Span Fam 101

It's been far too long since I've written and I was starting to experience serious blog withdrawal: shaking hands, foaming mouth, the works.

I've been back from break for a week now and am impatiently awaiting my boyfriend Matt's portion of our supposed-to-be joint blog post about fall break. However, apparently artistic genius comes to him much slower than it comes to me (What can I say? I'm a natural). So, as much as it pains me to divert from chronological order, the drug that is my blog is calling and I just gotta write, man. More on fall break later.

I have been here about two months now and I think it is about time I write about my Spanish family. First and foremost, they are great. I love them and I am fortunate that they are who I was placed with. Let's go from youngest to oldest.

Pablo.

Pablo is eleven years old. He is a small, wiry kid with a lot of pent up, squirming energy. When he was born, he didn't get enough oxygen to his brain and as a result, his behavior is more akin to that of a five year old. I have no idea how medically accurate this explanation from my host mother is, partially due to my own ignorance in this area and also due to my consistent inability to understand complex ideas in Spanish.

But in any case, it does explain a good deal. While Pablo does have the occasional tantrum, mainly he likes to ask me what time it is in Wisconsin and what my favorite types of foods are. And really, I think that these conversations are severely lacking in everyday adult life. Who doesn't like to discuss the different brands of cereals? I'm particularly fond of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. He is sweet and I enjoy his company.

Antonio.

Antonio is fifteen and when we first spoke, I would have bet my life that he was speaking Italian or Portuguese or maybe some language he made up. He speaks so fast that I'm not even sure his lips move. We have, needless to say, made great strides in our relationship. He is the only one in the family who laughs at me, which I think is totally appropriate. A lot of the time, I have no idea what is going on and I would hope someone was getting some amusement out of it. Antonio seems older than his age, but maybe it's just because he wears some stylin' thick-framed glasses.

Jesus.

Jesus is seventeen and he is gone most of the time. His mom always says that he is at soccer practice but I don't think even Cristiano Ronaldo plays that much (Please note the Spanish soccer player reference). I'm sure the kid is pulling a fast one on her.

Cristina.

Cristina is twenty-three. When I heard there would be someone near my age in the house, I was nervous and excited. I really, shamelessly, wanted her to like me - and I her. As far as I can tell, and we should remember that my Spanish social skills are that of an eight year old, we are getting along really well. The first time we had a real conversation, we spent the better part of it exchanging swear words in our own languages. She is the first Spanish person I've talked to and actually been able to express a good amount about myself. It's nice to be able to show someone here some scraps of my personality, to prove that it does in fact exist beneath the language barrier.

Child five.

Yes, that's right. I do not know her name. I didn't know she existed until a month ago. Here is what I know: Number five does not live here but she comes here to do her laundry. She is the oldest and is getting married in August. I have also met her fiancee and do not know his name either. I have searched the house for clues as to what her name is but haven't been able to find anything. Maria? Monica? Maribel? I know that this is inexcusable and that I should have asked right away. But the fact is, I didn't and too much time has passed and now I will never know. I avoid mentioning her at all costs. So far, this is going well.

Paqui.

Paqui, a nickname for Francisca, is my host mother. She is a few inches shy of five feet and what she lacks for in height, she makes up for in sass. She could talk, and I could listen to her talk, for hours. I once told her I sometimes have difficulty sleeping and her face lit up and she ran from the room without explanation. She came back with a poster that she had taken from the hospital she works at. It was titled "Tips for a Good Night's Sleep." She then went on to explain in great length each of the points. 1. Love yourself. 2. Be content ... Of course, I asked her to make me a copy.

But for all her enthusiasm, I can tell that she is tired. She works all the time to support herself and her five children. It has to be beyond difficult and I don't think that I could do it. Plus, on top of all that, she's got a perpetually hungry American lurking around, speaking much too slowly and adding to the never ending laundry pile. I keep asking her to let me help around the house, but she just scoffs at me, shaking her head and throwing her arms out at the ridiculousness of the idea. Someday, I hope someone cuts her a break. I can't imagine anyone more deserving.

When everyone is here, this house is loud. When it is time to eat, Paqui screams down the hallway for me. Cristina is always on her cell phone. Someone smokes secretly in the bathroom. Antonio and Jesus both sing loudly and off key down the hallway. Right now, someone is blasting Thriller in the other room. It is chaotic but comfortable. I like being here with them and I will miss them when I'm gone.

Stoplight Insanity

Maybe I'm going out on a limb here, but I like to think of myself as a pretty bright girl. I consistently separate my white laundry from my dark. But for the life of me, I cannot figure out the traffic light system in Granada.

It has been a source of frustration for weeks. As far as I can tell, there are three scenarios which can occur at a light.

1. When you reach the pedestrian light, it's red and the cars are indeed rushing past. This scenario is easy. Do not walk into the street...unless of course, you are coming from a previous stoplight and have decided to throw in the towel on this whole life thing.

2. The light is green, the cars are waiting patiently and the pedestrians are crossing in an orderly and calm manner. This rarely happens. If you find yourself in this situation, be sure to capture the moment on film, on paper, via smoke signals, whatever you can get your hands on. It may not happen again.

3. At the light, you seem to have entered some sort of time warp. The cars wait on all sides of the intersection, expelling exhaust like animals snorting, ready to stampede. The pedestrians are waiting as well, with toes balancing on the edge of the curb, because their light is also red. And you stand. The people begin to shift impatiently, transferring their weight back and forth. You eye each other anxiously. And you wait. And then the tension snaps. One desperate soul lets out a frustrated sigh and hurries across the road. The rest follow in relief. This person is usually me. I am not sure what that says about my mental stability. Impatient to the point of recklessness? I haven't gotten hit yet.

It is this scenario that happens most often and has led me to this theory: no one here actually understands the lights. It has been a running joke in the Spanish government for years.

I thought that until tonight. When I was walking home, I got to a stoplight and the traditional wait of the pedestrians began. After a few minutes, Cast Away Tom Hanks arrived and decided to stand much too close to me, smelling exactly how he looked. Splendid. But then, he moved, and it was not like the agitated fidgeting the rest of us were doing. He learned forward in anticipation and took a step into the road just as the pedestrian signal turned green. I'm pretty sure that Charles Manson's long lost brother had predicted the light system. He cracked the code. There is hope for the rest of us after all.

So, what did I learn from this? First and foremost, I learned that traffic lights can be hard. But I also learned that maybe I shouldn't be so quick to judge. Today, dirty Gary Busey outsmarted us all. You just never can tell.

Desensitivity may have set in.

I went to Seville last weekend with some friends. I don't know what it is, but I was relatively unimpressed by the place. I could recognize all of its intensity, its allure, but I couldn't get myself to actually feel anything. This makes me nervous. Am I now immune to the enchanting and intoxicating effects of European cities? Is Granada stealing my heart away from the rest of Andalusia?

We arrived early Friday and went straight out from our hostel to see what the city had to offer. Our hostel had something quite different to offer us: a naked elderly woman in our dorm room. That may also have been a leading factor in why we rushed into the city.

Soon after arriving, I began to feel exhausted by all the commotion, by being a tourist. There is nothing wrong with tourists; they fund some of the greatest places on earth, and I have been one many times here. Every time someone tries to talk to me on the Granada bus and I stutter out a broken response, I am born again a tourist.

But usually I am the tourist who is totally awed by everything, gaping upwards with an idiotic expression on my face. Here, I felt like the tourist who has been trudging along for days and is completely uninterested in everything. The pope himself could be handing out free blessings around the corner and they'd still want above all a cold beer and a big, comfy chair.

So that first day we saw the Alcazar, an ancient Muslim palace, and the Plaza de España, an impressive arena built for the 1929 Fair of the Americas (which was a bit of a bust thanks to the stock market crash).



Saturday, we went to see Italica, an ancient Roman city - and by God I just perked right up. I'm not sure what it is but I just love Roman ruins. Their society is much like ours is, or was arguably until recent years: a well-oiled machine of a civilization. It is humbling and disconcerting to see their grandiose in shambles - crumbled and silent.



The site contains some twenty mosaic floors in the ruins of the thermal baths. I couldn't help but imagine steam rising off those very floors and bare feet walking along them two thousand years ago... no doubt on their way to the vomitorium. Those crazy Romans!



Saturday night we were conned into a pub crawl organized through our hostel. Well, it was actually our own decision to do the pub crawl, but it makes me feel better to believe that I was tricked into it. Morocco was not a fluke; I still deeply reject group tours and all that they stand for.

At one bar, I felt an odd sense of deja vu. Where had I seen a place like this before? Ah yes, middle school - league of nations style. The smoky, techno-infested room felt awkward and forced, and you could clearly make out the country borders. The Portuguese dancing in the middle there. The Germans lined up along the wall, stiff and motionless. This particular middle school dance, however, had the not-so-subtle undertones of sex and alcohol - which made it a good deal more creepy than when we were all twelve, despite the lurking gym teachers.

Sunday - our last day - we went to mass at the Cathedral. Being surrounded by towering stone arches built six hundred years ago and hearing a mass in Spanish, a language that to me sounds ancient and sacred, it kind of makes you hope that there is something more out there. It would be quite a waste of stone otherwise.

It really is a beautiful city and I did enjoy it. I would recommend it to anyone. But I do worry I am becoming one of those hard-to-impress, pretentious travelers. Those people suck. I hope I was just tired in Sevilla.

A brief reflection on body image

A month and a half. Eating everything put within a two foot radius of my mouth and not exercising so much as my pinkie toe, that is how long it took for me to feel a bit squishy around the edges. Not bad I'd say.

Here is the issue. When a Spanish woman makes you, for example, homemade, authentic Paella, a recipe from her mother's mother's mother no doubt, you eat it. You eat that heaping plate and you thank your lucky stars for the experience. And when, a thousand spoonfuls later, she refills your plate with another towering mound, you eat that too. It would be unforgivable to refuse. Down right wrong. So, I will continue to eat my way through Spain like it's my job. Maybe I will go running occasionally, as I did for the first time two days ago, or maybe I will just come back a few pounds jollier. Time will tell. The thing is, it doesn't really matter. Life, I've decided, is about eating really, really good Paella.

Tortas, Greasy Spoons and a Bull Massacre

Last weekend, I stayed in Granada for the first time. Unfortunately, Saturday (and Friday, in retrospect), I was sick with some sort of flu. More Unfortunately, I went to Web MD and managed to diagnose myself with Typhoid Fever, which is of course exactly what I would do. I did lay in bed all day watching LOST, so all was not wasted.

Feeling a bit better Sunday, I decided to go into the center of town with my host family. It was the holiday for the "Virgen de la Angustia," the patron saint of Granada. The name translates to the "Virgen of Anguish" - you can't get more Catholic than that.

On this day, the people who live in the Sierra Nevada region of Las Alpujarras come to Granada for the weekend to sell their fruits, nuts and pastries. The market reminded me of the Madison farmer's market, which made me miss home... until I tried the torta. If I was promised this cake in abundant quantities for the rest of my days, I would gladly stay in Granada forever. This cake was something to write about. Thin, flaky, golden cake filled with rich, oozing chocolate, one day a year. Naturally, I had six pieces of it. When in Spain, eh?

After the market, we went out for lunch. The sandwich shop was hidden away in a narrow, dark alley, without a sign to announce its existence. The place was just one small room, a literal hole in the wall, pouring yellow, warm light into the alley. Pig legs dangled overhead and the menus hung on the walls above the counter, looking as if they'd seen the rise and fall of the Spanish empire from their hooks. The room was hot, packed with Spanish people yelling their orders at the counter. We were squeezed shoulder to shoulder, double-fisting steaming, greasy, meaty sandwiches and bottles of Coke. This place was gritty and unapologetic and I loved it. When I asked Paqui, my host mother, what it was called, she simply shrugged and said "We always go here." I made note of where it was.

After lunch, I met my friend Tom to go to a bull fight. I guess I expected it to be disturbing...but oh was it disturbing.

The bull runs out, already stabbed once to make sure the audience gets a thoroughly ticked off bull, a good show. Next come the Spanish version of rodeo clowns to swish their capes tauntingly at the bull. I too would be agitated if some flamboyantly dressed, twirling men trapped me in a sand pit and came at me with a cape.

Then, the fun ends and the stabbing begins. The men on horses go first, thrusting six foot lances at the bull and violently ripping them out again. Blood poured out of the bulls, spewing into the air like a fountain. Tom and I learned to groan and avert our eyes when the horsemen came out to wreak havoc upon the bulls.



The matador then takes over and the stabbing becomes increases. But from here on out it is more of a dance than anything. The matador gracefully leads the bull around and around, tiring it out before its final moments. When they have exchanged a long enough farewell, the matador thrusts his sword into the Bull's spine. One bull had the audacity to take a poop in the middle of the fight, as if to give the matador one last, grand "screw you." At that moment, I wasn't sure who to root for, the bull or the man.



I understand that this is a part of Spanish culture and that it is something about which I know nothing. I am not offended by what I saw, but I don't think I will be going back. Seeing four bulls die slow, moaning deaths is enough for a while.

I just have this to say. If I had the misfortune of being a bull, I'd rather go down in a frenzy of color and culture and glory than in a packed slaughter house, waiting to become a Big Mac.