Belated Thanksgiving

Here in Spain there's a festival celebrated around the start of November, and though Wikipedia states it has its origins in an ancient ritual festival of the dead, to me the castañada seems a lot more like a harvest festival, as can be found in so many different cultures.


For example, at our elementary school in Getafe, they had a big party where each grade was required to bring in a different fruit or nut. Some brought grapes, some figs, some chestnuts, etc. There was this nifty display (complete with the occasional erroneous English translation--this is a Spanish bilingual school, after all!) in the center of the school for about a month on end, though I never saw a single kid stop to look at it.

But us Americans have our own traditional harvest celebration--Thanksgiving! I was feeling kind of bummed as we entered Thanksgiving week because I didn't know anybody who was planning on hosting a feast, and I knew I certainly didn't have the money or energy to pull one together myself. But one of my fellow auxiliares was up to the task! We celebrated a semi-potluck Thanksgiving at her house on the Friday after, complete with Spanish guests!

Since the pumpkin pies had already been claimed by another brave soul (truth be told, I was thankful for that--though the pie is typically my responsibility at home, the prices for Libby's canned pumpkin outside of the U.S. are exorbitant, to say the least!), my task was mashed potatoes. I'd never done them all the way through before--I am usually just the masher--but I was eager and excited to spend less than 5 euros on materials and prep. That is, before running back inside and buying a couple boxes of instant, "just in case".

Above you can see my peeling set-up: an old copy of the International Herald Tribune, an old episode of This American Life, and the 3-kilo bag of potatoes.

I showed up early at Colleen's to do the actually boiling and mashing there. It was great--felt like we were really getting ready for a real Thanksgiving feast. She had even decorated the apartment!


Though we didn't have everything that we may have wanted for a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, we made great use of what we had. Colleen didn't feel up to tackling a whole turkey, so she cooked chicken breast and cut it so it looked JUST LIKE turkey. I would never have known the difference except that I didn't immediately drop into a coma after dinner.


We also went around saying what we were thankful for, even the Spanish guests, who were unfamiliar with the tradition. We actually all ended up a little teary eyed, which was nice. We made sure to take a posed picture before the mistyness, however. (Oddly enough, it was a very Spanish Thanksgiving in that about four more people showed up halfway through the meal...how DO they do dinner parties over here?)


I think my favorite part of the evening, however, was the impromptu refrain that developed. After every photograph, we'd pump our fists and shout "AMERICA!!!" You know it was a good party, because though the Spanish guests initially looked at us like we were crazy, by the end of the meal they were shouting it too.

A Sunny Sunday...

It's been rainy and drizzly and grey and dreary for the last few days, and until we get that brilliant sunshine that's predicted for later this week (I'll believe it when I see it--the LaBameter has been pointing to rain for nearly a week), I thought I'd pull myself up by my bootstraps, turn that frown upside down, and destroy a coupla other clichés by posting something I wrote in early October, about a perfectly sunny Sunday.

It's 5pm on Sunday and after wandering around for ages to grab me a copy of the International Herald Tribune, I walked a bit through El Rastro (the Sunday flea market near my house), grabbing a couple of tubos (tall, skinny beers) and sharing a table with two older Norwegian men, I now find myself at La Latina metro, in an “occupied” space: El Campo de Cebada. Sort of like a squat, but nobody (to my knowledge) lives here. It makes me think a bit of McCarren park in Brooklyn--it was something, once, but now it's just a lot of cement and graffiti.


Anyway, a group of individuals have "taken over" this unused space and every Sunday, starting today and continuing until they either get shut down or stop caring, they have impromptu concerts. So I'm sitting here amongst about 50 other people and about three times as many chairs, drinking my 1.50 euro beer from the "bar" while my 5.50 worth of newspapers (IHT + El País) flutter in the breeze next to me, listening to various artists play songs based solely on guitar, voice, good intentions, and good humor.


There are young families on the side, letting their kids run around; older couples sitting further back but joining in with every song they know, and then a huge range of people in their 20s and 30s, myself included.

I'm pretty sure this is what Sundays are all about.

Laundry Barometer

Since my initial move back to France after my senior year of undergraduate studies, I have adapted a rather European approach to laundry, which was initially out of necessity and later by choice: I almost never use a dryer. Many European homes have washing machines but few contain dryers as well, partially due to space limitations, high energy costs, and other more personal or ecological considerations. Though plenty of Americans would gasp in horror at the prospect of having to wait a whole day--maybe more!--for their clothes to get cleaned and dried, I actually consider clothes racks and clothes lines to be the lazy person's route. You don't have to stick around for hours while the clothes dry in the cycle to ensure that you're there to get them out and folded as soon as they're done--just stick 'em on the rack and leave 'em. Come back the next day, or the following, or a week later--they're not any worse for wear! Also, I'm cheap.


So what a delight it is to live in Spain, where the majority of households have clotheslines strung from window to window or porch to porch (above is a shot of my own building's colorful communal laundromat). In the summer they're dry before nightfall if you've done your washing in the AM. How fabulous! How convenient!

Ah, but we live in Madrid, where it rains plenty in the fall and winter. What to do, what to do? Your timing must be impeccable, for clothes that are nearly dry after a day might be jeopardized by a brief shower, delaying the completion of your chores list for an additional day or more!

And so, inspired by my fifth grade class at my colegio, which is currently studying weather and climate, I have developed my own barometer to augment the online weather forecasts. Indeed, I call it the Laundry Barometer, or the LaBameter, for short.

Thinking of doing laundry? Checked the forecasts? Seems like you'll have a good 24-36 rain-free hours? Stick your head out the window and try to keep up with the Joneses. Do at least three apartments have laundry hanging from their lines? (Don't count that one lazy family that leaves the dry clothes out for days on end--how embarrassing [I refer you to my initial paragraph and the clothes line's leniency towards laziness]!) No? Just one or two? Better save the laundry for later--pressure's dropping and signs point to rain! Yes? Four, five, or six full lines? Signs point to fair, stable weather--get to washing!

My clothes joined the ranks last night, making a total of five optimistic apartments. It drizzled on me in the suburbs today but when I made it home my clothes were dry and waiting to be folded. That is, whenever I can get around to them...

I told you, I'm back in Europe...

...and thus I clearly have no time to blog!

No, I've been a tad lazy on the blog front because I've been so busy on the life front. Since we last spoke, dearest relatively silent readers, I've nearly gotten my wisdom teeth out, have turned another year older, completed a full month of work at school, successfully opened a Spanish bank account, and many other things. A quick photo review:

On October 14th I celebrated my birthday with a few friends--actually, a lot more than I realized I had here in Madrid after less than a month of residence!

Jorge, my roommate, began the friendly birthday embarrassment by baking me a delicious, alcohol- and chocolate-fueled cake:


We moved on after the cake-feasting to a bar nearby in La Latina, called Bodega Aguila, where I had previously shared many hours of drinks with French friends and the friendly owners and bartenders. It's a small, simple affair, but beautifully decorated and reasonably priced. Many friends joined and made me feel special (it's hard having your birthday early in the school year--you haven't had much time to build up your friend network, but it seems I've had incredible luck so far!)--new and old alike! Here's me and Jorge of cake-making fame:


Speaking of Jorge, he wasn't quite done on the embarrassment front. A chino (the term used for just about everybody trying to sell you crap for a low-ish price, it literally means a Chinese person; in this case, it was a random guy who entered the bar selling novelty sunglasses and other assortedly worthless items) kindly dropped by so that Jorge could purchase me this gem:


All in all, quite a delightful birthday!

The following day it was still quite warm enough to consider going to a rugby game (who am I kidding? I'd go if it were snowing sideways!) with Fabrice, which was lots of fun though felt a bit more like going to the park and drinking beer than attending a sporting event. There were fewer than 100 spectators, I'd estimate, and neither the clock nor the scoreboard was turned on, making it relatively difficult to follow the game. Pints, however, were a low low 3.50 euros, the sun was shining, and the grass was inviting. How could one complain?

Following the game Fabrice had a RDV with some Republican friends [note: Republicans here are in favor of making Spain into a republic instead of a monarchy, it's current state. They are similar to certain individuals one might meet in the U.S. who never gave up their hippy-dom despite their greying locks and respectable jobs] near the protest, which mirrored protests occurring all over the world on October 15th. Except that it was HUGE. Running, in theory, from Plaza de Cibeles to Puerta del Sol along Calle de Alcalá, there were so many people in the streets that the only movement really consisted in slipping off to the side streets where, once you hit a street running parallel to Alcalá, you were again halted by another wave of protesters just as large as the one you left behind. It's hard to capture visuals of this sort of thing without some height to angle down from, but I gave it a shot:


Though of course the protest was full of different groups and factions of political ideas, there did not seem to be the same sort of incessant labeling and posturing as we often see in the U.S. (that is, those of us who go to protests). During this protest I never once saw (though it was hard to see much) a group with a big banner announcing them as socialist or communist or polygamist or whatever, thereby implying that all those marching behind them were also part of that ideology, as one is wont to see in LA or NY (one of my father's greatest fears is that I will be photographed behind one of those signs and the photo will come to haunt me later on in life--a legitimate albeit improbable concern). To be entirely truthful, now that I know what this means, I would rather not be photographed next to it:

Literally translated, this means "plant a pine tree with your neighbor", which is why I took a photo--how friendly, how open, yay! It has nothing to do with capitalism, really, but I like the idea! Get to know your neighbor while helping the planet. Cool beans, right?

Nope. More specifically, it means "take a sh*t with your neighbor". Friendly, I suppose, but not really my cup of tea.

I will leave you with that thought, my friends, as well as a promise to update more regularly!

Right, I'm in Europe!

A week ago today I moved into my new apartment near Puerta de Toledo. Finally having all my stuff in one (safe!) place, the huge burden that's been weighing on me since I got to Spain--that of not actually having a decent place to live--was lifted at last!

The person I was replacing in the new apartment was still finishing packing his bags, so I set off to explore Madrid, finally, and was reminded of a lot of the things I had missed about Europe, such as random creative graffiti (see the little munaquito above), their funny little gas stations,


the over-the-top architecture and statuary employed for everyday buildings as simple as elementary schools, grand parks where you can go for a boat ride, meet up for a botellón (an outdoor alcoholic meetup with friends), or just sunbathe,



















and, of course, last and probably least (though endlessly variable and always good for a few laughs, unless you've had a few too many gambas and you're not feeling too well), the restrooms.

Toledo, Here I Come!

Ok, not the real Toledo--still too broke for that. But as of today I am the proud owner of a new set of keys that allow me entrance into my new piso near Puerta de Toledo, in southern Madrid. Less than ten minutes on foot from La Latina, the happening bar/street market neighborhood, and about 20 on foot to get to Puerta del Sol, which is kilometer 0 for all of Spain. Plus, my favorite things about any new apartment: both the library and the post office are mere seconds away from my front door! And my new favorite thing about any apartment in Spain: around the corner is a 100 Montaditos, a restaurant where you can get a jar of beer for just one euro if you buy anything else (all the food is around 1-2 euros each). I think temporary poverty agrees with me.

The first two weeks here have been crazy. Meeting lots of people, going on lots of interviews, trying to find a place, realizing I didn't have as much money in my bank account as I had hoped--I was having some troubles coping with it all. But tomorrow, I will earn my first (albeit small) paycheck, and will move into a piso in which I can actually live happily (I even have my own bathroom!). Tomorrow, the real adventure in Spain begins. Yippee!

More Work, Less Money!

With September, in America, comes football games, back-to-school commercials, the first fall leaves, and Halloween candy.

In Madrid, September seems to bring two things: erasmus students (that is, university students from other countries here for a semester or a full school year to study abroad) and auxiliares (me!). This also means THERE ARE NO SUITABLE APARTMENTS IN MADRID and it is a battle to death to find even one you can see, let alone live in.

Thus, I have found myself a place to live (thank god, no more hostel!) with a 40-something year old man (who's still in school, mind you) who rents out rooms for his income, and though he may change the bathroom rugs every two days (it's true, the Spanish like to keep a clean floor), not much else about the apartment is worth staying for. Dilapidated walls, doors that don't close properly, and a never-ending stream of people coming to check out rooms that will be rented out by the night, the week, the month, or the year.

The semi-permanent roommate has turned out not as bad as I expected, but this is not a place I want to stay. Which is why, nearly two weeks after arriving in Madrid, I am STILL looking for a suitable apartment. I will probably end up staying here at least through October, then bailing for something--anything--that seems better. I wanted roommates, not people just traveling through; I wanted Spanish people, not a series of young French girls taken in by this guy's "charm" (what?!?); I wanted a place to live, not a place to hole up. So yes, next month will also be spent scanning for apartments.

On the other hand, I've started working--not as the auxiliar that I was hired to be (that starts next Monday) but as a private English teacher, for a total of about 8 hours each week in the evenings, and maybe more once I know what my school schedule will be. Thus I am traveling to the far-flung corners of Madrid, entering into rather ritzy apartment buildings (ah, how the other half lives), and meeting girls ranging from ages 12 to 19 who all have rather impeccable English. Well, rather impressive English, I should say. When asked how long they've been studying English, the inevitable reply is "poufff...forever!" which usually means since about age 6.

I've garnered these classes through an English academy, which charges the family directly and then pays me 13 euros/hr at the end of each month, in cold hard cash. This Friday will mark the end of the month of September, so I'm looking at a good 65 euros coming my way--which will certainly keep me in cañas for the better part of the month, if nothing else.

See, the thing about moving to Spain is, you get paid at the end of each month. My last paycheck at my office job in LA was on September 9th. Then I wrapped up all my final details in LA (spending money!), flew to Madrid (with a verrrry long layover in D.C.--more money!), spent a weekend playing tourist (you can hear the euros flying out of my wallet), and a week in a hostel (at 20 ero/night--yeesh). Then I had to lay out money for an apartment. And not just any money, but a month and a month's guarantee. Not to be paid again until...Oct. 31st. So money is a little tight, and these classes already require significant time and money spent on the metro, as well as money spent on English newspapers to give some structure to my classes--not an easy thing to do for a woman counting her euro cents every morning.

The flip side is that at the end of October, if pay runs smoothly, I will be veritably rich, earning double what your average Spaniard does, and finally able to move into a decent apartment instead of this bus station of a place. That is, presuming all the erasmus and auxiliares have already found what they're looking for. Wish me luck!