Caesar Romero Isn’t Spanish (But This Conversation Sure as Hell Is!)

I don’t know if any of you have seen While You Were Sleeping, but it’s a really cool 90s movie about a woman who is thrust into a whirlwind of family confusion when she poses as an unconscious man’s fiance. There’s this one point in the film where Sandra Bullock is sitting helplessly overwhelmed at the family dinner table, trying to listen to each of the six conversations taking place between the rowdy relatives and you can’t help but feel for her as random snippets of the conversation are revealed through the chaos. For your enjoyment, I’ve looked up the dinner conversation: 

“Sooo Lucy have you and Peter decided where you’re gonna go on your honeymoon yet? I went to Cuba. 

Ricky Ricardo was Cuban. Didn’t Peter look great today? 

Aww that kid. You know he should’ve been an actor. He’s tall!  

All the great ones were tall. 

Lucy you think you can help me find a nice girl for Jack? 

Ohh mom… 

Well I don’t really know Jack’s type so I’m not one that um… 

I like blondes…chubby ones. 

Mmmm these mashed potatoes are so creamy. 

You like brunettes…

 John Wayne was tall.

 Dustin Hoffman was 5’6. 

Would you wanna see Dustin Hoffman save the Alamo? 

I could never make a good pot roast. 

You need good beef. 

Argentina has great beef…beef and nazis…

Mmmm these mashed potatoes are so creamy.

 Alen Leb wasn’t tall. 

Marshall Dillen was 6’5. Ceasar Romero was tall. 

Ceasar Romero was not spanish. 

I didn’t say Ceasar Romero was spanish. 

Well what did you say? 

I said Ceaser Romero was tall. 

Well we all know he’s tall. 

That’s what I said, Ceasar Romero was tall, that’s all I said.”

Cue hilarious confusion. Anyway, whenever we’re in a similar situation my mother always leans over and whispers wickedly, “Ceasar Romero isn’t Spanish!” Well Ma, I almost peed my pants thinking of you the other day at the table. My host parents’ daughter and her husband and six year-old daughter were over for lunch, and Hannah (my American roommate) wasn’t home, so I just sat there helplessly trying to keep track of the various conversations taking place in another language. To add to the confusion, the TV was on and playing the American children’s show Phineas and Ferb. Here’s a rough translation:

“Cristina, eat your soup. 

But Mama, it burns my mouth! 

Zapatero, he needs to go. This smoking law is--

But that other guy, he has no blood.

IT BURNS MY MOUTH!

Rosa, this pork turned out well, can I have the recipe?

You have it already. More beans, Clara?

What?

Beans, Clara. Beaaaannnnns.

Oh, okay, yeah.

Hola, Ferb!

What?

I swear Zapatero is going to run this country into the ground.

I said, HOLA FERB!

Oh, um, hello, Phineas.

I always get so cold when I eat.

This weather, right? Hell’s freezing over, and Spain with it.

That’s not how you say it! Phee-nee-aaas.

Phineas.

Noooo!

Cristina, I think Clara knows how to speak English better than you do.

But I can count ALL THE WAY TO TEN! Wan, two, tree...

More beans?”

I just smiled and pretended like I knew what was going on, trading amused glances with my host parents’ son-in-law, who was the only other person not speaking. Anyway, I was eventually able to pronounce Phineas to Cristina’s satisfaction and I even made a joke that translated well for once. 

As amusing as this situation is to reflect on, in all seriousness the feeling of being  lost in a foreign country is not a good one. Speaking in Spanish all the time is a lot, lot harder than I thought it would be. I don’t think I’ve actually gotten worse at it since being here, but it sure feels like it. My English skills are suffering as well, it feels like, especially as we start mixing up grammar rules and words of the two languages from speaking Spanglish to each other. One of my fellow Americans was joking that we’re just not going to be able to communicate in either language for a while, and then we’re just going to get better at both of them. Having Spanish classes every day is helping somewhat, but my brain is so tired out from trying to work in another language that by the time I get home and try to talk with my family, all I can say is: “Me want food, day good, potatoes Pope.”

I’ll be starting next week as a tutor for students trying to learn English, so I’m hoping that will help bolster my self-esteem a little and make me feel like less of a child that can’t even hold a steady conversation about Phineas and Ferb with a six year-old.

Anyway, I was going to put up more pictures, but for some reason the picture up-loader won't show any of my new pictures, I don't know what the deal is. As soon as I figure it out, I'll post some pictures of the beach and the castle and amazing hot chocolate.

In the meantime, let me share with you my current obsession: My Immortal, infamously the worst piece of fan fiction ever written in the history of everything. To attempt to explain it wouldn't do it justice, but I'll try anyway just to prod you into reading it. The author is a dyslexic, possibly-twelve or (maybe) thirteen year old "goth" girl who spends half of the text explaining her character's hilariously cliche punk outfits and the other half pissing on JK Rowling's masterpieces of Harry Potter. There are Vampires and time travel (with appearances from Marty McFly), and Harry "Vampire" Potter's signature lightning-bolt scar is now a pentagram. The characters do stupid shit for no apparent reason, and casual spelling errors quickly become bellylaugh-inducing fountains of hilarity (i.e., "'You fucking poser,' I muttoned."). The characters of JK Rowling's beloved series are transformed to the point of absurdity--take, for example, Harry's owl Hedwig who is reborn in  "My Immortal" as Lord Voldemort's bisexual ex-lover in the 1980s. The first sex scene reads as follows: 

Then he put his thingie into my you-know-what and we did it for the first time.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! ” I screamed. I was beginning to get an orgasm. We started to kiss everywhere and my pale body became all warm. And then….
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING YOU MOTHERFUKERS!”
It was…………………………………………………….Dumbledore!







Heh, heh. Judge me as you will for spending my free time in Spain reading this, but you know you want to. Here's the link: http://myimmortalrehost.webs.com/chapters122.htm

Alicante!

I'm just going to write a bit because I'm tired and I'm interrupting my lovely siesta (2:00-5:00 everyday!) to type this. 


Basically, Alicante is AWESOME. I was really excited to come here and settle into the place I'll be living for the next four months, and I wasn't disappointed when we first drove up to the city a few days ago. Alicante is very different from the cities we saw in central Spain, or at least it seems that way to me; it's almost like pictures of some older towns I've seen in the Caribbean, but drier. I'll post some eventually but I've been forgetting I have my camera when I go out and about.


After a couple of days, things are starting to feel a little more settled. I have my schedule for classes (no class on Fridays!) and I've got my cellphone all set. My living situation is really nice--I even have my own room! More importantly that that, though, my host family is incredible. They don't speak English at all, which makes communication a little interesting sometimes (especially when I'm tired and my brain refuses to work in English, let alone in Spanish), but they're really genuinely nice people. I also have an (awesome!) American roommate, so that helps--it keeps me from feeling quite so isolated.


I'm starting to go into culture shock a bit, though. For example, the bathroom situation. First of all, utilities are extremely precious in Alicante because of the dry climate and general cost of resources in Spain. Because of that, simple things I take for granted (like leaving the lights on in the house at night in rooms we aren't using) are popping into the forefront and  making me notice them for the first time. Perhaps this will make me more "green" when I return to the US, but I doubt I'll be completely converted to the point of continuing to turn off the shower in between applying soap and rinsing like we do here.


What's the most troubling thing I've encountered, you ask? The one thing that makes me cringe with American ethnocentricity? Two words: the bidet.


This is what I first thought of: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QF4RFFuUmew


My pleasantly-amused chortling quickly turned sour, though, when I reread the sign next to the toilet: "Please, do not flash toilet paper or toilet treats down the toilet." That couldn't be right, could it? Not being able to flush toilet paper? Suddenly, I thought: "OhmygodwehavetousethebidetINSTEADoftoiletpaper!" Vague plans of seeking out public restrooms with real toilets began to form as I hopped on my laptop and googled "How to use a bidet" (a search, by the way, I recommend--there are many creative ways to use this aquatic butt-wiper; for instance, as a way to bathe children or dishes). Supposedly it's more environmentally-conscious than toilet paper. I would have to think that it would be a bad idea to use water when it's more precious like in Alicante, but I guess preciousness doesn't come into account for necessities. 


In any case, I am proud to say I tried the bidet. Once. Let's just say it's not really my cup of tea and move on, okay? Okay.


So now that the bidet was out of the question, I realized that the sign said only not to flush the toilet paper, not to take leave from using it entirely. After finally popping the question (which was actually not as awkward as one might imagine), I discovered that they take the trash, which sits in a covered bin, out every single day so used toilet paper doesn't stink up the bathroom. I guess the toilets in this house are old or something, because I haven't encountered this anywhere else--or maybe I've just been leaving a trail of clogged toilets around the Spanish countryside, who knows. 


I'm over the whole bidet thing now but it kind of opened the door for me to notice things about being here that aren't ideal or what I thought they would be. For example, I really wish I had brought more warm clothes because it's FREEZING. It may be 50 degrees outside, but no one has heating so it gets really cold inside--especially overnight, which makes it really difficult to get out of bed in the morning (catching the train early enough in the morning to go to school will be an interesting experience).


Studying abroad is going to be a lot harder than I thought it would be. I guess the whole language barrier never dawned on my until actually being here. Everyone else I've taken Spanish classes with or spoken to in the US also speaks English, which makes a huge difference, especially when trying to do things that are tricky for me anyway in English let alone a foreign language, like setting up a cellphone. 


Poco a poco, though, I'm getting used to it. School starts on Wednesday and with it an established schedule I can fall into. After I have a better idea of how to manage my time, I'll be able to go to the beach (just a 15 minute walk from here) or go get tapas somewhere or Skype people back home. Until then, though, it's just time for siesta!

Days 2 & 3 in Madrid

On the second day, we went this little old town outside of Madrid called Segovia. Even though the actual land isn’t any older than that of the “new” world, the past just seems more real here--it’s present in all of the museums and old buildings and landmarks. Even the countryside we saw driving out to Segovia seems pleasantly and unobtrusively rustic, which makes sense because the people living here have had centuries to break it in. Seriously, all of this history is giving me such a boner (figuratively speaking). 

On the way to Segovia, you can kind of see the Valle de los Caídos, which is an impressive monument nestled in the hills that’s dedicated to all of the people that died in the Spanish Civil War. As good as it sounds, it’s a really controversial landmark because it was commissioned by Franco (to say that he’s not remembered fondly is to say that I kind of had some mild philosophical differences with my history professor last semester). Anyway, you can kind of see it in this picture:

So when we first got to Segovia, the first thing we saw was the two thousand year old Roman aqueduct. I mean, it’s obviously awe-inspiring because it’s still intact, but what really made my jaw drop is that this thing is still standing and they didn’t even use mortar, they just fit the stones together really well á la Linkin-Logs.

Segovia itself is a typical twisty-street, old-building European city like all of the ones in Tuscany that gave birth to the Italians’ love of mopeds. There were cars, of course--we even almost got run over a few times, exciting! 

The city is most famous I guess for being the home of Alcázar, which aside from being a precious Spanish national symbol for the nation’s valiant past also inspired the castle in Disneyland or something. I wish I could tell you more about the history of the castle itself, but I was kind of just marveling at all the old stuff during the tour and I only caught about half of what the tour guide was saying. The spirit of Isabel was basically embedded in the stone. If you don’t know much about her, she’s one of those badasses that makes the books despite being a woman--we can thank her for guiding her resistant husband with, “Yes, dear, I do think that it would be a good idea to sponsor Christopher Columbus.” (Ultimately, though, I suppose the discovery of the Americas was inherently male because Columbus only found it after trusting his stupid map and refusing to ask directions.) Basically Segovia was just a really cute little town I definitely would not mind visiting again.

Toledo, despite being the capital of Spain back in the day and equally saturated with history, wasn’t really what I thought it would be when we saw it the third day. When we first drove in, the town was swallowed up in a thick blanket of fog and unlike our previous days, it was cold. We saw the big cathedral and that was pretty cool, lots of old displays of wealth. They kept telling us about how Toledo was famous for being a tri-cultural city because at one time there were Christians, Muslims, and Jews living there together, but I kind of got a different impression considering that the only remains of the Muslims is the city wall and the only synagogue in town is actually a “synagogue-turned-church.” Also the Jewish sector of the city is filled with super narrow and twisty streets to, as our tour guide put it, “make fast escapes.” Doesn’t seem very embracing to me, but whatever. The fog finally cleared by the end of our cold stay and we drove to the traditional look-out point to see the city from afar--it was pretty cool!

Day 1 in Madrid

Walking tour of Madrid this morning. It was hard to walk in a straight line because I kept staring at everything, especially the architecture in some of the older buildings. An example of the splendor:

First on the tour, we went to the museum of El Prado where I saw this famous painting:

And only recognized it because of this advertisement for El Corte Inglés (a department store) that I had seen the day before:

Next we had a tour of the royal palace and marveled at the extravagance. Wallpaper? Forget it, these people have wallsilk. Every ceiling was bursting with paintings of naked men that were, for lack of a better word, voluptuous. I started to process how old everything was by the third room or so--most of the tapestries and chandeliers were from the 16th century! It was just strange to think that there had been people walking through the same rooms for centuries, dancing and talking and probably bumpin’ uglies.

Then the tour guides stopped holding our hands and after I pulled out my map, we found our way back to the plaza where the hotel is and a few of us went to go eat lunch at the typically-Spanish lunch hour of 2:00pm. A bit intimidated by the choices, we sat down in a fast food type place that served sandwiches for a comparatively-cheap 5 euro. They were pretty nasty, actually--we should have gotten something a little less...sandwichy.  

After lunch we returned to the hotel to participate in that oh-so-glorious Spanish tradition of siesta in preparation for our night out on the town which was, by the way, also glorious. We accidentally stumbled into a salsa bar--at nine o’clock, I might add, and because Spaniards apparently don’t go out until midnight it was pretty dead. Except of course for the class they were holding, which we may or may not have crashed quite enthusiastically after imbibing some chupitos.* All in all, a good night--those of you who know me will be proud of the fact that I stayed up quite late past my bedtime, finally succumbing to sleep at around 5am. 

Great first day in Spain! They say this is the honeymoon period, when I’ll be most delighted with everything, and I hope it lasts for a little while before I have a fight with my vacation-husband over metaphorically taking out the trash.

*Quick vocab lesson. In Spain, a “chupito” is a shot. In Latin America, apparently it’s like a pimple or something, which I don’t really understand because it comes from the verb “chupar” which means to suck, like a liquid. Such descriptions stir some interesting images. http://forum.wordreference.com/showthread.php?t=1490586

“The Longest Day in Existence. Ever.” Or, “No Really, It Was FREAKING LONG”

As I sit on this flight from L.A. to London writing this out because I’ve little else to do (only nine hours and fourteen minutes remaining!), it seems as though waking up at five in the morning in my own bed was forever and day ago.

I’ll be honest--right now I feel more like I’m indulging in a week-long excursion to a quaint summer camp than embarking on a life-changing journey to a foreign country in which I will immerse myself in a different culture, rewire my brain to process a different language, and become so fantastically tan that the people of Arizona will no longer blink in confusion to hear Spanish come out of my so-pale-it’s-almost-endearing mouth. It really is quite hard to believe I’ll undergo such a transformation, especially with the SPF 50 I’m planning to bathe in, but I have every confidence I’ll make that transformation.

        Eventually.

Perhaps.

In any case, I thought I would share with you some of the more delightful aspects of international travel. For starters,  I have single-handedly shot down not one, but two perfectly wonderful opportunities to practice my Spanish in little under twelve hours. On my flight from Phoenix to L.A., I hurriedly waved away the encouragement of the sympathetic Colombian pilot I had the pleasure of sitting next to with, “My Spanish is okay...sort of...Lovely magazine, Sky Mall! Isn’t taxiing great?” Any attempts at Spanish conversation were shot down again when checking my bag at the international terminal in L.A. after the elderly-Argentinian-who-had-lived-for-many-impressive-years-in-Madrid-and-led-an-otherwise-fantastic-life asked me, “Pues, ¿quieres probar?...” he was answered promptly with, “Siperomiespañolnoesmuybuenolosientopero¿como--(sharp inhalation)--está?” With a look of either pity or amusement, he told me that I would get better and all but patted my head. My Spanish is actually not that bad, so I have no explanation for these events save that I am a feckless moron easily intimidated by friendly old geezers in checked shirts. 

Other than that, my airplane travel has been quite the ordinary affair--the usual hour-long security line saturated with bovine-like sports fans, creaky baggage claim belts, and the half-Chinese/half-English conversation I inevitably grow frustrated at not being able to overhear (I have long been under the impression that conversations taking place in languages other than English are begging for eavesdroppers, but alas, Mandarin is beyond me). 

I must admit, my experience thus-far on the British Airways flight is a skosh above the typical aerial excursion. I have already--I type this with barely-contained glee--encountered real live British people! Being a ten-hour international flight, the accommodations compared to Southwest are much more...well, accommodating. The seat actually reclines more than .0765 degrees and there’s a mini-television embedded in the seat in front of me boasting movies with such enchanting plot devices as “magical voodoo, man-eating crocodiles and turbo-charged speedboats.” The stewardess, bless her, offered me “wine, beer, and spirrrits” without even batting a lash. Unenlightened of the international flight drinking age, however, I politely declined and instead accepted a “fizzy drink” (squeal!). They even gave us a complimentary pair of socks.

The rest of the London flight went as follows:

 5:09 remaining on LA-London Flight: Significantly less amused by the phrase “fizzy drink.” Brain slowly degenerating from overuse of more than one person saying the same line at the same time in Mama Mia (i.e., friendship chants). Also the sight of Meryl Streep in overalls being chased by James Bond. Hallucination?

2:16 remaining: I’ve fallen asleep (at last) only to be rudely awakened by “Me Myself & My (dot dot dot!) Breakfast Box,” which consists of a cheese-egg-bacon-some-unidentifiable-green-thing biscuit and four and half raisins. Sign from universe.

London Arrival: Faith in humanity is restored--steward bidding me farewell says, “Cheerio!” ( To which I blinked stupidly and not unethnocentrically asked, “Did you really just say Cheerio?” To which he smiled and said, “You’ll get used to it.” I doubt it, Mr. British Airways. I seriously doubt it.)

The London-Madrid flight was fantastic because I slept the whole way, but we got a nasty shock when we got to Madrid and they lost all of our luggage. Literally forgot to put it on the plane or something...at this point I’m so tired that I feel like I’m out to sea even when I’m sitting down, so a small thing like clean clothes is not really an issue.

 The important thing is that I'm finally here!! In Spain! And this is what I have to look forward to! You can't really see it, but the cluster of buildings under the wing has a CASTLE in it.

On that note, I think it’s time for sleeeeeeep.

Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning and remembered that I'm leaving for Spain in two days. Ha, no, just kidding, I've been thinking about it for months, but you wouldn't have known that if yesterday you'd looked at the pile of random shit in my room I was half-heartedly moving around like the proverbial peas on the dinner plate of my excursion.  But now it's all carefully crammed into one 57" suitcase and a backpack, hooray! And I was even able to bring four pairs of shoes. 

The only thing I haven't added yet is shampoo and underwear, and as you can see, there's a nice little cat-sized indentation to the left that will prove adequate.

Let the countdown to adventure commence!