Bullfighting Woes

Many people are at a lost for words after seeing a live “Corrida de Toros,” or bullfight. It’s unlike anything they have ever seen, with all the brutality and machismo. I, however, found the scene to be all too familiar. As soon as the band started playing and the bull ran into the ring, I immediately identified with the poor soul. If you have ever witnessed me at a bar or club (or any place where cool kids go), then you know what I’m talking about. Consider this:

If I am ever found at such an establishment, it is usually because someone forced me to enter the “social ring,” alluring me with false promises like, “it’ll be good for you, Sachi” and “we’ll stick together--girls night out!” I stupidly believe them, and the second I enter the arena, I find myself alone and confused. All I see are bright colors; all I hear are loud noises; all I smell is my own fear. I am surrounded by strangers--some are laughing, some are shouting, some are even summoning me. Me? Really? I look behind me, assuming there’s a tall blonde in my direction, but I see no one. They holler again and even motion me towards them. I finally muster up the confidence to approach and scurry across the dance floor with uncharacteristic boldness. We lock eyes; he smiles; I attempt to flutter my eyelashes but end up snorting. Right when I am about to reach my target, he bolts away to “use the bathroom” or “answer a really important business cal” (from his silent phone). My hopes--dashed.

Throughout the night, a handful of guys send different variations of these mixed messages, all hoodwinking me in the end. Sometimes they find strength in numbers, inviting me over as a friendly group; other times they fly solo, even competing with each other for attention. And on occasion, nearby spectators even join in on the apparent joke, encouraging me to “go for it.” But they know very well what awaits me: another failed attempt at socialization. Ultimately, none of my peers are interested in anything beyond that particular arena. The signals, the lure, the hope for meaningful contact--it’s pure amusement to them. And I am a pawn in their game--an entertaining little puppet, a conquest. At the end of the night, they just want to see me die a slow and painful death before tying me up to two horses to drag me out of the ring, leaving a bloody trail in my wake. Okay, that might be stretching the metaphor...

The most striking similarity between myself and the bull is that we never seem to learn our lesson. We make the same mistakes over and over again. You’d think that after numerous red flags (literal and figurative), we would know not to chase after the cute guy in the corner (who’s way too well dressed to be heterosexual). You’d think we would learn to ignore the false signals, the mixed messages. But who are we kidding? These guys are well trained in their arena, whereas we, unfortunately, are just that day’s piece of meat.

Love Letter to San Sebastian

Dear San Sebastian,

I love you. I have never taken as many photographs as the day I spent with you. I have never mastered the discreet, one-handed self-portrait like I did in front of you. Your beaches expand endlessly, blanketed with sun-kissed people--young, old, playing, tanning, dressed, or naked--they do not mind the voyeurs or the UV-rays. They live life, not worry about death. Imminent skin cancer has no meaning when you are bronze and beautiful. Possible head trauma evokes only laughter when the wind is grazing your unencumbered head, as you soar on a pastel Vespa, behind an equally beautiful bronze god. Oh, how I will miss fantasizing that I am one of them--your lucky people. One day, I will return to be one of them--bronze and beautiful, riding my moto, playing on your beach, enjoying the gaze of voyeurs like my former self, and never taking my own self-portraits.

Until then,

Sachi

Trip through Catalonia, Basque Country, and Galicia

I (somewhat) recently returned from a 10-day trip across these northern regions of Spain. I traveled from east to west: from Barcelona, the capital of Catalonia, through the Basque cities of Bilbao and San Sebastian, and finally to the cities of Santiago de Compostela and La Coruna in Galicia. All in all, these were ten of the best days of my life. Since there are simply too many memories to chronicle in detail, I’ve condensed my most salient into the three H’s--hostels, heat, and history--and the three S’s--sport, sand, and scary men. Yea, I’ll explain...

1. HOSTELS

I spent my downtime in Barcelona at Graffiti Hostel. It only cost 10 euros a night, so I didn’t expect the most cleanly or accommodating experience. But I definitely did not expect the crowd that I found. Suffice it to say, there was a Narcotics Anonymous convention taking place that weekend. We had...fun? On the plus side, I bonded with some other solo-traveling girls who were equally overwhelmed by all the recovering narcs.

The other city with memorable hostel-mates was Santiago de Compostela, a small town known for its cathedral, which welcomes herds of religious backpackers as they complete the medieval pilgrimage route of St. James. Such a destination is bound to attract a different crowd than that of the NA convention in Barcelona. During my one night at Meiga Backpackers Hostel, I enjoyed a communal dinner with Bob, David, and Eve. Bob is a middle-aged Texan man who only eats vegetables and legumes (possibly manorexic). He is taking “the trip of a lifetime” after caring for his parents on their deathbeds. Now, he doesn’t know what to do with their antique collection. He enjoys sharing personal information. David is a twenty-something from England, with a guitar, a love for singing, and a severe speech impediment--an obvious recipe for success. Lastly, Eve is an Australian girl, seemingly younger than me, who is working her way backwards along St. James’ pilgrimage route. She didn’t find anything strange or funny about Bob or David. Enough said.

2. HEAT

Almost every night, I could not sleep because of the heat--well, indirectly because of the heat. After days full of walking, my body was exhausted enough to disregard the high temperature. Unfortunately, although walking tires one’s body, it does not tire one’s sense of smell. I literally smelled so bad that I could not sleep. Ever notice that no matter how you position yourself in bed, your body is always below your nose. It’s like one of God’s great jokes...or maybe His way of enforcing human hygiene...

The epitome of my grossness resulted from a night in Barcelona at ‘The Electric Bar.’ Johanna (one of my commiserators at Graffiti Hostel) discovered this venue, which is outside the city center and frequented, almost exclusively, by locals. On this particular night, the bar utilized its “Red Room” to host “A Contra Blues,” a local blues band. “Red Room” is a euphemism. A more appropriate name might be “room that is so hot you will sweat off everything you ate last week,” or possibly, “segue into to Hell.” I sweat (and drank) myself into a state of dehydration that was so debilitating I literally could not stand up. But after that crazy night when Lindsay Lohan drugged my sangria, this was nothing. Despite--or maybe owing to--my heat coma, I really enjoyed the band and even bought their CD. You can be the judge if you watch this short clip:

(music coming soon)

3. HISTORY

When traveling, I always try to take a break from my usual hunt for good food and good people (and celebrities) to learn a little bit of local history. As we all know, Europe is basically a living museum of western history, so I tried to treat it as such and approach its live exhibits with a critical eye. Here are my observations:

Barcelona must be a kind of paradise for fans of historical art and architecture. Not only does it house the most extensive collection of (surprisingly erotic) Picasso paintings, but the city itself is an architectural masterpiece, scattered with gothic edifices and the art nouveau of Gaudi. I instantly loved the bright colors, creative patterns, and fun spirit of Gaudi’s designs, especially those featured in Park Guell overlooking the city. See pictures below.

(photos coming soon--once i have internet access from my own computer)

Another famous Gaudi piece is the Sangrada Familia cathedral (pictures soon). It is famous for existing in a constant state of construction. How very Spanish.

To walk between all of the Gaudi sites, I had to cross the Eixamplo, the “newer” part of the city, which is historically significant as an experiment in city planning. Every street intersection is shaped like an octagon, with the four corners sliced off. Apparently, the hope was that these more circular--as opposed to square--intersections would foster a greater feeling of community and openness in the neighborhood. After about two blocks, I deduced that this experiment was an epic failure. The only effect of the octagon intersections is that pedestrians have to walk a heck of a lot farther to cross every street. Clearly, this attempt to design community love only fostered pissed off tourists who are in a hurry to reach their next destination and thus jay-walk across the octagons, causing confused drivers to slam on their brakes and trigger eight-car pile ups. I mean...new subject...

I don’t have much to report about the history of Bilbao, which is actually telling in itself. Bilbao is rapidly becoming one of the most modern cities in Spain, with new buildings and developments appearing every week. The cool thing is that this means my photos capture a unique moment in time. I like that.

Unlike Bilbao, Santiago de Compostela is a historic gem. Its famous cathedral houses the body of St. James (although there are mysterious rumors that his tomb is empty), attracting the aforementioned herds of religious pilgrims. What I found interesting about Santiago is that its identity as a religious destination is basically operated like a business. All of these pilgrims travel for days, weeks, or months on foot to reach St. James’ resting place, but they also support the tourism-driven economy by buying loads of commemorative walking sticks and cheap plastic shells (the symbol of St. James), which were probably all mass produced in China. The juxtaposition of faith and commerce is rather mystifying but also somewhat comical. I decided not to buy the walking stick, but boy are those shells enticing. (photos coming)

My last destination, La Coruna, is a city that is literally constrained by its history. The government has tried, time and time again, to update the infrastructure with more structurally-sound buildings and transportation, but every time they dig into the ground, they discover remnants of the medieval city walls. It’s really quite funny. There are excavation sites all over the city, where construction started and then abruptly stopped due to such discoveries. They just leave all the construction sites open (perhaps out of laziness) and call them historical landmarks.

4. SPORT

As a former soccer star (don’t doubt it), I couldn’t not watch a futbol game while in Spain, and I was lucky enough to attend a game at the Barcelona stadium--the largest stadium in Europe. I scored a pretty good seat and had a clear view of Barcelona’s victory over Bilbao. I was shocked to discover that they don’t serve alcohol at futbol games. whaaaa? that’s right...all those fans get hyped up on alcohol-free beer. who knew? there must be something in the water (like real beer).

5. SAND

For my full review of Spain’s beautiful northern beaches, please see my later entry entitled “Love Letter to San Sebastian.” For now, a quick story:

With three hours to kill before my bus ride out of Barcelona, I decided that I should really see the beach. I walked a good two miles in the blistering sun, with my sexy backpack on (sweating like none other), to arrive at the beach. When I got there, I was so happy to sit down on a beach chair and let my back sweat dry off, but after two brief minutes of glorious wind against my moist back, a man approached me an demanded five euros for the chair. I knew what this was all about. I had been living in Spain for over three weeks, and although I may look like an Asian tourist with a camera and fanny pack, I know what I’m doing. I don’t fall for these Spanish tricks--pretending that you own the public beach chairs and haggling seated tourists for their money. I love these moments, when I can shock the local peddlers with my knowledge of Spanish language and social rules. With a proud smirk on my face, I donned my best Spanish accent and told the man that I understand Spanish and was just sitting there to rest like everyone else. Score: Sachi - 1, sketchy peddler - 0. He threw back an equally smug expression and told me that everyone else had already paid their five euros. Sachi - 1, peddler - 1. Two Spanish girls then plopped down onto the seats next to me and leaned over to hand the man ten euros. Sachi - 1, beach man - 2. He reiterated his point; I acknowledged defeat, put my backpack back on, and walked away ashamedly. Sachi - 1, government employee - 3. Story of my life.

6. SCARY MEN

It was my second night in Barcelona, and I was roaming the streets for a place to eat dinner (naturally by myself) before the Barcelona futbol game. I had spent a good hour window shopping restaurants and scanning menus, when I was suddenly tapped on the shoulder from behind. The middle-aged man behind me asked if I spoke Spanish. “Si,” I said (thinking this was a prime opportunity to again show off my Spanish skills). “Estas buscando un lugar para cenar?” (He asked me if I was looking for a place to eat dinner). I said yes, assuming he worked for a nearby restaurant. “Yo se esto porque te he visto” (He told me that he knew because he had been watching me). Cue creep alert-level one. I tried to laugh off his last statement and make a clean break, when he asked if he could join me for dinner: “comemos juntos, como amigos” (he wanted to eat together like friends). I said that I was going to meet a friend and wasn’t alone (chapter one of ‘women traveling alone 101’). He then proceeded with a series of questions: what I was doing, where I was from, where I was traveling, who I was with, where I was staying, how long I was there, etc.. Okay, we just skipped creep alert-level 2 altogether and jumped right up to level 3. I answered in all the right ways (I am looking for a place to eat with my boyfriend, with whom I am traveling, but we are leaving soon, sorry, goodbye), but I was obviously uncomfortable. This man had been following me long enough to recognize that I was looking for a place to eat alone. After trying again to convince me to join him for dinner, he finally gave up...but didn’t fail to lean in for the cordial double-cheek kiss, which he did quite aggressively, reaching creep alert-level 4. I walked away as fast as possible and ducked into a fast-food Asian restaurant for some stir-fried noodles and veggies, lathered in a delicious combination of teriyaki, shanghai, and kung pao (!) sauce. The perfect comfort food after a very unnerving experience.

You would think that after that, I would exhibit a bit more caution in my aimless wanderings. You would think...

It was 3am, and the Electric Bar was closing after the blues band finished its set. Luckily I had befriended a seemingly trustworthy local, who advised me not to walk down “Las Ramblas” (the main pedestrian walkway through old town Barcelona) alone at night, especially since I am obviously foreign. As “Las Ramblas” was the only route to my hostel and I am far too cheap for a taxi, I decided to risk it. I put my headphones on--without actual music (if they’re going to mug me, I want to hear them coming...so I can mentally prepare...and channel my inborn karate/judo skills). I walked with a confident skip in my step. I looked like I knew where I was going. I felt like a black belt. Oh, and I had my hand on my pepper spray discreetly inside my purse. I had never used this pepper spray before, so I decided to do a practice spray in an empty street. I pushed the button and slid the trigger forward. Success! Being in my black belt (aka. tipsy) state of mind, I decided to be extra cautious and test the spray out further...on my hand. Note: Do not try this at home...or on the street...or anywhere other than a hospital. At least I now know that the pepper spray really works. My hand started to burn like the third degree. As soon as I got back to my hostel (victory!), I washed my hands and arms thoroughly. Then I took my contact lenses out. Bad idea. Both of my eyes started stinging like I had rubbed them with poison oak. After a futile attempt to wash out my eyes, I decided to go to sleep and assess the damage in the morning. Thankfully, I woke up looking normal (well, as normal as I ever do). I learned two valuable lessons that night: (1) always bring your glasses, and (2) it’s true what they say--pepper spray is a dangerous mode of self-defense because it can always be used against you. You’ve been warned.

-sachi

milestones

This is an entry I wrote two weeks ago, but failed to post until now:

So I recently reached a few landmark milestones here in Spain, which I think provide a good segue into my upcoming trip across the northern region of Spain...

1. Someone asked me for directions, and I could provide them.

I had been questioned about directions before, but could never actually answer.

2. I helped an American who was lost on a train and couldn't speak Spanish.

aka. I'm like a real local

3. I cut my toenails for the first time since leaving home.

ever notice that toenails grow at a good rate for measuring how long you've been somewhere? kind of like getting your period...

4. I got bored.

I wasted an entire day watching Jon & Kate Plus Eight on my computer. I even paid for it on itunes. is that rock bottom?

Well, I think those milestones--mainly the last one--illustrate that I have officially become too comfortable in Madrid. It's a pretty clear sign that you're ready for new surroundings when you'd rather watch eight annoying toddlers and their parents' crumbling marriage than explore one of Europe's capital cities. I remembered the wise words of my good friend Evan, "you only regret what you don't do," and I booked my train tickets to Barcelona, Bilbao, and La Coruna. Northern Spain, here I come!

solo living--scary and spectacular

I had my first truly frightening “oh my gosh, I’m freaking out, I’m in a foreign country, and I’m screwed” moment the other day. It was Saturday, August 15th, which is an important religious holiday for Madrid’s Catholic population. Naturally, everyone took to the streets to drink. I joined my roommate, Simon, and his girlfriend, Camille, to witness the festivities in La Latina (a funky neighborhood south of the city center). After they each enjoyed a beer and I, a sangria, we sat down for some tapas at an outdoor bar. The sun was setting; the party lights were brightening; the old Spanish ladies were dancing: all was going as expected. Suddenly, I felt horrible--no, beyond horrible. My head crashed to the table, and I could not pick it back up. I don't know how to explain the loss of vision I experienced, except by comparing it to (I imagine) a LSD trip gone horribly array. Without focused vision, I lost all sense of balance. Cue uncontrollable sweating. My face suddenly burned up and then turned completely pale (as witnessed by Simon and Camille). I didn't want to vomit, eat, drink, sleep, or poop; all I could imagine doing was fainting in the street. Simon asked the waiter to show me the way to the restroom, but I could not even see--let alone walk. Simon had to support all my weight, as I struggled to see straight and make my way inside without stumbling over or passing out. After ten or fifteen minutes of awkwardly balancing between the sink (to splash water on my face) and the toilet (just in case), I suddenly felt much better. I still have no idea what happened. I have never felt so terrible, sickly, out of control, and helpless. I felt like I had been drugged; perhaps someone roofied the sangria? Camille thinks the episode was caused by extremely low blood sugar. As a medical student, she probably knows more than me. But if anyone asks, I was roofied, at a crazy party, in Spain, with Lindsay Lohan.

All I can say is THANK GOODNESS FOR SIMON AND CAMILLE. They took extremely good care of me all night and will one day make amazing parents--which is not at all as ridiculous as it sounds because, even though they’re two years my juniors, they have been dating for four solid years and Camille is studying to become a midwife. They are super cute and in love (reference pictures below):

But really. They are so cute they make me want to vomit. And then cry. And then maybe take a nap. Nevertheless, I don't feel the usual loneliness that tends to settle when I'm surrounded by adorable couples. I’m actually basking in the freedom and alone time that this fellowship has afforded me. I feel completely free to just be (shout out to Veena--she’ll know why). Although I might pass an entire day without seeing anyone I know, I find it difficult to feel lonely when surrounded by the constantly changing noises, smells (mostly offensive), sights and other sensations provided by the city. Who knows if my current love for lonesomeness will last beyond the first month, but for now, I will continue to embrace it. Considering that my itinerary places me in the company of “big” cities throughout the entire year, I figure it won’t be long until anonymity becomes a familiar feeling.

To illustrate the beauty of anonymity in Madrid, I present to you the following scene:

Sunday night. 10:35pm. Empty crepería.

...empty, that is, except for me...

I sit in the back corner, scribbling down my most recent experiences on a few postcards, which I had stealthily purchased around the corner so that I’d have an excuse to sit down at said crepería and “work on my correspondence.” The waitress, already slightly annoyed that I sat down, waits for me to order the expected coffee or smoothie, but I am way too cool for that. I point down at my menu: “Quiero number 37” -- translation: “that’s right lady, I’m not here to play games. You wipe that smirk off your pretty little face and bring me a thirty seven: crepe, nutella, bananas, whipped cream, crushed cookie, hot fudge, ice cream and all.” When she finally brought me the gastronomic masterpiece, I was so grateful that I flashed her an adorable smile and jokingly said “es mi cena, hahaha” (it’s my dinner, hahaha). She didn’t find it funny.

Actually she probably just didn’t understand. Despite the typical, week one vocabulary lesson in middle school Spanish (breakfast: desayuno, lunch: almuerzo, dinner: cena), people don’t eat dinner here. In fact, they don’t really eat at all. They just smoke...at least a pack a day. And if they forget their rolling paper and are forced to intake actual calories instead of smoke, you can bet they’ll go for ham--in a sandwich, on some toast, atop a salad, or on its own. ALL THEY EAT IS HAM. I HATE HAM. I AM A “VEGETARIAN” (don’t ask about the quotes, damn you). THUS...SUBSTANTIAL REASON FOR ME TO EAT DINNER AT THE CREPERIA, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!

I’m not being defensive...why would I be feeling defensive? Maybe it’s because after I downed my late night crepe, I headed straight to Maoz--my new, favorite VEGETARIAN eatery--which serves all-you-can-eat falafel, pita, and toppings for 4 measly euro. Who could pass up such a deal? I don’t know enough Spanish to be picky about chickpeas versus coleslaw, so I told him to throw all the possible toppings inside my falafel sandwich. I quickly downed the overflowing pita while sitting at the corner window; I wonder whether the people watching was better for me, or for those who witnessed my face turn a bright red and begin sweating profusely as I bit down on the spicy salsa (topping #8--I made a mental note). After wiping off my face and mouth (and lap), I felt completely satisfied. I had a “crepe #37” and a “pita con todo” sitting in my stomach, and no one was the wiser. I may look like a 120-pound-Keanu-Reeves-but-cuter, but I can eat crepes and falafel like Neo loves Trinity--secretly, and with passion.

That, my friends, is why I love the solo life in Madrid.

I might have to change the subject of my Watson fellowship from “Cubing Across Cultures: Documenting the Rubik’s Resurgence” to “Consuming Across Cultures: Documenting my Dinner’s Resurgence.” But hey, the fellowship organizers are all about flexibility, right? They should be chill.

So that was last night. Tonight I stay in and write this blog. And to answer the question on all of your minds, yes I did have another partner in crime tonight (Naomi wipe that dirty grin off your face). Instead of the healthy (I swear) cookies that I blogged with last time, I decided to get down and dirty with some store-bought ice cream. In a brief moment of self-flattery (or deprecation, depending on your pop culture leanings), I realized that I’m a lot like Carrie Bradshaw. Just exchange junk food for cigarettes, and we’re practically indistinguishable.

I guess I could also use a real job...and a sick apartment...and endless wardrobe changes....and attractive friends (sorry guys)....

¡BESOS!

until next time,

sachi

2 weeks into the Watson

5:03 am. Friday, August 14th. Madrid, Spain.

I have decided to dedicate these early hours of the “madrugada” to the betterment of both my mental and physical health. As I diligently practice my writing, I--with equal diligence--down a box of “galletas chocolates y multivitaminadas,” which loosely translates to “secretly healthy chocolate cookies.” After eating about three quarters of the box, I find myself surprisingly alert and motivated to recount the past week (and to finish the box as I do so).

I have been living in Madrid for almost two weeks, and I have already taken four day trips; recalled much of my six years of Spanish training; said goodbye to one European roommate; hosted two American friends; watched two American movies on the Spanish screen; conquered one epic hike; and completely fallen in love with this place.

My first day trip was to the Parque de Atracciones, an amusement park that unexpectedly lies in the center of the city’s biggest park. I went with my Italian roommate, Walter, his Italian friend, Estefan, and Estefan’s Spanish girlfriend, Lara. So as to get the most for our money, we stayed inside the park from 11am until 9pm and rode every single ride numerous times. I’m talking water rides, spinning rides, children’s rides, log rides, roller coaster rides, train rides, nothing-but-falling-twenty-stories rides, etc.. As a fun-loving twenty-something from Italy, I wasn’t surprised that Walter enjoyed the day as much as he did. I was more surprised that his friends did: Estefan is a total hippie with dreadlocks down to his butt and a (probably organic) shirt reading “protege la naturaleza”; his girlfriend is a twenty-seven year old woman, currently studying to become a prison psychologist--not exactly the people I’d expect to enjoy an environment of artificial thrills paired with kids, hyped-up on cotton candy, playing with darts and guns. But I guess you can’t always read a book by its cover; I mean, they thought I was twenty-five and not afraid of roller coasters. We all make mistakes.

The next day, Walter and I visited the medieval pueblo of Toledo. Surprisingly little to recount from the day. Nice town, nice conversation, nice photos (see below).

My friend from college, Justin, arrived that night to visit for a couple days. Apparently I have fully embraced the typical Spanish disregard for punctuality. I arrived outside my apartment to find Justin waiting impatiently on the door stoop, biting into a big hunk of cheese and drinking straight out of a wine bottle--not to mention, scaring all of my neighbors and their impressionable children. He claims that I was late and he was hungry. I think that he was drunk and I was forgiving.

With a third musketeer in tow, Walter and I dragged Justin to Segovia for another day trip. I found this medieval pueblo to be much more beautiful and intriguing than Toledo. I was completely blown away by the majestic aqueduct, sprawling castle, and narrow cobble-stone streets.

But nothing compared to the never-ending rows of sunflowers that we discovered perched above the town. We spent the the rest of the afternoon getting hopelessly lost among the flowers, eventually having to jog through the town to catch the last bus.

Almost immediately after saying goodbye to Justin, I welcomed Felicity, a good friend from high school. As a true northern Californian, Felicity suggested we head to the nearby Parque Natural de Penalara for a day hike. We hopped on a bus, which took us out of the city and slowly climbed the highest mountains in the Madrid region, dropping us off in a small town called Cotos. After a quick nap and sandwich break, we asked a local if there was a hike appropriate for two twenty-two year old, semi-fit, but rather lazy girls with track shoes, a dissipating food coma, and about an hour and a half. He pointed up the mountain and said “Ruta Tres.” We pretended like we knew what he meant and walked uphill. The hike turned out to be quite stunning, with 360 degree views of mountains, and we found it hard to believe we were only an hour outside Madrid.

Turns out the hike took us longer than the average walkers, and we missed the last bus back to Madrid. Faced with no other option, we decided to hitchhike. But, alas-- with no cajones, we chickened out. After chatting up some other day hikers, hoping to secure some sympathy and a ride home, we learned that there was a train station about fifty feet down the road. We turned the corner and sprinted to the train, which was already waiting at the station. Everyone onboard clapped for us as we ran; most of them had seen us attempting to hitchhike (i.e. attempting to rally the courage to stick our thumbs out before cars passed) and seemed glad--or rather, amused--that we had finally found the ridiculously nearby train station. After one missed bus ride, three separate train rides, and one metro ride, we arrived home and passed out.

The next day consisted of sleeping, eating, and watching the cinematic masterpiece “Drag Me To Hell” at Madrid’s downtown theater. The movie had all the ingredients of a classic horror flick: an evil spirit with a funny name (the Lamia), a possessed animal (a goat), a spine-chilling soundtrack (the unused theme song from the Exorcist), and an unexpected ending (the protagonist is dragged to Hell).

I also said goodbye to Walter that day...it was very sad. He has been an incredibly great roommate, teaching me how to use the washing machine, buzz people in, take out the recycling, and say “sh*t” in Spanish. We also spent a lot of time together, as we both had flexible schedules and an interest in exploring Madrid. He claimed to be working independently on his computer engineering dissertation, but always seemed to be watching animae on his laptop. Perhaps he thought this would make me feel more “at home” in the apartment? Either way, turns out he indeed was writing a thesis, as I helped him edit the English abstract. It was immediately clear that either I do not speak English, or Walter studies far more advanced computer engineering than I ever knew existed.

Well, I think I’ve recounted the main highlights of the past two weeks. I finally feel comfortable and confident in Madrid. I can get around (aka. my blisters healed and I have a map of the metro); can complete household chores (aka. ask my roommate how to do household chores); can buy groceries (aka. go to the nearest panaderia and point to the bread and cookies); and can swear in Spanish (aka. make loud noises, roll my tongue, and gesture profusely). Although I feel more and more at home each day, Madrid still has its peculiarities that remind me of my foreignness: I’m consistently surprised by the mullets (usually supplemented by a mohawk and/or dread-locked rat-tail), facial piercings (usually on the chin or upper lip), indiscrete tattoos, late night babies (usually seen in bars), public displays of affection (usually atop a monument or another thing I want to photograph), and American music (usually of the seventies, eighties, or early nineties).

I’m not exactly sure how to balance my growing comfort with my inherent status as an outsider. Is it better to try to fully assimilate into this new culture, or to accept that I’m inevitably different and embrace the cultural discrepancy? I have yet to answer this question for myself, but I’m guessing the key is balance. Don’t you hate how the key is always balance? It’s such a faulty concept...like...if maintaining balance is so important in life...than isn’t it important to not have balance about 50% of the time...to maintain balance itself??

yea...think about that one...

hasta luego,

sachi

PS. My favorite things about Madrid are the sky and the bright colors. It's impossible to capture on camera, but I've tried. I'm going to try to set up an outside website to post my pictures in higher quality. Until then...stare really hard...