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...

Culture Clash

I wasn't planning on writing this often, but I already have so much to share. After my first tiring day walking through Madrid, I decided to take a siesta. I was sound asleep in my temporary room, when a large Spanish man and his wife walked in, shocked to find a little Chinese boy in the bed (think Goldilocks without the locks). Turns out he is my landlord, Francisco, and I was staying in a room that was supposed to be unoccupied and locked. Oops.

I moved all my belongings to another open room and attempted to converse with Francisco and his very Spanish wife. The first thing he says to me is: "So you are Chinese American." I said, "No, I'm actually half Japanese."

Cue culture clash #1

Francisco: "Oh, is there a difference between Chinese and Japanese?"

How do I respond to this? 'Um...yea...we are from different countries...'?

I had never faced a question like this in the U.S., so it was a bit awkward, but I managed to explain that you can often decipher someone's ethnicity by their last name--Japanese usually have multi-syllabic surnames like Umemoto, unlike shorter Chinese names like Kim, Chow, Tan, Ng, etc.

Later, after recovering from my traumatic awakening, I prepared to go out to the largest night club in Madrid, known as El Kapital. It is a majestic old, seven-floor theater that was converted into a dance club, complete with a different theme and music for each floor. I went with J.P., our Italian roommate, Walter, and Walter's two friends. We approached Walter's friends outside the metro station, and I quickly asked J.P., "What side do I go to first for the introductory cheek kisses?" Before he had time to answer, there were faces coming at me.

Cue culture clash #2

Naturally, I panicked. Which way to turn? Is right right? Or is left more European? I went left. The guy went right. Oh no! I jerked right to avoid the impending nasal collision, but he did the same. I jerked back left. He jerked back right. The situation was beyond reparable. Just when I thought things couldn't get more embarrassing, he exclaims "Easy now!"

I just about died. I'm sure that was the first of many future games of face tag. I'm not sure whether it's better to go in with confidence and risk the full-on make-out, or to go in hesitantly and risk the "easy now" embarrassment.

Although the night was off to a rusty start, it definitely improved by the minute. I managed to check my typical awkwardness and befriend Walter's buddies. They even invited me to join them on their daily runs! I may have lied and told them I can run fine for an hour straight...kind of like I lied about my ability to solve the Rubik's Cube in under 2 minutes when I registered for the world championships. I'll have to practice on both fronts.

My confidence speaking Spanish also improved drastically as the night progressed--and as my B.A.C. progressed. I was quite pleased with the libations, not to mention the churros y chocolate that we ate after leaving El Kapital. Let's just say I plan to frequent that chocolateria, wearing my sweatpants, at least once a day. Note to self: buy sweatpants.

The only thing I did not enjoy eating was the tic-tac offered by Walter's friend. He tried to convince me that it was ecstasy. Those of you who know me know just how gullible I am. Needless to say, I made everyone else try one before I did. It was definitely a melon tic-tac...or crappy ecstasy.

All in all, it was a great Saturday night. I woke up around 4pm on Sunday with either strep throat or a sinus infection. I am currently medicated and in bed.

Saludos,

Sachi

JP and me before heading out. Can you tell which is which?

Here goes nothing...

It's 5:14am. 2 days, 6 hours, and 16 minutes before my plane takes off from San Francisco airport and heads for Madrid, marking the beginning of my year abroad as a Watson Fellow.

---okay, I wrote that 3 days, 21 hours, and 50 minutes ago, and then suffered from a massive case of writers' block. Sad, I know...

I am now safe and sound in Madrid. After chopping all my hair off, saying goodbye to my dear friends and family, whittling my luggage down to a combined 41 lbs, and sleeping through three flights, I finally met my friend J.P. in the Madrid airport. Here are some tid-bits from the adventure so far:

With my new haircut, I look like Keanu Reeves...but that's okay, I hear he's all the rage in Spain.

I also want to share a lovely piece of writing, which was provided by my grandmother at my farewell dinner. It reads:

"A SURVIVAL KIT FOR EVERYDAY LIVING:

1. toothpick - to remind you to pick out good qualities in others

2. rubber band - to remind you to be flexible; things might not always go the way you want, but it will work

3. band aid - to remind you to heal hurt feelings, yours or someone else's

4. pencil & pad - to remind you to list your blessings everyday

5. eraser - to remind you that everyone makes mistakes and it's okay

6. chewing gum - to remind you to stick with it; you can accomplish anything you set your mind to

7. mint - to remind you that you are worth a mint to your loved ones

8. candy kiss - to remind you that everyone needs a kiss or a hug everyday

9. tea bag - to remind you to relax daily and go over that list of blessings"

I cried when my grandma gave me this handwritten list and its accompanying homemade kit...it wasn't until later that I realized Grandma did not write that herself. I quote her: "I read that somewhere and thought it was really nice." Oh Grandma...how I will miss your loving gestures that bring me to tears--under false pretenses, of course. But really, I will miss laughing "with" you.

Here is a picture of my baggage in its entirety. I stayed up all night downsizing my things, until I was delirious enough to think I only needed five shirts. Being past midnight, I just realized I have nothing to sleep in. This issue is yet to be resolved.

Lastly is a picture of JP's eye after I punched him in the face. What? He was late meeting me at the airport!

Just kidding, when he saw my haircut his immediate response was "Why'd you do it?" I figured he deserved a good sock in the face.

Just kidding. Actually he did say that. But I didn't hit the guy. He brilliantly speed walked into a stone pillar. When we finally arrived at his apartment (after controlling the bleeding), he realized he had forgotten his keys. Based on today's events, I realize that JP is a real....um....good friend.

Beunas Noches,

Sachi