken singing and brawls.

I laughed (and half-screamed) as my body was crushed and knocked about in the crowd.

You're never alone in being alone.

Arrivals and departures

2009-12-24T15:36:00.010+01:00

I'm picking up my friend Nancy at the airport in a couple of hours. Oh how I've missed her. It will be nice to have another Valley girl around. I can OMG, LIKE NO WAY! and ARE YOU SERIOUS? as much as I want without feeling deranged. She's here until Tuesday and as her tour guide, I plan on making the best of our limited time together and the bad weather.

....

My friends have all flown back home: Los Angeles, Ireland, Finland, London. My roommate leaves for Denmark tomorrow night.

My family is in El Salvador visiting my mother's side of the family, for the first time. It pains me that I'm not there.

This time last year, all four of us were exploring Jamaica. We drove the entire length of the island, from Negril to Port Royal, with the windows down while listening to Bob Marley. Little did I know we'd soon be scattered about the globe.

(photo via b_doody)

An American in Paris

2009-12-12T23:41:00.040+01:00

Crammed into a photo booth, smiling our hardest.

I spent most of my time in Paris huddled underneath an umbrella, shivering violently and avoiding puddles. But as cold and as wet as I was, I couldn't stop smiling and awwing at everything. I find most metro lovers in Madrid pretty gauche (I once tried drowning out the slurping noises by turning up the volume on my iPod. It didn't work.), but in Paris, I couldn't help but smile at them. Good for you. Please, carry on with your public displays of affection.

I licked powdered sugar from my fingers, wiped Nutella from the corners of my mouth and gleefully cracked my crème brulee with a spoon at the count of three.

Paris turned me into a child.

We rode a ferris wheel near Champs Elysee in the rain and a carousel near Sacre Coeur. A song by Edith Piaf was playing.

Oh and then there's that famous tower.

We waited in line for more than an hour to climb the Eiffel Tower in the coldest cold I have ever felt in my life. I swear I felt my heart rate slow down. My feet turned into blocks of ice. But leave now? Yes, we are delicate Californian flowers. But quitters? NEVER! I wrapped my scarf around my face and clutched Raya's arm.

Finally, about 700 steps later and more than 1000 feet above the ground, we reached the top, only to find that not only was it colder up there, but windier.

We ran across "le etoile" (the star), the area surrounding the Arc de Triomphe, which Zoya explained is not covered by insurance companies because it is notorious for car accidents.

We were the only people there, or so we thought until two French guards appeared. Zoya charmed them with her impeccable French and they asked us how we got there because the Metro passageway to the Arc was closed. We ran, she told them. "Well, that's the only way you can get back!" they said.

Cars honked as we dodged traffic in the rain. We laughed nervously, madly, from the adrenaline rush.

We had coffee at Cafe de 2 Moulins, also known as the Amelie cafe. She was everywhere.

The Amelie cafe is just a short walk from Moulin Rouge, in Pigalle, which should always be said with a wink.

We took a muddy walk through Les Tuileries.

I spent my last day at Pere Lachaise, where I paid my respects to Chopin, Edith Piaf, Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde.

The cemetery cat was there to greet us.

We finally found Oscar's grave. I totally kissed it.

....

I was in Paris for four days and I wish I could tell you everything. What it's like to be on the Eiffel Tower when it lights up. How unbelievably small you feel in the shadows and candlelight of Notre Dame.

Paris is magic. You just have to see it for yourself.

Here’s what I can tell you: The French were nothing but friendly and helpful. You can’t have a bad meal in Paris. It will make you lovesick but here, have this macaroon that just melts in your mouth. Better?

....

Zoya was glued to her map, as she was for most of the weekend. We were outside the metro station by the opera house, when I saw them.

They were standing across the street. There was nothing overtly special about them. Just another couple in Paris whose preferred mode of transportation is by motorbike. They were on their way to dinner, I was sure. He removed her helmet and her hair fell like a curtain across her face. He brushed her hair away from her eyes, tucked it behind her ears, his hands poised at her temples. It reminded me of a line from a Billy Collins poem. "You hold a girl's face in your hands like a vase."

I just stood there, witnessing this quiet little moment unfold on a wet street corner. That, right there, I thought. That’s Paris.

*Special thanks to Zoya for letting us stay in her flat and for being our unofficial tour guide. You are awesome. And as the French would say "ELLE EST CANON!"*

Am I animated enough for you now, mother?

2009-12-12T23:23:00.017+01:00

"Why are you so sleepy? Stop yawning."

"But it's 5 a.m. here."

"Well is there a better time to Skype you? When you're actually dressed and you've combed your hair?

"But it's FIVE IN THE MORNING."

"How about Saturday night?"

"That's no good."

"Why?"

"Because... I'm not home then."

"And why not?"

"I go out."

"Hmmmm."

"Hmmmm."

....

*I've figured out how to make GIF's. You should be vewy, vewy, afwaid.

Paris: The Teaser

2009-12-10T01:04:00.020+01:00

I'm still uploading pictures and figuring out how to write about Paris because -- surprise, surprise -- it rocked me to the very core, and once it got there, it chipped away at my cynicism. La.

I think it must have been something in the almond croissants.

Speaking of which, I've never eaten so much (or so well) in my life. Macaroons, crepes, croissants, quiche, you name it.

I was even brave enough to try frog legs (how Anthony Bourdain of me!) and escargot, the latter which Raya decided to record.

It's probably the funniest video of me that exists, right up there with the home video of me singing way off-key in the bathtub, circa 1993, with Seuss-like soap structures on my head.

But this is better, mostly because I'm fully-clothed. And because I'm struggling with a dead snail. I mean, seriously.

....

Also, I heard this song on the radio while I was there. It seems very post-appropriate, n'est pas?

De Viaje: Paris

2009-12-04T00:30:00.002+01:00

(photo via Neely O'Hara)

"Have you been to Paris?"

"No."

"You -- you would love it there."

"I wish I could, but I can't right now. I can't afford it and my life is so..."

"You are making excuses."

"Err, no, it's just that..."

"Stop making excuses. Just buy a ticket and GO!"

He then told me that the last time he went to Paris he would wake up early, leave his hotel room and walk until he got lost. Armed with his camera, he walked, smelled and saw the real Paris, with all of its quarters and street vendors. He knew where his hotel was by just looking at the Eiffel Tower, so finding his way back wasn't so hard.

"I will never forget those mornings in Paris."

This week has been crazy, but as I desperately try to meet my deadline and juggle school and work, I find it comforting to know that I am thisclose to getting to Friday and someday, to Paris, where I too will get lost and find my way back again.

....

I wrote that on Feb. 12, 2008, back when I was a funny thing called a college student and "he" was my amazing film professor. It was a conversation I often replayed in my head during those long miserable nights and frantic last-minute trips to the library. Paris became my own personal promised land, which is why I can't believe I'm finally going... in a couple of hours.

I don't really have an itinerary but I do plan on ordering a croque monsieur (just because) and eating my body weight in crepes and macaroons. I'll walk it all off at the Louvre or Musee d'Orsay.

Please cross your fingers that all ze francais I learned au le lycee will retournee, or something like that because while I studied French for three years, it is comme ci, comme ça.

The weirdest two minutes of my life

2009-11-30T20:01:00.001+01:00

Charlie and I were completely lost in conversation on the bus ride back to work. It was raining and God knows what we were talking about when all of a sudden a guy sitting ahead of us leapt to the empty seat on the left and spun around to face us.

"So what brings you to Spain?" he asked, with his elbow propped up on the seat and his hand behind his head. I think he was going for "suave" but it just came across as CREEPY. Before we could respond, he pointed at Charlie and said, "You're British." It was all so abrupt and strange that she didn't have the time to process and respond. "And you're American," he said, pointing at me.

The people around us stared. He obviously overheard us speaking English and thought it would be a good idea to introduce himself. I admire a man who takes the initiative but COME ON. There are ways to do this without making a girl feel uneasy (or reach for the pepper spray).

I gathered my wits and told him we taught English at a nearby elementary school (vague, but still an answer). He said he taught as well and that he was an exchange student. To be honest, I don't remember much of what he said after that because my internal thoughts were OMG THIS IS REALLY WEIRD.

Then the bus came to a stop, he quickly said goodbye and got off, leaving us completely stupefied.

It reminded me of the time I was chatting with Erin in a corner of a crowded El Mercado de San Miguel when a bartender walked up to us, asked if we were American and then offered us free drinks because he said he was bored (I kid you not).

Speaking English in Spain? It's sure to get you noticed.

(photo via Bears!)

Barcelona: It's not you, it's me

2009-11-26T15:05:00.000+01:00

I loved Barcelona. I tried paella and cava for the first time, which is stronger than you would think or maybe I'm just a "very cheap date," like Sarah said.

The palm trees reminded me of LA.

I saw what I had to see. As expected, Gaudi blew me away.

I also had an awesome ~~partner in crime~~ tour guide who thought it would be a good idea to search for a movie theater in the middle of nowhere just so we could watch "New Moon" in English. After an hour of wandering around and asking for directions, we found it and laughed throughout the entire thing, earning the silent wrath of everyone around us. (Glittery vampires are funny. So is crap acting. End of story.)

The rooftop of Casa Batlló, my favorite Gaudi building.

Looking out to Passeig de Gràcia during the audio tour.

I haven't finished uploading all my pictures yet but here are a few.

I bet you if I had a Mini, I would never miss a flight.

I spent my last few hours in Barcelona at this place. It's in Barri Gòtic, the city's Gothic quarter (think dark, narrow and winding streets). Order the chai tea with Baileys. You'll thank me later.

We all need happy pills, every now and then.

I bought this Banksy tote bag in a store near Park Güell. CINCO EUROS, PEOPLE. I love me some cheap Banksy. I used it to carry all the stuff that didn't fit in my bag.

....

So Barcelona was great and I had a lot of fun BUT...

There's always a but.

I've spent the last couple of days formulating an opinion about Barcelona and I've come to the conclusion that it is a beautiful cosmopolitan city I could never live in.

Queeeeeee, you say? Estas loca! Maybe. But venturing up north was really eye-opening, in many ways. It made me realize just how traditional Madrid really is. I like traditional.

You know what else I like? I like it when waiters at restaurants reply to me in Spanish when I order in Spanish. (I'm looking at you, waiter at Les Quinze Nits who replied in English to my Spanish, repeatedly. SERIOUSLY? IS MY SPANISH NOT SPANISH ENOUGH FOR YOU? OR IS IT BECAUSE I DON'T SPEAK CATALAN? AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE KITCHEN CLOSES IN FIVE MINUTES SO WE HAVE TO ORDER NOW?)

Ahem, moving on.

There were moments when riding the metro that I felt like I had stepped into a dark, post-apocalyptic world. It didn't feel like I was in Spain.

As much as I loved it, I kept glancing at my watch on Sunday night. I was aching to get back to Madrid. When I was roused by the pilot who said we would be landing in 10 minutes, I was so happy. I was going home, to the non-scary metro!

The following day, I was waiting for the train home when a woman approached me. I took out my ear buds. She was lost and needed to get to Diego de Leon (Line 6). I told her how to get there from Line 1. As she walked away, I wondered why -- out of all the other people standing on the platform, not listening to music -- she asked me for directions.

I think it's starting to happen. I'm being mistaken for a Madrileña.

You had to be there

2009-11-23T15:15:00.000+01:00

In a dark room in Vilafranca del Penedès. It is 1 a.m.

Stephanie: I'm cold.
Raisa: [Mumbles, shuffles out of bed and turns on the lights]

A minute passes.

Raisa appears at the foot of Stephanie's bed, struggling to unfold a thick Jacquard- woven fabric.

Stephanie: [squinting] That's a...curtain.

[There is a pause]

Raisa: [Blinks a couple of times]

[Uproarious laughter]

END SCENE.

Planes, trains and Gaudi

2009-11-21T00:22:00.000+01:00

I missed my flight to Barcelona yesterday. It wasn't anyone's fault, really. I was on time but the metro ran late that morning. As it turns out, five minutes can make a huge difference. I arrived at the gate as the plane was pulling away.

It happens.

Out of the handful of people who also missed the 7 a.m. flight, I was the only one who didn't get hysterical or raise her voice. I think I just sighed, freaked out for a second and then asked, "When's the next flight?"

Being calm and polite worked wonders on the Vueling employees. They asked me where I was from ("your last name is SO Spanish!") and gave me tips on how to get to the airport for a morning flight (take a taxi). One of them even wrote my boarding pass, by hand.

While I waited for my flight, I took some pictures of Terminal 4 at Barajas.

As soon as I got there (30-minute flight!), Raya took me to the 9th floor of El Corte Ingles for lunch and the breathtaking panoramic view of the city.

Even with most of the morning lost, I saw Sagrada Familia, Casa Milà, Plaza Catalunya, Plaza España (all the pretty fountains!) and Casa Batlló.

Riding the lift was the best part.

Today? Park Güell and Las Ramblas.

De viaje: Barcelona

2009-11-19T01:31:00.000+01:00

I'm spending the weekend in Barcelona. I haven't left Madrid since I got here so it will be nice to be a tourist again. I'm really looking forward to Gaudi, Las Ramblas, paella and the Mediterranean. I don't care how cold it is, I'm going in for a swim.

I'm also excited to see Raya! One of my oldest friends (4th grade, people!), she's the happiest, most sane person I know who gives me giggle fits. The kind where I can't breathe and someone better hold me or else I'M GOING DOWN.

I have 72 hours to see as much as I can. There won't be much sleeping but that's what caffeine is for, right?

p.s. It's going to be hard to walk around the city without at least humming this tune.

(photo via Movie of the Week)

I don't need a Nikon. I have an Erin.

2009-11-18T06:53:00.000+01:00

"Don't move."

I froze by the antique mirrors.

Erin adjusted her lens and took the picture.

I love having photography crazy friends because I'm that person who takes pictures and never uploads them.

Luckily for me, I have Erin and her fancy shmancy camera, which she brought to El Rastro on Sunday. She kept apologizing for trailing behind or waiting for the perfect shot.

I had a Dorian Gray connection with this painting. The grumpy old man selling it knocked the price down to 20 euros but the voice of reason told me to walk away. I thought about how my sister would feel about having to haul this back to the States. You're welcome, Jen.

At least I have a picture of it.

(photos by the lovely Erin Birney, who by the way fellas, looks a LOT like Kirsten Dunst. A single, drug-free Kirsten Dunst)

The Metro Striptease

2009-11-15T13:30:00.000+01:00

There is something truly wondrous about El Rastro before 10 a.m. Stray dogs run about the cobblestone streets as vendors set up their stands for another Sunday. Old men step outside for the day's first cigarette and for some fresh air, which already smells of leather.

But pretty soon, the place is filled with tourists, which is why I left earlier than usual this morning because finding particular stands is a lot harder when you're being elbowed/pushed/trampled.

The metro was pretty empty and I was sleepy but excited about the day ahead. I sat down next to two men, who were speaking English (my guess was that they were Scottish).

At Callao, three men boarded the train. They looked funny. Pretty soon I realized they were drunk. Let me remind you that it was around 9 a.m.

Now, I've dealt with drunks and with metro crazies (I rode the metro on Halloween night), but nothing could've prepared me for what happened next.

One of the men was clearly more drunk than the others. He refused to sit down and he started clapping. Everyone looked at him in disgust or with annoyance. I didn't look at him. I picked a spot on the floor and stared at it. I was only two stops away from La Latina. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

But then he started stripping. RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME.

He took off his sweater, swung it a couple of times above his head and let it fall to the ground. He did the same with his shirt. And then he went for his belt.

If he pulls down his pants, I thought, I could easily kick him in the gnads.

Everyone looked on, horrified. I felt everyone staring at me. Part of me wanted to laugh and part of me wanted to die. I kept staring at the floor.

I had two options: I could get up and walk to the door (and give him the satisfaction of knowing he had made me uncomfortable) or ignore, ignore, ignore!

I chose the latter.

The next thing you know, there's a shirtless guy thrusting his pelvis in my direction, roaring and about to fall down. The men next to me shifted uncomfortably in their seats. His friends asked him to sit down and behave. Instead, he started swinging from the handrail and set off a sensor.

As soon as we reached La Latina, I made a beeline for the door. The Scottish men were right behind me.

"It's too early for some people," I said over my shoulder, as the train came to a stop.

"No kidding."

Roommates

2009-11-14T18:21:00.001+01:00

(photo via songbirds)

I spent most of today wandering around IKEA with Eli. We seemed to forget that we were riding the metro home so we kept throwing things into the cart. Wine glasses! Salad utensils! Pillows! A brand new down comforter! A full-length mirror!

Oh yes we did.

We bought all of that (and MORE) and managed not to break/lose anything on the metro. But the walk from IKEA to the metro stop was a slow one, because Eli was sore from this morning's run.

Amateur.

On the metro, we sat across each other to protect our Swedish goods. We spent the entire ride complaining of hunger and catching yawns from one another.

....

I remember thinking during my flight to Madrid, what if we don't get along? What if she's weird? I was so tired and nervous when I arrived at Barajas that rainy afternoon, scanning the faces at the gate, looking for someone -- who exactly, I didn't know. I was wearing my blue coat and a scarf, just like I said I would. A girl stared at me long and hard. I thought it was her, until she looked away. Sorry, wrong stranger.

And then I saw a piece of paper with my name on it and the dark-haired girl holding it looked at me and I just knew. I waved and smiled. So did she.

As brain dead as I was, I noticed how surprised she looked. I asked her why a couple of nights later, when we'd stay up until 2 a.m. sharing our life stories with nothing but the light from a reading lamp to illuminate our faces.

She said she was expecting someone entirely different.

"What do you mean, different?"

"You know, like those girls from LA. Paris Hilton, dog-carrying types."

"Ah."

Momma told me there'd be days like this

2009-11-12T22:11:00.000+01:00

(photo via Siebe)

This week was the week from hell, plain and simple. Everything that could've gone wrong, went wrong. To keep a long story short, it involved a field trip gone awry, my first blackout and real bout of insomnia (seriously insomniacs, HOW DO YOU LIVE?). I also worked really late, which led to missing buses and climbing hillsides in the dark to get to the main road. It was so dark I had to use my cellphone to see the bus schedule. I wanteth adventure, Spain giveth.

So when I finally came home today and I saw an Anthropologie package on my bed, I ripped that baby open and slipped into my new dress. That has pockets. And I pranced around the apartment. And then I twittered about it:

And then I opened Photo Booth and stood far enough to take a decent picture and emailed it to my sister.

Just in case you were wondering, this is what it's like to be a girl -- kind of (see: myometrial contractions).

....

I started working on a post earlier today about the hellish week, teaching and the kids, but as I'm typing this I'm eating Carrefour-bought chocolate in my pajamas and so relieved that tomorrow is Friday because do you know what that means? Sleeping in, waking up lazily around noon, throwing on some clothes and going out for brunch. Kids? What kids?

(p.s. I blogged for EuroCheapo again. I should mention I had swine flu at the time. I will never forget when I woke up that morning, still feverish, and thought, I have to write today. I'm proud of me too.)

Transit theory

2009-11-09T11:54:00.000+01:00

(photo via Like Neely O'Hara)

I've been up for the past two hours because I couldn't sleep. My alarm just went off which was really surreal. I just stared at it and laughed.

Ever since I arrived in Madrid, I've been keeping a list of all the things I miss about LA. I never thought I'd miss it, but there's a rapidly growing list that proves otherwise.

I miss the clicking of my sister's heels in the hallway, usually followed by a knock at my door. My mother's laugh. My father's furrowed brow that appears only when he's wearing his glasses. Burgers from In 'N' Out. The Sunday LAT. Monday night television. My bed, the same one I've slept in since I was six years old. Wearing only one layer of clothing. DVR-ing "Say Yes to the Dress" and "What Not to Wear." Eating Chinese take-out with Jen on the couch, while watching said shows. Being behind the wheel of my car and driving down the 5 with the windows down, zooming past LA's landscape of palm trees and power lines. KCRW's Morning Becomes Eclectic. I miss that California light, the best light there is. My yellow room filled with books and the creaking of floorboards under my bare feet. I really miss waking up in that room.

Lucas told me the other day his theory about foreigners and traveling. He said that once you live somewhere else, you'll never quite be home again. I asked him to explain this rather grim theory of his. He used me as an example. "When you're here, you're constantly talking about how it is back home. But when you go back home, you'll talk about how life is in Spain. You'll always be in transit."

I wonder if Lucas has seen "Garden State."

The perks of having a British co-worker

2009-11-08T19:06:00.000+01:00

Charlie told me I should check out Michael McIntyre if I liked British humor. I spent most of Friday night wiping tears from my face.

(Also, Charlie's boyfriend Sam brought me Jaffa Cakes and Marmite from London. He's definitely a keeper, that boy.)

Table for one

2009-11-06T14:50:00.000+01:00

I've been feeling odd lately. There is a distinct difference between pre-Swine flu me and post-Swine flu me. Maybe it was being so far away from home that brought on the homesickness and living abroad blues. Or the sudden decrease in temperature. I'm trying my best to shake it off but it's really hard when it's 12 degrees Celsius in Madrid and 70 degrees Fahrenheit in LA.

So after picking up my NIE yesterday (My friend Erin says I look very Tina Fey-ish in my picture. I hope airport guards won't be disappointed when they see me in the flesh. Y TUS LENTES?!) I headed over to Living in London for some quiet alone time.

Living in London is a small tea house that is a couple of blocks away from my apartment. Yes, it's the kind of darling place your grandmother would like but the wallpaper, cushions and peonies in the window truly make it a cheery and cozy place. The only thing missing is a working fireplace. Maybe even a Colin Firth doppelganger waiter, but I'll leave that for management to decide.

I was unaware of it existence until Debbie made the terrible decision to take me there last week. I say terrible because among the many amazing things on the menu, they have scones with clotted cream and jam and... CADBURY HOT CHOCOLATE. IN A GIANT MUG AS BIG AS YOUR FACE. TOPPED WITH WHIPPED CREAM AND SPRINKLES.

I KNOW. TERRIBLE.

I was the only person sitting there alone. I read my book, did some writing, stuffed my face with finger sandwiches, scones and a side of quality eavesdropping (the pregnant Spanish businesswoman next to me jumped from petrol to fashion and then back to petrol).

It was just what I needed. I also cooked a three-course meal yesterday and nearly burned down the apartment, but that's a whole other post.

UPDATES:
- I'm going to Barcelona in two weeks and I'll be in Paris the first weekend in December. Any suggestions are welcome!

- The Sartorialist is coming to Madrid! I'm definitely going but I don't know what to wear...

- I had my first Guinness in Las Ventas during Oktoberfest last week. It was really frothy and just as filling as a proper meal.

In fact, when this picture was taken, I think I was suppressing a burp.

(photos courtesy of my favorite Finnish person, Johanna)

Oh Lolina, Lolina

2009-10-26T15:28:00.000+01:00

During the time I was sick I kept thinking about where I'd go as soon as I felt better. Only one place came to mind: Lolina!*

I decided to take one more day off (I'll go back to work tomorrow, I swear) and just the thought of coming here today made me so happy. Yeah, they didn't have the quiche I love but I'll take what I can get.

What I like the most about this place is that it doesn't feel like I'm in Madrid. Lolina is in an artsy, edgy neighborhood that must be like Madrid's Silver Lake. The cafe is filled with mismatching vintage furniture of different colors and sizes. I'm sitting in a mustard yellow chair that was last upholstered in the 70s and the table is a small, round bedside table with a paper doll design.

There's a green tasseled lamp in the corner that looks like it was snatched from the set of "Amelie." I'm beginning to wonder if there's a rule that in order to work here, you need to have an awesome pixie cut or bob.

I tend to order the sobresasada with brie and honey, which is just as amazing as it sounds. Oh and the sweet ginger peach tea! Heaven in a teacup.

There's also a flower shop next door. And free wi-fi.

So yeah, on the cuteness scale, Lolina is somewhere in between Zooey Deschanel and kittens.

To get here: Exit Metro Noviciado and walk up Calle Espiritu Santo.

*special thanks to Erin from Kansas, who introduced me to this place!

(photos courtesy of Lolina)

Let's do this again sometime, Fall

2009-10-25T13:19:00.000+01:00

This picture was taken by Raya at El Retiro when she came to visit me two weeks ago. Fall was in full swing and the trees were ablaze in orange and red.

Come to Madrid in the fall. Trust me, it's perfect.

....

About my health, I'm still alive! I'm feeling so much better but I haven't left my apartment in three days. I can't wait to go outside.

While you're here, I think you should go read Destined to Design and La Bonne Merde. I went to middle school AND high school with Jessica (Destined to Design) and she's always had a great eye for detail. She's a designer now, which makes perfect sense.

Cara (La Bonne Merde) is teaching English in France. We met as interns at LA Magazine where we took long lunches and talked and worried about writing for a living. She's kind of crazy. I like her.

Oink!

2009-10-23T20:21:00.001+02:00

So... I know, I know. I've been a bad blogger. My sister would email me and ask HEY! WHAT ABOUT THAT BLOG OF YOURS? My first excuse was a very legitimate one: I Don't Have Internet. But once internet was set up in my apartment, my excuse became: I'm Too Busy Having Fun in Spain.

What? Why are you laughing? It's true! I know that back home, I was a bit of a homebody but for the first two weeks I went out every night. EVERY NIGHT. It was exhausting (all that walking!) but it was a lot of fun. After every night out I would say to myself, I should blog about this. But I never did. So I promise to update you all on the fun that has been had. But here is some video proof for now.

EXHIBIT A: Tequila shots at Taqueria del Alamillo, a Mexican restaurant in Madrid.

I love this video because it a) shows how awesome my roommate Eli is and b) it was shot four days before I became deathly ill with... SWINE FLU.

That's right. A month after moving to Spain I got swine flu. I've downplayed the severity of my condition to my friends and family but it's been pretty scary.

As you may remember, I teach English at a primary school in Las Rozas. On Thursday, I heard rumors (mainly from the kids) about a swine flu outbreak at school. Half of a first-grade class was home sick with the virus. Several teachers, including my supervisor, were also sick.

I wasn't too concerned until I developed a mysterious dry cough a couple of hours later. I joked to my friend Charlie (Charlotte from London) that I probably had swine flu.

"I DON'T WANT TO DIEEEEEE," I said in between coughs on our bus ride to Heron City, where we found a swanky Italian restaurant and had pizza for lunch. It was pretty windy that day and it was supposed to rain, so I wore a coat, scarf, gloves and rainboots. Of course it didn't rain, so I looked ridiculous.

But then things took a turn for the worse during my afternoon classes. I started to feel hot and very tired. I hadn't had a fever since middle school so I was taken aback. WHAT IS THIS FEELING? The other English teacher looked at me and told me I didn't look so good and said I should have my temperature taken. As soon as I walked in to the administration office, everyone looked at me and the look on their faces was of OH NO, NOT ANOTHER ONE. They took out the thermometer and I was running a mild fever of 37.5 degrees C. They sent me home. I texted my roommate on the bus ride home that I might have Gripe A, which is what the Spanish are calling swine flu. She told me to pick up some masks on the way home, which I did.

I went to urgent care the next morning (hooray for health insurance!) and all I can say is that I am so grateful that I can speak Spanish. I was able to explain what my symptoms were to the Spanish Dr. Bailey who I'm pretty sure didn't like me. She led me in to her office, a sad blue room with a desk, the kind of desk which witnesses the deliverance of bad news. TAKE ALL OF THAT OFF! she motioned to my coat and scarf. PUT IT ON RIGHT! she said, referring to the mask I was given. A nurse came in and took my temperature. 38.3! She took me away into a small curtained room and gave me warm water and a tablet. I gagged. She then brought out a syringe and just when I was about to ask her WHOA, WHAT'S THAT FOR? her cell phone went off and she picked it up AS SHE SEARCHED MY ARM FOR A VEIN. I panicked. Was she really going to have a phone conversation? Fortunately, she told the person on the other end that she'd call them later. I asked her what the injection was for and she said it would bring my fever down.

This is the part where I should be completely honest. Sitting behind that curtain in a foreign hospital, made me terribly homesick. And scared. I was a 22-year old who wanted her mom, badly. I wanted someone to hold my hand.

After the injection of the medication, she drew some blood and inserted a tube with a valve into my arm and taped it down. She said that if my fever wouldn't go down it would be much easier to administer medication.

I was then whisked away by a lively male nurse for X-rays. So there I was, walking around this hospital with a face mask and a strange contraption taped to my arm. Passersby averted their eyes. In the X-ray waiting room, people preferred to stand then to sit next to me. I WAS DISEASED! As I waited, my glasses would fog up because of the mask so I had to take them off. DISEASED! AND BLIND! Finally, the x-rays were done in about 20 seconds, which made me wonder if I had been exposed to lethal amounts of radiation and like a true American I began to ponder SUING THEIR SPANISH ASSES. Sense of humor? Still intact.

All the seats were taken in the urgent care waiting room and just as I was about to lean against the wall, a kind woman got up and offered me her seat. I was so overwhelmed by this random act of kindness that I wanted to cry. I MUST look awful, I thought.

Sitting next to me was a boy who was also wearing a mask. We looked at each other as if saying, I know EXACTLY how you feel. I felt better knowing that I wasn't the only DISEASED! person there. I was Swine Flu Girl and he was Swine Flu Boy and everyone in the waiting room couldn't stop staring at us.

I was finally taken back inside to see the Spanish Dr. Bailey in her blue office and my X-rays and blood test results were on the desk. I got nervous. She said everything looked normal and that it was just the flu. JUST THE FLU?! I asked her if it was Gripe A. She didn't confirm or deny it, which I found unnerving. I told her, again, that I rarely get fevers and that I had a cold three weeks ago. She said, "Well, fevers are the main symptom of Gripe A..." I asked her if there was a test I could take that would confirm if I had the virus or not. She said government officials had ordered hospitals to only administer the test to those who were at risk: the elderly, children and those with respiratory problems. She told me not to worry but to stay home for a couple of days and to drink plenty of water. She prescribed some paracetamol and ibuprofen and sent me on my way.

Once at home, I was feeling better until I started feeling hot again. I took my temperature. 39 DEGREES CELSIUS. A quick Google search revealed that was 102.2 degrees Fahrenheit. I jumped in the shower. This time, I did cry. How could this be just a normal flu? I took my temperature again after the shower and it was still at 39 degrees. I panicked. I called my friend Debbie, who calmed me down and her fiancé Lucas assured me I wasn't going to die. But it was very hard to calm down. I was pretty sure I was going to die and the news headline would read: American Dies of Swine Flu in Spain.

My roommate finally came home and after one look at me, she sent me to bed and went into Clara Barton mode. Wearing a mask and gloves, she came into my room with a bucket of cold water and a towel. She placed the towel on my forehead but had to soak it again in water because I was so hot that the towel would dry up. She did this for about an hour until my temperature went down to 37.5 degrees. I don't remember much but I fell asleep and didn't wake up until noon.

I'm feeling much better, now that my fever is gone. All that's left is a runny nose and an awful cough. The injection site has turned an ugly bluish purple. I'm not allowed outside until Monday. I spent most of today catching up on my American TV shows and I finally watched "Annie Hall," which I loved.

I had the weirdest dream last night that I had flown home to LA to visit my family but couldn't fly back to Spain for whatever reason.

When I woke up, I realized that no matter how much I grow to love Spain, it's not quite home.

I'm finally here

2009-09-18T14:21:00.000+02:00

This morning I woke up at 2 a.m. to the sound of rain falling against my window. In the darkness, it took me a couple of seconds to figure out where I was.

I'm in my new room. In Madrid.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't homesick and overwhelmed. I miss my family, friends and LA, not to mention the ability to check my email whenever I want (I'm at an internet cafe near my apartment).

Things have gone smoothly so far. My flight was horribly long but my flatmate and two of her friends picked me up at the airport, which was comforting. I can't imagine what I'd do without her. She has become my tour guide and friend.

It rained all day yesterday and it was FREEZING, well, at least for this California girl. Fortunately, the sun came out today and Madrid looks beautiful. I'm not sure why, but it reminds me a bit of Mexico. Everyone here is well-dressed but I guess that might be because this is Europe, after all.

(update)

I don´t have much access to the Internet so I´m going I-N-S-A-N-E. But once that´s sorted, I will post more often.

Adios, Los Angeles

2009-09-16T21:00:00.000+02:00

If you're reading this, I'm probably thousands of feet above LA, en route to Madrid via Toronto. I'll let you know if there is any hand-holding.

See you on the other side of the Atlantic!

p.s. I really hope nothing happens to my luggage because my carry-on suitcase is filled entirely with shoes.

(photo via Like Neely O'Hara)

The hardest part

2009-09-16T06:52:00.000+02:00

It's my last night in LA and I'm having trouble saying goodbye. My co-workers saw me off with a potluck on Friday and as much as I told myself to keep it together, I kept doing this whenever someone hugged me or so much as looked in my direction:

It was my first job and it was a great one. I never felt like an employee, but more like a college kid who was adopted by a fun (and at times, wacky) family. I'm going to miss talking with my boss about anything and his coffee mug filled with chocolate. I learned so much from my co-workers and I think it will be hard to find another workplace that is just as creative and nurturing. I was lucky.

....

I've been so busy packing and making sure I don't forget anything that I haven't had time to sit down and breathe. These last days have been a blur.

Nancy and Karol came over last night with a journal (which I'm not allowed to read until I'm in seat 24A) filled with goodbyes and remember whens, or so I was told. (I haven't peeked, you guys!)

Climbing over suitcases, with my hair up in a messy bun and wearing mismatching pajamas, I looked exactly like someone who's moving to another country in less than 48 hours. They didn't care. They just wanted to see me for five minutes.

....

We're finally a complete family again and I'm leaving. Gathered at the dinner table, I scan their faces, with my heart in my throat. I'm afraid of what I'll miss while I'm gone.

We practice Skyping from different rooms and make funny faces. I think, this will make it better. It will be fine.

But then it's time to hang up and I'm not so sure.

(photo via Melecwi)

Packing frenzy update

2009-09-15T02:37:00.000+02:00

I'm in the middle of packing (where did all these clothes come from?!) but I wanted to let you know that I blogged for EuroCheapo about moving to Madrid. I still can't believe I'm doing this. It's so surreal.

I will be back as soon as I've decided which shoes to pack. Very tricky.

(photo via Unicornology)

A proper introduction

2009-09-06T01:55:00.000+02:00

Allo there! If you're not a personal friend or family member I'm a) glad you're here, b) sorry about the recent whiny, freakouts and c) I will do my best to keep it together over here.

I'm not going to get all David Copperfield on you guys, but here are the basics:

1. I'm a writer. I've written for the LA Times and Los Angeles magazine. It's a crazy life that doesn't pay well but it keeps me sane and happy. For a long time, I wanted to be a nurse, but that plan was foiled as soon as I realized how squirmish I was around bodily fluids. And all that math in college! No gracias.

2. I'm addicted to Twitter and inspired by Tumblr. I spend too much money on concerts and books. But it could be worse.

3. Speaking of concerts, I saw Coldplay twice this year because I'm the biggest Coldplay fan on the planet. I plan on seeing them until Chris Martin can no longer jump around like a madman on account of a fractured hip.

4. As you can tell, I love cupcakes (or anything with the word "cake" as a suffix). I don't care much for beer. Red wine on the other hand... I hate onions. HAAAAAAATE. I CANNOT EMPHASIZE THIS ENOUGH. WHY ARE THEY IN EVERYTHING? Now cheese? Cheese should be in absolutely everything.

5. I'm half-Mexican and half-Salvadoran, although no one ever believes me. (Ask me about the Getty security guard story. It's a good one).

6. And why am I moving to Spain? Because "Live in another country" is on my List, you know that list of things to do before you die. And since my life is no longer divided into semesters, I could use a change of pace and scenery.

Any questions? Ask me anything! Unless you want to know what I'm wearing right now. You weirdo.

Two Weeks Notice

2009-09-05T04:35:00.000+02:00

Remember when I said I was worried about not worrying? Well my friends, there's no need to worry about that anymore! Because two days ago, while I was looking over my Gmail calendar, it happened. At my desk. At work. THE TIMING, LET ME TELL YA.

I was completely blindsided by a headache the size of Brazil and I felt dizzy. For a second I thought, It's the fires! The smoke! Yes, that's it! But then my limbs felt numb and I wanted to throw up.

(I didn't, but eww, let's move on, shall we?)

So what was it that finally triggered my delayed sense of panic? It was this little square of DOOM.

It looks so small and harmless, right? September 16 at 11:45 a.m., Leave for Madrid. FACT.

I knew it was there all along, but for a very long time, I would have to click several months ahead to even reach September.

September 16 and I were separated by many rows and columns of time, and I liked it that way.

But this week, all that changed. September 16 is less than two weeks away. My days in LA are numbered, and I'm happy and sad--happy that it's here and sad that I have to leave.

I already miss everyone.

(photo via Unicornology)

This fire is out of control

2009-09-01T00:58:00.001+02:00

Time Lapse Test: Station Fire from Eric Spiegelman on Vimeo.

Just in case you haven't heard the news, Los Angeles is burning again. I thought the last fire was pretty bad. But with the 105,000 acres burned, this is the largest fire in county history since 1897. There's no containment in sight for at least another two weeks.

Although I live 20 minutes away from the fire, it's still very scary. I was at a red light on Sunday afternoon as I watched a fire cloud mushroom up ahead. It was like driving towards an erupting volcano. There was ash and smoke everywhere. A giant hose dangled from a helicopter as it thundered towards the hills.

For more pictures of the fire cloud (or "pyrocumulus" if you want to get really fancy), LA Observed has some really stunning shots.

And of course, there's Death Cab for Cutie's "Grapevine Fires," a song inspired by the 2007 wildfires.

It's hard to think I'll be watching LA's next brush fire from afar.

T-Minus 18 Days

2009-08-29T00:37:00.000+02:00

Can you believe it? 18 days! That’s 432 hours and before I figure out how many minutes and seconds that is I’m going to stop right there.

But seriously. EIGHTEEN DAYS.

EIGHTEEN. And even so, I am as calm as a painting of a sailboat against a perfectly blue sky on a morning beatific in its Indian summer breeze.*

And to be honest, it’s kind of annoying.

I’m worried about my lack of worrying because I’m a born worrier. And here I am, worrying about not worrying.

Sure, I’m nervous but it’s the normal amount. Like visiting the dentist nervous. I keep waiting for the full-blown Panic Meltdown of 2009, that I’m sure WILL come, when my family will find me in fetal position on the floor, clutching a Space Bag. But when?

Because really, if I’m going to worry, I should worry now, 18 days ahead of time. My biggest fear is that I won’t be able to keep it together when I realize that I’m flying across the Atlantic, all by myself, to live in a country that doesn’t have Dr Pepper and OMG WHAT HAVE I DONE? TURN THE PLANE AROUND! I WANT MY MUM.

And so then I’ll be crying with my head against the window (I’m a window seat kind of person), stifling sobs and the perfectly normal stranger sitting next to me will look up from his/her Sudoko puzzle and the next thing you know I’ve asked this stranger to hold my hand. For 14 hours.

That’s going to be awkward.

Maybe the reason that I’m not worrying is because I’ve done my to-do list like the good girl that I am.

A place to live? Check. My flight and visa? Check, check. Suitcases? I have three of them.

I think I might have to add “worry a little” to the list.

Or I could just watch "Taken."

*Ani DiFranco reference. I can has gold star?

(photo via NewMensch)

I get my dry cleaning done at the local precinct. You?

2009-08-27T04:28:00.001+02:00

The small Asian lady's eyes grew larger as she counted my coats, one by one. Pretty soon, the counter was no longer visible underneath the heap of coats, jackets and the two dresses I had managed to carry from my car to the dry cleaners, in one trip. I clearly have a problem.

"You don't need any of these here," she muttered.

"I'm moving!" I said quickly, so she would stop looking at me like girl-you-crazy-you-live-in-LA-why-so-many-coats? (Internet, she was looking at me like THAT)

She peered out at me from above her gold-rimmed glasses. "Where?"

"I'm moving to Spain. It snows there." I couldn't believe I was giving the dry cleaning woman an explanation.

"Spaaaaaaaaain?" she said, like someone practicing scales on a xylophone.

She punched away at her calculator, said something about a discount and somehow still charged me a small fortune.

She handed me my ticket and asked if I was coming back to LA.

"Yes."

She nodded and turned around to the rows of clothes, immaculately pressed, veiled in plastic. I don't think she believed me.

(photo via Unicornology)

I CAN HAS SHELTER!

2009-08-20T04:02:00.001+02:00

As of Sunday morning, I have a place to live in Madrid! It's the Chamberi apartment I was considering in the first place (funny how things work out that way). My roommate offered to pick me up at the airport, which warms the cockles of my heart, considering we have no idea what we look like. Maybe she can hold up a sign like they do in the movies. Or I can wear something outrageously bright, like my yellow coat that makes me look like the Morton salt girl. I need to give this some more thought, you know, explore my options.

....

While I was apartment searching, I remembered what happened to a friend of mine and her traveling companion when they went backpacking across Europe a couple of summers ago. All was going well until they ran out of money in France. The two of them were too proud to call home or contact friends so they spent the night in a train station... and slept on the floor. My friend said it was so cold that night that she cuddled up with the homeless man sleeping next to her.

I remember thinking then, man, that's so badass. But that romanticized notion of traveling can be dangerous, especially if you're traveling alone. So I'm extremely relieved that when I arrive, I'll have a place to stay. A roof over my head and indoor plumbing is all I need. Who says Angelenos are high maintenance?

(photo via Unicornology)

T-Minus 33 Days

2009-08-14T21:23:00.000+02:00

Chamberi, Madrid

I'm so glad it's Friday. I've been staying up most nights to Skype a potential roommate. She lives in Chamberi, a neighborhood in Madrid that is about 10 minutes away from the hustle and bustle of the center. She has an extra room in her flat, which is completely furnished. She's Columbian and doesn't speak any English... so I will be practicing my Spanish A LOT. And she wants me to make a decision by Monday!

It's really hard choosing a place to live in when you're not there to see for yourself. Not that I'm picky, but I AM claustrophobic and a little natural lighting never hurt anybody. And I really like trees. So I've been doing the next best thing: Google maps street view.

If it's the building I keep staring at, she lives across the street from a small restaurant. Perfect for some midnight snax. As soon as I get to see some pictures, I will seal the deal via Skype.

....

Never mind the fact that I haven't even started packing, but I need to get out.

Tonight, I'm meeting friends at someone's home (thanks friend of a friend for entrusting us with your fancy digs!) in the Hollywood Hills for an expat dinner. It's going to be really hard to say goodbye.

September 16

2009-08-11T02:52:00.000+02:00

Today was one of those days that if you asked me, "How was work today?" I would most definitely not say, "Fine." Because it was purely comical.

I woke up early to pick up my Visa at the Consulate. Once I had my Visa--which is essentially a fancy sticker in your passport--it all became... real.

So real in fact, that my mind decided it would be funny if it checked out for the day.

Funny as in, what if Stephanie can't find stuff? Like drafts of stuff she's written? Or a paragraph mysteriously disappears? She'll ask herself, "Did I not save it to my desktop? What was the file's name?" THAT WOULD BE FUNNY.

So after a great deal of searching and sighing, I had no other choice but to rewrite. As a writer, you have no idea how unnerving that is. Because I SWEAR, I NAILED IT THE FIRST TIME. I really did. I'd prove it to you, but I CAN'T.

The truth is, I've turned into a nostalgic, forgetful emo with the attention span of a parrot. Did I mention emo? And nostalgic?

I find myself looking around my room, wondering what will be different when I return. Surely, the calendar hanging on the wall will still be tacked to September 2009. Maybe I'll find the flip clock whirring slowly, from faithfully ticking off time all these months. Or maybe it will have sputtered to a stop sometime in December because the batteries died and no one was around to change them.

Driving home from work, I take off my sunglasses to remember it all--the way the sun sets behind the Santa Susana mountains, the blinding California light that I wish could be bottled to take with me as a carry-on.

This is why I can't find files.

(photo via Melecwi)

La Quinta Estacion

2009-08-08T05:31:00.000+02:00

So all this time, I thought La Quinta Estacion was from Mexico. They're actually from Spain.

In my defense, it was in Mexico where they got their big break.

Daría - La 5ta estacion
Uploaded by psyque. - See the latest featured music videos.

**They're going to be touring Spain in the fall, if the Spanish Ticketmaster site is to be believed. Get this, it's called Tick Tack Ticket. With a name like that, I'd *almost* overlook the outrageous service fees.

Ernie Loved Madrid

2009-08-06T16:43:00.001+02:00

Madrid 2008 from timelapses.tv on Vimeo.

"When you get to know Madrid it is the most Spanish of all cities, the best to live in, the finest people, month in and month out the finest climate and while the other big cities are all very representative of the province they are in, they are either Andalucian, Catalan, Basque, Aragonese, or otherwise provincial. It is in Madrid only that you get the essence. The essence, when it is the essence, can be in a plain glass bottle and you need no fancy labels, nor in Madrid do you need any national costumes; no matter what sort of building they put up, though the building itself may look like Buenos Aires, when you see it against the sky you know it is Madrid. If it had nothing else but the Prado it would be worth spending a month in every spring, if you have money to spend in any European capital. But when you can have the Prado and the bullfight season at the same time with El Escorial not two hours to the north and Toledo to the south, a fine road to Avila and a fine road to Segovia, which is no distance from La Granja, it makes you feel very badly, all question of immortality aside, to know that you will have to die and never see it again."

---Ernest Hemingway
From "Death In The Afternoon"

Profesora Stephanie

2009-08-06T04:27:00.000+02:00

As I fret about Visas and packing and what adaptor I need to buy for my laptop, it's easy to forget that once I get there I HAVE TO WORK. Wait, what? I thought this was a vacation!

There's always a catch. For 16 hours a week, I will be teaching English at this fine institution.

When I applied, I thought, how hard can it be? I speak English and Spanish. I just have to stand in front of a classroom and say things like "Repeat after me class, 'The monkey is in the tree.'"

But I've never taught in my life. I've never been a tutor. And I hate public speaking. This explains why I lay awake at night dreading the first day of school when, instead of being the bored, glassy-eyed student doodling in the margins, I will be the source of the boredom.

The good thing is that I will be teaching elementary school students who, I hope, are not old enough to have a 'tude.

I'm also hoping my students are impressed with the fact that I'm from LA, which means that I hang out with movie stars and that I'm awesome, obviously.

So if my capabilities are ever questioned I shall say, "Say kids, did I tell you about the time I broke bread with Shrek and went shopping with Hannah Montana? No?"

Teaching will be a piece of cake.

UPDATE: I found a video of my school. As it turns out, it's one of the best public schools in Madrid and the kids are so cute in their uniforms I COULD JUST DIE. Also, I think the women in the video will be my superiors... I think I should start working on a lesson plan.

Gratuitous Garden

2009-08-04T03:59:00.001+02:00

Except for the Huntington Library, there aren't many well-kept green spaces in LA. But even Pasadena's crown jewel can't compare to the 250-year-old Real Jardín Botánico in Madrid.

Located next to the Prado Museum, it's filled with trees, roses, daffodils, orchids, tulips and bonsais.

In other words, it's heaven.

Why do I get the feeling the falls in Madrid are colorfully spectacular? I'm bringing all my coats and scarves and hats, even if it means I have to wear them all on the plane.

It can be done, my friends. It can be done.

(photos via Real Jardin Botanico de Madrid)

You say billete, I say boleto

2009-07-31T20:27:00.000+02:00

I can't explain why, but last night I had this overwhelming urge to look for flights. And I struck gold: a $631 round trip flight to Madrid. I thought about it, especially the part about being told not to book flights until I had my Visa. But then I realized that the likelihood of finding a flight that cheap (again) was very low. I mulled it over and went searching for my credit card. I couldn’t find it. “This is a sign!” I thought. But then I found it and completely based on impulse and good faith, I booked my flight and picked my seats; all window seats.

I was taking a huge risk.

So imagine my surprise when after leafing through my application and documents, the cute soft-spoken guy at the Consulate looked up from behind the glass panel and asked, "Where's your flight information?" My stress levels began to rise to orange-red levels.

I told him that although I booked it the night before, I didn't have anything with me. I showed him the document that clearly stated, in bold, DO NOT BOOK YOUR FLIGHT UNTIL YOU HAVE A VISA. He looked at it, acknowledged it was from Spain, but that didn't matter.

He handed me back my application with some instructions: Make extra copies of this and that and bring back your flight information.

I looked at the long line behind me. "How much time do I have?" I asked.

"You have until 11," he said quietly, stoically.

He must have seen my eyes get all Bambi-like because he then told me that when I got back, I wouldn't have to wait in line again.

The ride down the elevator was a blur and suddenly, I was really breaking in my new boots pounding the pavement. It was 8 a.m. and the two copying places I came across were of course, closed. I finally found a place three blocks down with a computer lounge (YES!) and in less than five minutes, I was out the door and crossing my fingers.

When I walked in, my face was flushed and HOO BOY WAS I SWEATING. The line was even longer and I stood near the window, hoping the guy would make good on his promise. He saw me and half-smiled.

The Consulate occupies a small office on the 8th floor of a building on Wilshire Blvd. I drove past it a million times when I interned at Los Angeles magazine.

Catching my breath and fanning myself with a manila envelope, I began to notice all the things I missed before my Tasmanian Devil exit. The Spanish flag, the chocolate brown leather chairs and the flat screen TV playing the Spanish version of "Good Morning America." Nearby, a portrait of King Juan Carlos I and Queen Sophia hung on a wall.

Finally, it was my turn and after handing over several documents, copies and two pictures of myself, I triumphantly handed him my flight confirmation. I felt like Anne Hathaway's character from "The Devil Wears Prada" when she manages to get the unpublished Harry Potter manuscript. HA! TAKE THAT CUTE SPANISH BOY!

"Este es mi boleto electronico," I explained. "This is my electronic ticket."

"Un que?" he asked, leaning closer. "A what?"

I repeated myself. And that's when he smiled and apologized.

"Disculpa, solo escuche 'boleto,' nosotros lo llamamos 'billete,'" he said. "Pardon, all I heard was 'boleto.' We call it 'billete.'"

I laughed and didn't bother explaining that I speak MEXICAN.

He stamped my application and handed it back to me, with a smirk.

I think I'm starting to see why everyone teases me about returning home married or engaged. Those smirky Spanish boys.

A text message from a few minutes ago

2009-07-29T20:46:00.000+02:00

"I'm at work. News?!??"

"catafreakingluna!1!"

After months of waiting, Raya finally got the call this morning. She's going to Catalonia.

I couldn't be happier. I foresee many train rides to Barcelona in my near future.

UPDATE: She's been placed in Barcelona! My intuition is uncanny. I just realized that we have opposing soccer teams. REAL MADRID > FC BARCELONA!

There are terrorists in Spain, you know

2009-07-29T19:55:00.000+02:00

Before I was placed in Madrid, there was a very good chance I'd be packing my bags for Pais Vasco, or Basque Country. The possibility was an excuse for research. I was happy to hear it was a melting pot of cultures--like LA--and that the food was excellent. Also, the Guggenheim Museum is in Bilbao. Does it look familiar?

But then, I came across another aspect of Basque Country... the ETA, which stands for Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (Basque Homeland and Freedom). The ETA is a terrorist organization founded in 1959 that is operated by the Spanish and the French. In 2006, they bombed the Barajas Airport.

While their activity has lessened over the years, they're still very much active.

Yesterday's car bomb in Borgas is a reminder of that. So is this morning's explosion in Mallorca.

I'm not too worried. After all, I'll be in Madrid, far from most of the crazy. And if you think about it, there are terrorists everywhere. I could be living down the street from a White Supremacist group for all I know.

But let's not think about that.

(photo via BBC Mundo)

Things to Do

2009-07-28T08:52:00.000+02:00

I'm running out of time! It also doesn't help when friends and family (with good intentions) keep asking the same question: How's Spain?

I think Spain is doing just fine but *I am* a bit overwhelmed. Just a little.

So I've made a list (can you tell I'm fond of lists?) to keep me away from Xanax:

1. ~~Apply for Visa~~ 07.31.09
2. ~~Book flight~~ 07.30.09
3. Call my tax man
4. Call the bank
5. Cancel my cell phone service
6. ~~Cancel my gym membership~~
7. ~~Buy a bigger suitcase~~
8. ~~Find a place to stay/Hostel~~
9. $$$Save
10. PACK

Ahh, I feel better already.

(photo via Amy Harrity)

Shut up, Stephanie

2009-07-26T05:59:00.000+02:00

Moving to Madrid will probably be the most awesome thing to happen to me and yet, I've started to freak out. I'm fine and completely excited one minute, even watching "On The Road Again" and the next, I'm making lists, crunching numbers and contemplating the magnitude of what it means to move to another country.

And that's when I consider calling it off.

But then a voice inside my head says, "YOU'D BE INSANE IF YOU DID, MISSY." Sometimes, this voice has a southern twang to it. Other times, it sounds like Anthony Bourdain, with slightly more colorful language (Yes, there are voices implicated. You should be just as concerned as I am). So I've started reminding myself of all the great things that await in Spain, because there are many.

Here are a few:

1. Siestas. OF COURSE THIS IS AT THE TOP OF THE LIST. It's no secret that I love to sleep. But college (not to mention working two jobs and juggling a few internships in between) turned sleep into a rare luxury. Sometimes, I power napped in my car before class. Sad, isn't it? (I should add here that I graduated with honors, so the eye bags were worth it). But you see, in Spain, everything comes to a screeching halt for nap time. It's kind of a big deal. Businesses close because they WANT you to catch up on your beauty sleep. I don't want to let Spain down, so nap I will!

2. I can has paella? I'm really curious to try it. All I know is that it's a mixed rice dish that may or may not contain snails. I'll give the snails a try just as long as there aren't any traces of ~~the Devil's food~~ ONIONS.

3. Sangria. This needs no explanation.

4. Personal growth. Yeah, I know it sounds very self-helpish, but I need to be more self-reliant and independent. To me this means paying my own rent, catching trains, getting lost, homesickness, buying toothpaste, leaving the nest for one of my own and falling flat on my face. A good kick in the pants, just what every recent college graduate needs. It's all good.

5. Museums. Spain has quite a few of them, the most famous being The Prado, which has some Velázquezes, Goyas and Bosches. Also, admission is free if you're a student under the age of 25. And not too far from The Prado is the Museo Nacional de Arte Reina Sofia, which has Picasso's "Guernica." The art history geek in me will be very happy, methinks.

6. New amigos! When I land in Spain, I won't know a single person there. There will be no past history looming over my head, I won't be so and so's daughter, sister or friend. It will be just me and my suitcases. Nice to meet you too.

7. Barcelona. Besides the beaches, I'm really excited to learn more about Gaudi.

Casa Milà

8. Real Madrid games. Spanish soccer hooligans! Ronaldo! GOAAAAAAAL!

9. Visiting Malaga, where my great-grandfather was born. I probably have family still living there. But if I sought them out, it would be weird to show up on their doorstep, right? ("HOLA! I COME FROM AMERICA!") I just like the idea of coming full circle somehow.

But what am I looking forward to the most?

10. Parque del Buen Retiro ("The Good Retreat")

If I'm not working, I will surely be found here, taking a nap, reading, kite-flying, people-watching, painting, writing, daydreaming and exploring the less frequented parts of the park.

This will be my happy place.

The Spanish royals used to go to the park for Christmas and Easter during the 16th century. Later, King Philip III decided to build the Royal Gardens there.

And as if the park wasn't beautiful enough, there's also a Crystal Palace.

I half expect to bump into a unicorn.

La Oreja de Van Gogh

2009-07-22T05:19:00.000+02:00

I listened to this album nonstop in 2003, and this song ("Perdoname") was my favorite. La Oreja de Van Gogh just isn't the same without Amaia, even though her replacement looks and sounds just like her.

La Oreja de Van Gogh - Inmortal
Uploaded by Totenbot. - Watch more music videos, in HD!

La Oreja de Van Gogh: "Puedes contar conmigo" - kewego

Video de espafra

This one ("Puedes Contar Conmigo") is for Raisa, who designed this blog's lovely masthead. Thanks, Raya!

I wonder what new music I'm going to discover en España.

Everything I know about Madrid I learned from Shakira

2009-07-18T00:16:00.000+02:00

I don't think I have the stomach to attend a bullfight. Pobres.

Running with the bulls

2009-07-10T20:11:00.001+02:00

I will be moving to Madrid in September to teach English to some niños.

Since I'm still sorting out Visa matters and I don't have much to blog about yet, I thought I'd start with the most exciting thing happening in Spain right now: the running of the bulls during the San Fermin Festival in Pamplona.

Correle!
It's too bad I won't be there for the next one. Don't worry, I'd just cheer from the sidelines.

(pictures from the LAT)