Beth: Abroad

Beth, Not Abroad

2009-02-18T16:00:00.001-05:00

I'm back in America at least until my lease runs out at the end of the summer. So this blog is officially out of service. I'll keep you updated if I hop on a plane any time soon.

XX

Beachy

2008-06-22T13:02:00.002-04:00

Last Wednesday we decided to try the local Oaxacan specialty, mezcal. Like tequila, it's made out of the agave cactus. It tastes similar to tequila, just smokier. We went to a place that offered a sampler: six shots between three girls over dinner seemed reasonable. In a sick twist of fate, Wednesday is 2-for-1 ladies night at the bar, and we ended up with 12 shots of hard, hard liquor...and Megan chickened out after the first round. It wasn't too bad until about the 4th shot, when the mezcal started tasting like grill cleaner. But we soldiered on and finished the shots, and made it back safely to our hostel.

It just so happened that Wednesday was the day that I happened to eat something (shaved ice? a chicken sandwich?) that gave me what's known stateside as "Montezuma's Revenge." I'll spare you the details, but I will say that was the worst night I've passed in a long, long time. And the 8-hour busride that wound through bumpy, curved roads in the Mexican sierra at vertiginous heights, in a bus that let in the rainwater through the safety door on the roof, soaking me and my backpack, while I was sitting next to a skeezy kid who was sipping tequila from a bottle and staring at me the WHOLE time saying "beautiful eyes, beautiful woman," was maybe the worst busride of my life.

But the past three days we've spent chilling in beach paradise watching world class surfers has kind of made up for it.

Woah Hawk Uh

2008-06-17T18:19:00.002-04:00

Ashley, Megan and I are currently in Oaxaca, which is in the southwestern part of Spain. It's already on its way to becoming my favorite city we've visited. It's like the baby bear in Goldilocks: not too big, not to small; not too hot, not too cold; not too expensive, but not lacking quality; not pretentious, but still cultured. And despite the fact that the man next to me had putrid breath, the bus ride here through the sierra was divine--I've never seen so many cactus in my life. On the way here I was suffering from traveler's fatigue. You know, the feeling that you don't ever want to see the inside of another cathedral in your life. But I'm at least temporarily cured.

Oaxaca (pronounced woah-hawk-uh) is a bustling (yet relaxed) town, widely known for its culinary arts. We sampled some local cuisine just this afternoon. I ate a large fried tortilla covered in chicken, avocado, tomatoes, Oaxacan cheese (like mozzarella), and mole sauce, which is a dark, divine tomato sauce with chocolate and chili. Sigh. Ashley had tacos filled with cactus and cheese. Surprisingly scrumptious. The wine I drank at lunch is making a siesta my #1 priority right now, so that's that.

Moving On

2008-06-16T10:52:00.002-04:00

I'm short on time, so here's a brief synopsis of what's up:
Isla Mujeres was fun, we cancelled our leg to Guatemala because of safety reasons and tropical storms, we're back in Mexico City, and in about 1 hour we're going to Oaxaca, a small city south of the capital. All is well. Love.

Buses and Beaches

2008-06-12T18:03:00.002-04:00

On Monday night we took an overnight bus from Veracruz to Merida, a 15 hour journey. I wasn't too worried about it, especially since we paid a fortune for luxury bus tickets because we arrived late to the bus station, until our resident worrier, Megan, listed off the dangers of night buses in Mexico. Pickpockets. Hijackers. Kidnappers. Vengeful Aztec spirits. Okay, that last one was made up, but the rest seemed like viable threats. We prepared for the worst. I divided my paltry cash supply and maxed-out credit cards in various locations in my pack and on my person. I cleverly hid my passport in my travel book. I made myself look as ugly and poverty-striken as possible.

When the time came to board the bus, I noticed that all the people boarding with us were large, bulky men. I clutched my purse tighter. The man next to me whispered furtively into his cell phone. I imagined how nicely an automatic rifle would fit into the suitcase of the man across the aisle.

During the night, I dreamt that a band of drunken bandits boarded the bus with guns and forced us to buy overpriced Cheetos. Ashley swears that at one point during the night we were pulled over by the side of the road and the driver was talking to a man standing in a corn field.

In the end, the worst thing that we suffered from was a stiff neck.

We stayed just one night in Merida, where we experienced the torrential downpours of Mexico's rainy season. Yesterday, we took an early bus to the Mayan ruins of Chichen Itza. They were really cool, but extremely touristy. What impressed me most was the jungle feel of the area around the ruins. Last year an elderly German tourist plunged to her death coming down the steps of one of the temples (perhaps the Mayan gods exacted one last human sacrifice as repayment for the fact that their sacred city has become an amusement park.) So sadly, we couldn't climb the temples. At about noon, it started torrentially pouring rain and we took a 5-hour bus to Cancun. It was interesting to go through the little Mayan villages and see the mix of old and new: people living in traditional huts with Ford trucks parked in the driveway.

We bypassed the insanity of Cancun and came to a small island called Isla Mujeres. It's supposedly much less touristy, but compared to where we've been it feels like Disneyworld. I'll spare you the nitty gritty details of how freaking amazing it is here, but I'm pretty sure this is where Corona films their commercials. Oh, and I learned how to open a coconut today.

Hotness

2008-06-08T20:13:00.002-04:00

We are now in Veracruz, which is on the east coast of Mexico. We drove through the most beautiful, lush, green landscape to get here. It was almost like the jungle. When we stepped off the bus we were bombarded with the hottest heat I've experienced in quite some time. During the day it hovers around 90º F, not counting the sun. At night it cools to about 80º. Except in our hostel room, where it has consistently been about 90º since we arrived. We had to choose between ventilation and dengue-malaria-yellow fever carrying mosquitos, and because of that, we are roasting like little Spanish cuchinillos. The heat is so oppressive it's too hot to even dream. This morning I woke up with a thick layer of sweatiness all over my bod. Not cool.

On a brighter note, Veracruz is da shizzle. It's vibrant, alive, and happy. The food is great and cheap (my pits still smell like chili.) The people are open and talkative. And it's on the coast, meaning that we went to the O-shinnnnn today. Heyyy! It wasn't the prettiest beach ever, but it had water, sand, and beer. We all frolicked and ate and swim and drank and got burned, despite icing ourselves like birthday cakes with sunscreen.

Tomorrow we take a night bus to Merida, which is much farther east on the Yucatan Peninsula. Then on to some more ruins and Cancun!

I am currently reading a titillating biography of the man who conquered the Aztec Mexico in the name of Catholocism and Spain, Hernan Cortes. He did what is more or less our route, just backwards and a lot more dead bodies (we're trying to keep our ritual sacrifice to a minimum.) Cortes was a fascinating guy--a selfish, womanizing, megalomaniac religious fanatic with a thirst for conquest. I recommend checking him our if you get the chance.

Until next time!

Puebla

2008-06-06T15:45:00.002-04:00

Yesterday came to Puebla, which is about 2 hours southeast and much, much smaller than Mexico City. Our hostel is dirt cheap, and so far we've only seen one cockroach. Unfortunately, hot water is nowhere to be found.

The shopping here is wonderful and I am rapidly wasting away my budget for the trip. Expect souvenirs.

The food is soooo spicy. To give you an idea of how spicy the food is, this morning I smelled the armpit of the shirt I wore yesterday to see if it needed washing, and I realized that my sweat smells like enchiladas. Seriously. Unpleasant.

The beer here is fantastic; they add a bunch of lime juice and ice to it, and then put salt and chili powder around the rim. Genius. We discovered this method of serving beer when we stumbled into a restaurant in a shadier part of Mexico City. Incidentally, the restaurant turned out to be a gentleman's bar...but the heavily made-up "waitress" with the long, gold fake nails was really nice and pointed us back to tourist territory.

Alright, time for lunch. Besos.

Mexico

2008-06-04T19:02:00.002-04:00

Have you ever played the "Fortunately/Unfortunately" game while in a car ride or hiking? The first person starts a story with a sentence that begins with "Fortunately" and the next person has to continue the story with another sentence that begins with "Unfortunately." And on it goes until you've bored yourself to death (or the protagonist of the story has no more fortune and, unfortunately, dies.)

So let's tell the Fortunately/Unfortunately story of Beth's trip to Mexico:

Last weekend, a girl named Beth left her small pueblo in the south of Spain to visit her friend Anna in Madrid. Unfortunately, she missed her bus to Madrid because her friend Ines is a slow driver. Fortunately, she got to Anna's town just in time to see Anna's dance show. Unfortunately, she missed the interpretive dancing to My Heart Will Go On. Or was that fortunately? Anyway...fortunately, Beth got to see Anna dressed as a zombie dancing to Thriller. Unfortunately, Beth was really tired and stinky. Fortunately, Anna's new pad is spacious and comfortable and wonderful, and Beth rested up over the weekend and had a great time with her friend.

Anna and Beth went out on Saturday night in Madrid. Fortunately, it was her friend Javier's birthday, and they all went out to an amazing Japanese restaurant. Unfortunately, they accidently drank the miso soup out of the rice bowls. Fortunately, that made the chef and waiters laugh. Unfortunately, when Beth got the bill, it added up to about a tenth of her current savings. Fortunately, then they all went to Korgui's, which has the best drinks in the world, and Beth forgot about her dire lack of money.

On Monday morning, Beth got to the airport two and a half hours early for her flight to Mexico. Unfortunately, the new terminal in Madrid is the wasteland, and the employees of Iberia Airlines are slightly incompetent, and Beth had to wait in line to check her backpack for over an hour! I know this is breaking the rules, but unfortunately again, Iberia overbooked the f-ing flight and Beth couldn't get on it. But here comes the big FORTUNATELY, Beth was put on a flight later that night and refunded 600 euros! 600 euros! In cash. That's my monthly salary.

After that, it's hard to find anything else unfortunate in my situation--even my swollen kankles from the plane ride. Mexico is great. We're staying with my friend's cousins, who are American ambassadors and live in a sweet, sweet penthouse apartment in the swanky part of town. Yesterday we saw the historic city center. We visited the pyramids of Teotihuacan today. They were awesome. I'm learning how to bargain. Tonight we're going out for heartburn and gas....I mean, margaritas and tacos, and tomorrow we're packing up and heading east. I will keep you updated!

Bay-bay

2008-05-28T09:42:00.002-04:00

First of all, I apologize that the blog has been down for the past couple weeks. I figured that my readership had probably dropped to around zero, so I decided to stop posting. But as it turns out, there are still people out there who read it, (Hey Colleen and Ashley!) so I'm back by popular demand.

Today was my last day of school. It was excruciatingly painful. The whole week the children have been giving me notes and gifts and kisses, but today they physically attacked and mounted me and would not let me go until I kissed and hugged every single one. I couldn't even talk to my favorite class because I was tearing up. My mom said that they're kids and they'll probably forget about me within 3 days. As cruel as that is, I actually hope it's true. Leaving these kids makes me feel like a piece of poo.

The wide array of gifts I received range from truly moving to hilarious. One teacher didn't know it was my last day, and when I told her she started crying and literally gave me the necklace off her neck. I think the 2nd graders have driven her to madness. One child gave me a toilet paper role featuring a drawing of us holding hands. It says, "Remember me forever. Love, Nacho." I also got 3 bracelets, 2 necklaces, 4 pairs of earrings, a notebook, pens, a sculpture of a unicorn made of glass and mirrors, a "Hello Kitten" purse, a handmade sculpture made of Simpsons macaroni and rice, flip flops, a summer dress, and a bikini.

Apparently, I really moved these children. And now I feel terrible for leaving. As I should, says Steph.

Lattice Groupie

2008-04-12T17:13:00.002-04:00

I have two amazing friends who are traveling the world doing a sociological study about work-life balance among young adults. I recently wrote a guest blog for their website. Which is somehow way cooler than this blog. Here's the link:

http://www.thelatticegroup.org/content/blogcategory/19/73/

Enjoy.

April, Fools

2008-03-31T17:18:00.005-04:00

Dear Fans,

Hello! Happy End of March.

So here's the deal. The girl I had lined up to move in was a nut, and only stayed one night. Better alone than in bad company, no? So I've been living alone. At first it was really stressful, and I was really sad. And then to make matters worse the TOEFL company I write (wrote) for went out of business. Then I got stabbed by a nail and had to have an emergency tetanus shot. Then I realized that my new Macbook is compatible with NOTHING and needed like 294 euros worth of updates. Then my debit card stopped working. Then I watched Juno--which I maintain is more of a tragedy than a comedy.

But that is all in the past. Except for the debit card (Hello...Cajasol...can you here me? Send me my replacement card, please...) I don't have tetanus, I got another job, and I compatibilized by computer. And on the upside, I had a week off of work (yes, those 12 hard, long hours on the job) for Holy Week. Anna came to visit me, which was nice. I really cannot even begin to try to describe what Holy Week processions are like. But if I did, it would go something like this: Jesus parades meets KKK meets intense incense meets baby hoes meets marching bands meets waste of time? Confused? Refer to this video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LjIK8DbFGwM

In better news, it's summertime here. Sunny and hot with wildflowers everywhere. They are so beautiful.

Many of you have been asking about my plans for this summer. Right now, I am planning to be in Mexique/Central America from June 2 to June 26, then return to Spain to spend July and August on the beach. We'll see how far my money goes before I have to start turning tricks for my supper. Just kidding, Aunt Shirley.

Love you all.

Changes

2008-03-01T07:15:00.004-05:00

Evelyne left this morning. Sadness. Last night we watched Superbad together and exchanged love notes. I miss her already.

All day long I’ve been trying to make myself feel better. When I got up this morning I promptly ate all things chocolate that she left behind--cereal, candy bars, Simpsons crackers, and chocolate milk. Then I went and bought more milk for my coffee, which was really sad because Evie usually buys the milk, and I buy the toilet paper. Sigh. Then I bought a new pair of sneakers. Mine were due to be replaced about five months ago, but when I went to purchase them I came home with a pair of red pumps and a new purse. Hm. I’ve recently started running (read: awkwardly limping along) so I thought an upgrade was necessary.

I also gave an English lesson, Facebooked, made pasta salad, did yoga, bought the Ultimate Dolly Parton Collection, tanned, and G-chatted. You’d think by now I’d feel better. Oh wait, you want me to go back to that “tanned” part? Yes...I tanned. Outside. It’s like 80 degrees. I hope February is treating you this well, too.

And I guess I do feel a little better. It’s kind of exhilarating being alone. I can do anything I want to. For example, I have been listening to country music all day. Not a crowd favorite. Later I plan to walk around in my new kicks with no pants on. Perhaps living alone won’t be so bad after all.

PS: Ah! I just saw this spring’s first lizard! I just took a fuzzy photo of it with Photo Booth. I will post it with this blog. Springtime for Bollullos! (The lizard is that little dark spot in the corner of the patio about halfway up the wall.)

Mrs Extra Extra This Just In

2008-02-26T19:10:00.004-05:00

As an addendum to that last entry, I am still undecided whether it is a fantastic or terrible thing that I can't get the new Britney Spears song out of my head. Thank you, Mr. Italian DJ.

Alpenglowing

2008-02-25T09:29:00.004-05:00

Hello again!

So I have lots of newsies to tell.

First of all, I just got back from THE most amazing vacation. I went to my friend Allegra’s house in the Italian Alps. They live in a small slice of heaven called Livigno, which is in a valley in the middle of the most amazing mountains. Everyone was blond and blue eyed and was absolutely vivacious and glowing (it’s called the Alpenglau.) Imagine the Sound of Music, plus delicious Italian food. I skied, bathed in Roman baths where Leonardo da Vinci also purportedly swam, and drink lots of delicious Italian liqueurs.

My trip to Italy was sandwiched between two wonderful weekends in Madrid, where I saw loads of friends, including the ever-illustrious Lattice Group Duo, Astri and Vetta. I didn’t realize how much I had missed intellectual conversation and third-wave Feminism until I saw them. I also got the business card of an Argentinean who promised to fly me to Rio if I called him…oh, Argentinean men. They always know what to say to a woman.

So I know you’re about to DIE from jealousy, so let me assuage it a bit. Bad news: I lost my camera AND my cell phone. Worse news: my roommate (and like, only friend) Evelyne is quitting and moving home to Belgium. On Friday. AH! So I don’t know how I’m going to handle the situation…I was contemplating quitting and moving back home, too. However, after going to school today, I realized that it’s not possible. All the kids accosted me and hugged me and begged to know where I was. It was Hallmarkedly heartwarming. So, I have some serious apartment hunting and soul searching to do this week. I will update you when I make some decisions.

LOVE.

Chorizo Day

2008-01-21T15:22:00.000-05:00

Yesterday Bollullos celebrated the day of Saint Sebastian, its patron saint. When I was in Segovia, they celebrated their patron saint, San Frutos (not Fructose...which I at one time believed), by having a peaceful midnight celebration in the town square, where the residents were served cute little bowl of soup. It was quite lovely and civilized. Do you see where this is going...?

Well, if you don't, let me break it down for you. Yesterday, everyone (as in everyone) in Bollullos drives out to "el campo," which they consider to be the wilderness. It's really more like a really poorly cared for park with dust instead of grass. Between the many cars there are paths through which children get rides in the back of truck beds, old men drive horse-drawn carriages, go-karts and 4-wheelers zoom by, and people trot along on donkeys. Drunk people. Most memorably--and forgive me if this is offensive--a wasted midget dressed totally in white talking on his cell phone galloping on a white horse that had lightning bolts shaved into its hind legs.

Amidst all of this mayhem, people in groups of 10 to 30 are barbecuing and eating tapas. And drinking rebujito, one of the most dangerous drinks I have ever encountered. At first I thought I was drinking straight Sprite as people--strangers...everyone--came around and perpetually refilled my little plastic cup. But finally I realized they were pouring the "eSprite" from shady tin teapots. The drink is called rebujito, and it's a mix of Sprite and vino manzanilla, a bitter, strong white wine. It leaves you dizzy and giggly, and propels you to do crazy things like attempt to dance the Flamenco with strangers while your coworkers look on and laugh at you. Not that I would know.

There were also massive amounts of unnecessary bonfires, considering it was sunny and definitely over 70 degrees. I was so smoky after just a few hours I felt like beef jerky. Beth jerky, if you will.

Evelyne and I dodged drunk drivers and walked back into the village before sunset, but apparently there were people out there until the wee hours. Today most of the stores were closed, and about a quarter of the children were missing from school. This makes it a lot easier for me to teach, incidentally. But a lot harder for them to learn. I wish parents would get that memo.

So yes, Happy Belated Dia de San Sebastian! Chin-chin!

Oh, and if you were wondering about the title of this entry, it's that no proper Bollullero would call yesterday "El Dia de San Sebastian".....it's commonly known as "El Dia del Chorizo." Of course I would choose to spend a year in a town that throws an annual festival for a sausage. No further comment.

Meg Weber Says That My Blog Lacks Luster and Scandal

2008-01-09T16:03:00.000-05:00

Bethany Holmes kisses French men! Knocks over expensive Modern art in a posh Parisian penthouse apartment! Gets ill on Bolivian soup! Read all about it here!

In Paris, Anna, Emily and I hit up all the major tourist attractions: the Arc d'Truimph, Notre Dame, the Louvre (also known as that place where The DaVinci Code was filmed), the Champs Elysees, the Pompidou Centre, the Eiffel Tower, the Seine, Versailles (also known as the place where tourists go to die), La Madeleine, etc. If you do not know what those things are you are ignorant and country. Look how Parisian I've become! I'm a total snob! Oh wait, was that Middlebury...

Actually we spent a lot of our time chilling with Nico and Celina, and trying to find crepes and cafe for less than five euros. More details to come! Shiny, scandalous ones!

A Christmas Story

2008-01-08T09:38:00.000-05:00

OK! Catch up time! Ready? Let's go!

So, Bollullos in December. Ah....everyone moved away. Well, not everyone. Evelyne remains. But Rachel quit and went back to 'Tucky (surprise!), Adam moved to Sevilla (planned), and Emily also moved to Sevilla. So this big apartment is a little quiet and drafty. But we're looking for another roommate. If you know of anyone who is moving to Bollullos please give them my information. Or better yet, if any of you need to escape for a while to sunny Andalucia just minutes from the beach, come on over.

In other news, we ended the year well at school. I taught the kids Christmas carols. Sadly, they didn't really like Last Christmas by Wham!, despite its gloriousness. I also made Christmas cookies and fudge for the kids and teachers, which they LOVED. The kids are still bugging me to bring in the recipe.

For Christmas, I went to Paris with my friends Emily and Anna. It was magical, just like they say. Perhaps the best part, though, was seeing old friends. We spent a lot of time with my French friend Nico, who I lived with in Uruguay, but is now living in Paris. My friend Celina from Middlebury was also in Paris, where her parents lived. For Christmas we had a huge, delicious French dinner and danced the night away with a bunch of other displaced youth at Nico's place. Anna, Emily and I capped the night off by attending (a painful) Christmas morning mass at Notre Dame. It was cool because the sun rose while we were in the cathedral, and the stained glass windows lit up. Then we slept the day away.

Happy New Year!

2008-01-07T09:37:00.001-05:00

Excuse the absence, I have been busy writing TOEFL tests for Korea high schoolers learning English.

I have also been busy eating bird poop in France. No joke. Details to come. Before March, I promise!

Happy Thanksgiving!

2007-11-25T18:18:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the delay! I've had Blogger's Block and have been unable to finish an entry. I just read a short story that resonated with me about a good writer and a bad writer who both reside inside one man. The good writer can only eat lean protein, and the bad writer only eats fat, a la Jack Sprat and his corpulent wife. Eventually the ever-shrinking, starving good writer dies, leaving the fat writer to take over. Chew on that.

Speaking of eating, I just returned from Madrid where I celebrated Thanksgiving with my dear friend Anna Lown and her karass of friends. It was so nice to escape from Bollullos! And the whole weekend actually went off without any of my characteristic glitches.

To summarize, here is a list of things that I am thankful for from this weekend:
1. Cheap sangria
2. Trivial Pursuit, Spanish Genius Edition
3. French roommates and homemade crepes
4. Anonymity and the freedom to be silly in the streets!
5. H&M
6. Public transportation
7. Octopus tapas
8. Central heating
9. Water pressure in the shower
10. Pumpkin pie
11. Seeing old friends from Segovia
12. JOY on trashbins
13. Packages from my mama (thanks Pammy!)
14. Stuffing
15. Bershka
16. Stunningly handsome Madrilenos
17. Museum visits
18. Vegetarian food
19. ANNA!

Hopefully this wee I will get around to the ten or so blog entries I began last week. Stay tuned for more! Peace.

Life in a Fishbowl

2007-11-11T13:29:00.000-05:00

One of my absolute favorite things about Bollullos’ small size is that I run into my students everywhere. When I was a kid, seeing a teacher outside of school was like seeing a clown without its make-up on: scary! I always felt guilty, as if I were spying or snooping. Even at Middlebury when I saw my professors in the grocery store, we both skedaddled away as quickly as possible, as if our student-professor relationship couldn’t handle the strain of knowing that one party eats strawberries and Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

Most of the time when I see my students in the streets I laugh at the thought that they feel the same way. “Ay! La senorita Beth is buying a comforter/nail polish/a new pair of shoes…jajaja!” Most of the time I address them in English to see what their response will be. Usually they smile and say “Hello teacher.” Sometimes they get shy and giggle, other times they take the opportunity to introduce me to their parents. I actually prefer the latter, because the parents are by and large perplexed and/or extremely concerned by this young stranger speaking English to their children.

The lack of anonymity does have its downsides, of course. During the day, I can’t go out looking like a total slob. When I buy alcohol I try to do it when the kids are at school. I’m not embarrassed that I drink (if I was, it would have been a much bigger deal when my English professor saw me buying 3 handles of tequila and a cart full of Coronas for my birthday party), but I do think kids are extremely impressionable. And retaining some semblance of respectability and authority is definitely a good thing.

This weekend my out-of-class student encounters reached a whole new level. Saturday I had to make a quick grocery run for some essentials—tampons, pasta, chocolate and cough drops—and I must have seen ten of my students at Mercadona. One of my sixth grade girls even insisted on helping me bag my stuff! Saturday night I went out with my roommates and a couple Spanish girls to a bar down the street. At TWELVE-THIRTY at night I saw one of my second graders eating with her family in the smoky pub. I’ll save my criticisms of children in bars for another blog, but for now I’ll just thank heavens I was decently dressed and relatively coherent.

Cough, cough...ahem.

2007-11-07T15:22:00.000-05:00

Last weekend I got sick, but not really sick, just sick enough to make me uncomfortable and irritable. When you’re sick, your mucus—the color, consistency, and quantity—holds the key to the universe. As I searched online for answers, substituting Google for a real doctor, I meticulously examined the insides of my tissues. Thanks to the expert advice I was given on DrReddy.com, I believe I have a sore throat caused by post-nasal drip, exacerbated by coughing.

The treatment for this is to wait and do fun things like daily nasal rinses. If the problem persists for another year or so, I may have a deviated septum. For now I shall just drink tea with honey and make that really horrendous, nauseating sound that emanates from the inside of my face to clear my mucus. Yum.

Seriously, Though....

2007-11-01T14:40:00.001-04:00

The Google quote of the day is as follows: "The one serious conviction that a man should have is that nothing is to be taken too seriously."

It's a good thing Google reminded me of this today, or perhaps I would have taken it too seriously when Rachel and I went to Huelva to catch a bus to Lisbon for the weekend, and the condescending witch in customer service told us that no such bus existed (Halloween was yesterday, honey.) I may have taken it too seriously that the bus company from which we bought the tickets online doesn't even have an office in Huelva. Surely, I would have taken it too seriously that every single store in Huelva was closed today because it's All Saints Day (whoopee) and we had nothing to do from 10:30 AM until the next bus back to Bollullos at 7 PM. Other potentially serious issues of the day include the empty hostel room in Lisbon Rachel and I still have to pay for, and the failure of the bus company to find the records of the tickets we paid for, thus preventing them from giving us a refund.

As it turns out, we seriously overlooked the fact that the bus we were supposed to catch in Huelva stopped through the town at 1:30 AM, not 1:30 PM. I guess this weekend we were just not meant to go to Portugal. Or have that $150 we had before we planned our trip. Tonight, the opposite of serious is going to be wine.

Choco-Chewy

2007-10-25T13:40:00.000-04:00

Yesterday in one of my third grade classes we were practicing prepositions:

Find the cat!

Is it on the fridge?

Is it in the cupboard?

Where, oh, where?

As with most other words they say, the kids were grossly butchering the pronunciation of the song. I explained to them that "fiend" means a criminal or a bad person, so they should be careful to pronounce "find" with a long I. Well, they loved this juicy little English tidbit and before I knew it I was facing 25 eight-year-olds calling each other fiends.

That was almost as good as when I taught my second graders to say "Trick-or-Treat" and they all spelled it "Choco-Chuy" when I asked them to write it in their notebooks.

Bad Behavior

2007-10-20T04:27:00.000-04:00

There's a paradox in the way that Spanish parents treat their children. For the most part, the kids are spoiled and able to do whatever they want. They are dressed in the most adorable clothes you could imagine, and they have virtually no real responsibilities. Spanish children are fed, dressed, cleaned up after, and ass-wiped on a consistent basis. On the other hand, they are being constantly yelled at over the most trivial matters. Parents, teachers, and pretty much all adults over the age of 18 are free to yell at children as they please. And they do please. It's a strange maximalist approach in which the parents don't even really expect to be obeyed, so they chastise to a ridiculous extreme, hoping in vain that the child will take heed perhaps the 34th time they ask him to stop poking the neighbor's dog with a stick. The children know that they can do whatever they want as long as they are willing to put up with constant verbal abuse.

Punishments here are doled out so ubiquitously that they are the norm. The children that hit, poke, pinch, bite, and otherwise abuse their schoolmates during recess are put against a wall where they hit, poke, pinch, and bite the other 30 children who are there serving their time as well. Last week I helped with a second grade class in which the teacher has absolutely no control. Three kids, all wielding scissors, began hitting each other to gain access to the recycling bin (I am aware how absurd that is.) I completely freaked out and yelled at them in English until they stared at me with vague interest, at which point they ignored my demands (in Spanish) to sit down and put down the scissors. The other teacher didn't even acknowledge the debacle. In America, all three students probably would have been suspended and I would have been reprimanded if not fired. It makes me wonder whether or not there are more Spanish children missing eyes or fingers from elementary school scissor fights. It also makes me wonder if maybe we could mildly tranquilize the kids before school everyday.

The Beach

2007-10-15T15:11:00.000-04:00

On Thursday evening I went with my roommates (Rachel, Adam and Evelyne) to Matalascañas, a sleepy Atlantic coastal town. Our landlord, Manuel, generously let us stay in his waterfront chalet. In short, the weekend was amazing. If you easily become jealous, you may want to stop reading now.

The beach itself was gorgeous, expansive, intense and, miraculously, not crowded. Whereas American beaches can be more stressful than not, at Matalascañas there were no worries. Cellulite-laden couples strutted in skimpy bikinis and Speedos, tan-line-aversive women freely exposed their tetas to the sun, people swam without worrying about staying within the life-guarded zone, and children used floatie toys with gleeful abandon.

In the mornings we treated ourselves to fresh-baked bread and pastries from the local bakery. At night we went out and enjoyed the local cuisine; we even had a dish of paella made especially for us. Usually it’s only served at lunchtime, but of course as Americans we were clueless to local peculiarities and requested paella at dinner. The chef kindly cooked us up our very own plate. Being in wine country, we of course also partook in the local beverage specialties. It’s amazing how quickly one can go through wine when a good bottle only costs 1.50 euros.

Friday night proved to be one of the stranger nights of my life. Rachel and I went out for a drink and met three seemingly-nice, slightly sketchy Spanish men. We talked and exchanged numbers and said that we’d meet on Saturday on the beach. Well…the next day we decided that we didn’t really want to talk to them and weren’t going to answer if they called. Not that they we even expected a call, because, honestly, how many guys actually call?

These guys called 40 times over the next 36 hours. FORTY. I’m not exaggerating; in fact, it may have been more, I lose count when I go through my missed calls. Finally on Sunday night they sent us a melodramatic apology, saying that even though our paths would never cross again in our lives they just wanted to tell us that we are adorable and they were sorry for trying to put the moves on us on Friday. Foolishly, I responded accepting the apology, and was again barraged by a series of texts and calls suggesting that we all live together on the weekends at the beach. Partly flattered, mostly freaked-out, I have decided that I will take the numbers from now on.

And if you’re wondering if I went topless on the beach, too…well, when in Rome…

The 9-to-5 (or 10-to-2) Grind

2007-10-09T18:23:00.000-04:00

Unlike the last time that I was in Spain, this time I’m actually obligated to do work. Twelve hours of work per week, precisely. I spend these twelve hours in an elementary school called C.E.I.P. Manuel Perez. I shadow two teachers: Valle, my boss-woman who is lovely and can actually speak a bit of English, and Mercedes, who shamelessly butchers every English word she says, and who gets her kicks from berating children. In Valle’s class, I converse with the kids and help with pronunciation; in Mercedes’, I twiddle my thumbs while she shrieks insults at the children. It makes for an interesting day.

Some of the kids are really as sweet as sugar (one girl walked up to me and kissed me on the arm my first day) and others are not as innocent, but flattering nonetheless (the boys, who when asked to describe me in English, said bee-you-tee-fl.) However, when in the classroom with Mercedes, most are simply scared shitless and react like beaten dogs by either retreating or lashing out. The second graders are fun to teach because they are so far from being “too cool for school” that we can actually have a good time, and the sixth graders are competent enough in English that we can usually conduct a fairly stimulating class; the fourth graders, however, are wild and inattentive and much more difficult to teach. Much as I was, if I remember correctly, around 5th grade. It’s coming back around, I guess.

Bollullos is small enough, too, that I see many of these kids when I go outside. Today, for example, I saw some of my 6th graders on my walk back from the grocery store. To my surprise and enjoyment, they greeted me in English and seemed genuinely happy to see “la maestra nueva.” I wished I hadn’t been carrying four clinking bottles of wine, but thankfully they didn’t seem to notice. Yesterday, however, I walked past a sixth grader with his older brother and about 5 other 16-year-old boys, and was barraged by a variety of suggestions of what I could teach them…none publishable on this PG-13 blog.

(P.S. That sky is real...and that picture is from my broken, crappy Nikon, too.)

Menos Mal

2007-10-07T14:00:00.000-04:00

As I sit here showered, fed, clothed and well-rested, life is looking quite sunnier than it did several days ago. After a bit of haggling, a bit of traveling, and a whole lot of inconvenience, I recovered my suitcase with its contents in tact.

I arrived in my pueblo Wednesday evening with just my address. Being that Bollullos is such a small town, I figured I would be able to simply ask someone how to get to my road. Unfortunately, Bollullos is such a small town that people don’t know street names; the streets are identified by their contents: bars, bakeries, mothers-in-law. So I walked for an hour being pointed in every which way, circling but never reaching Calle Perez Merchante. Twice I was told that I was on Perez Merchante and rang the bell of #31, only to be told that I was in the wrong spot. Finally, after asking upwards of 20 people, I ran across a couple who actually lived on Perez Merchante and trailed them home. But when I rang the bell of #31, an old man answered. I asked him if this was Perez Merchante 31. Even he didn’t know! ("I can't much remember anymore," he confided.) Luckily, his daughter came to the door and told me that I was probably looking for the apartment next door, also #31. There are 3 #31s on my street. I’d be worried that the mailman might get confused at this, but I think in Bollullos everyone knows where everyone else lives.

I share the apartment with two Americans (Adam, from Montana, and Rachel, from Kentucky) and one Belgian, Evelyn. We are all in the Auxiliares program, although in different schools. Our apartment is airy and beautiful, although a little unkempt. I get the sense that it’s been unoccupied for quite a while (the real estate market in Bollullos isn’t what we would call booming.) The remnants of the previous tenant—fake flowers, lace curtains and over 40 pictures of the Virgin Mary—add a certain “elderly” feel to the piso, but hopefully with time those will be phased out. The roof is, by far, the gem of the apartment. It is open, sunny, and overlooks the pueblo and the campo. It is the perfect place for a party; the only piece of the puzzle we are missing is friends.

Worst Case Scenario

2007-10-04T17:28:00.000-04:00

Have you ever played the “Worst Case Scenario” game? It involves imagining the worst possible things that could happen in any given situation, making the events that actually do unfold pale in comparison to the imagined WCS.I play it when I’m nervous about something in the future, like going to Spain without money, housing or friends. Usually in my WCSs I end up an amputee with AIDS stranded on an arctic island.

That hasn’t happened so far, but here’s what has (proving, yet again, that truth is stranger than fiction): Thursday night, my flight from Buffalo to New York was delayed 5 hours. Not only did I spend more time in Buffalo than any human being ever should, but I missed my flight to Madrid. After waiting in line for an hour with black and blue shoulders (yes, I over packed), I booked another flight to Spain—for the next day at 8 PM. I didn’t have a cell phone, but luckily I did have my friend Steph’s number written down. I called her and arranged to take the Airbus and subway to her apartment in Manhattan. It would be almost a 2 hour trip, but worth it to see her and to sleep in a bed. At 4th Street in a tired haze, I accidentally took the V train to Queens. Queens. Which I realized not until I was in Queens. So my subway ride ended up lasting quite a bit longer than I had anticipated.

The next day, believing the woman who just the night before had told me I wouldn’t have to check in again, I arrived at JFK airport with only an hour to spare before my flight. I had to check in again. With a condescending Jamaican woman who heartedly I believed that I missed my flight on purpose to make her life more difficult. And half of Delta’s X-ray machines weren’t working. I literally ran onto my flight after getting stopped by security and having each individual piece of luggage tested for…well, I don’t know…gunpowder? SARS? Nuclear residue? My plane proceeded to sit for 2 hours on the runway because of ground traffic before we took off.

My friend Anna graciously picked me up from Barajas airport in Madrid the next morning and put me up for two very fun nights. On Sunday, we went back to Segovia, where we had both lived and studied our junior year. We met up with old school friends, one of whom is from Sevilla. I asked her about the pueblo I’m teaching in, hoping she would confirm my plans to live in Sevilla and commute to the pueblo. But no. Not only is there not regular bus communication between Sevilla and Bollullos Par del Condado (this, I have confirmed), but according to her Bollullos is a rotten, backwards place where no one leaves after they are born (I will report on this soon.) After seeing my excitement fade to pure trepidation, she added, “Well, there is a movie theater…”

I went down to Granada on Monday for orientation, which was fine and well despite having to socialize with 600 strangers who made inane small talk and spoke Americanese loudly through the streets.

I left Granada on Tuesday night to come to Sevilla via train. At the Granada train station, I was only able to bring on half my luggage at once. As I went back to the platform to lug up my monstrous suitcase that held 50 pounds of my clothing and other belongings (such as my cell phone charger), the train pulled away. Never to return, not even after I cried for the conductors. They promised me they would have someone put the suitcase on the 9 AM train the next morning. I arrived in Sevilla dirty and dejected late at night in the rain. I went to the nearest hotel to try to catch a cab, but everyone that stopped refused to pick me up. I assumed it was because I was American (Do I smell? I wondered.) I found out from a benevolent taxi driver who finally did give in to my well-timed tears that the cab drivers were striking against the hotel I was standing in front of because they owed the cab company money! I arrived at my hostel at 1 AM and immediately went to bed, only to be awakened by a middle-aged British man straight out of Monty Python who wore what appeared to be a silk diaper to bed and who smelled so bad I literally couldn’t sleep. At 4 AM a German boy finally complained to the front desk, and the man begrudgingly moved to a single room after lots of fussing and bitching.

I woke up Wednesday morning to not hot water, and a fear of the mysteriously sticky shower so great that I chose to remain dirty. Very dirty. I guarantee you have never seen nor smelled me this dirty. After wandering Sevilla this morning for five hours, utterly lost between my hostel and train, I found out that my bag didn’t make it to Sevilla. The train was stopped for some reason and the passengers brought by bus to the nearest station. The suitcase…well…they don’t know. They told me to come back at 9, long after I left for my pueblo.

So, that's where I stand. Dejectedly. Tonight I go to my pueblo, tomorrow I start teaching the little beasts. Hasta pronto.

2006-05-20T17:09:00.000-04:00

So I've been trying to think of a blog topic to write about, but I realized that I am actually happy, leaving very few things to sarcastically deride. I'm going to ride this wave as long as it lasts, so please excuse the lack of blog entries.

An Itchy Sitch

2006-05-10T19:01:00.000-04:00

My last night with my now former host family solidified my decision to move like bacon grease in a cold pan. I don’t know if I’ve already mentioned the fact that the roof on which I lived is infested with colonies of bloodthirsty mosquitoes, but if I haven’t, know now that it is. And know also that for some reason I have always been exceptionally attractive to mosquitoes. If you ever get the chance to see my Sears Portrait Studio baby pictures, you’ll witness the fact that I was a very scabby kid. I awoke last Saturday morning with eleven new bites on my hands and four on my face (as those were my only body parts above-sheet.)

Usually by the time I wake up, the mosquito has already died of an overdose of my blood, but this particular morning I saw the gorged beast that had maimed me so, still hovering above me like a gluttonous vulture waiting to swoop in on road-kill kitten. My frustration immediately turned into a burning desire to take revenge on the mosquito. I went into stealth mode and grabbed my Garnier hairspray, and doused the fiend until its little wingsies were stuck together. While it was frantically writhing on the ground I amputated its legs, and finally, I made it a burial shroud of Elmer’s glue. To celebrate, I painted my nails with my pretty pink strawberry icing nail polish to match and moved the heck out of that room.

In other news, I forgot to pack the entire contents of my underwear drawer and had to go back Sunday to load up my panties with my ex-host mom.

P.S. The pictures are from Italy.

As Fred Durst would say...

2006-05-06T11:58:00.000-04:00

Last weekend I made my host family Tollhouse cookies (well, a bastard version of them because the US is the only country in the world that has discovered the joys of chocolate chips) and the next day my host mom told me I could stay if I wanted to. And it was rash and unfounded for her to ask me to leave. Yeah right, Ana. Why don't you just go take that cookie and stick it up your cula. I move today.

2006-04-30T11:51:00.000-04:00

All is well again in Montevideo. I found somewhere else to live (an apartment with student--a.k.a built-in friends, which I need) and I talked things out with Ana, so it's not so terribly excruciating to be living in my current house now. I move in a week. I must admit, though, that at times I find it difficult to resist the temptation to sabotage the house while I'm still there. The urge to avenge myself takes form in odd little urges. Yesterday, I threw a slice of tomato at the cat. I have been washing my clean clothes to use the washing machine more. I used somebody's shower towel to wipe up the leak in the bathroom. Am I a horrible person? Perhaps. Will karma inevitably come back and screw me over even more? Assuredly. But it feels good. And the cat is the spawn of satan anyway.

Here I Go Again on my Own

2006-04-24T10:45:00.000-04:00

On the heels of a relatively relaxing Semana de Turismo, last week was difficult. I had several short essays due, and the only thing that really propelled me to go to my excruciatingly boring class was a certain Uruguayan boy whose smile gives me butterflies. By the time I left my internship Friday afternoon, I was ready for a relaxing weekend. Unfortunately, my dreams of leisurely doing my laundry on Saturday (yes, I am turning into Pam) were shattered. The following is an abridged, translated transcription of the fateful conversation I had with my Uruguayan mom Saturday morning:

Ana: Beth, we need to talk.
Me: Okay.
Ana: You’re really stressing me out. Sometimes, you’re not very talkative, and it seems like you’re not happy. That’s a problem. Everyone in the household must be happy at all times. I don’t know if this is a personal defect of yours, but I wish you would just act happy even when you’re not.
Me: Um, yeah I guess it MUST be a defect of my person. It couldn’t possibly be that I am living 4,000 miles away from home in a strange city, taking three classes, completing an internship and a Cuaderno, and trying to make friends and have a good time in the meantime. I will be constantly amicable from now on.
Ana: Also, it’s really stressing me out that I have to actually live with you. When I agreed to take you in, I was only thinking about the money and not about what it would be like to live with someone else. I like to be happy at all times. It’s too hard for me to buy one extra portion of food for you a day. And it’s stressful when we run out of food. Could you please stop eating lunch here?
Me, crying: But Ana, I already don’t eat breakfast here, and most of the time there aren’t leftovers for dinner for me to eat. You don’t know that because you’re never here. How can you ask me to not eat lunch when I pay you almost twice your monthly salary for a concrete block room on your roof? I don’t understand.
Ana: It sounds like you are very unhappy here and are only concerned with materialistic things. You should find somewhere else to live. Don’t take it personally, we really like you!
Me, crying: Um, okay, I guess.
Ana: Good! Then we agree! Ciao!

That’s right. I’m getting the boot, and I’m not totally sure why. There really is only one explanation for this, proposed by Stephanie Hasara, which is as follows: “They must be total freaks.” So if anyone knows where I can find a living space in Montevideo, other than a doorway or dark alley, give me a ring! Ciao!

The Easter bunny went missing this year

2006-04-17T16:45:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago I wrote on this very blog that I was enamored with Costa Azul and the grandparents of my faux family. The magic has worn off, folks; what was once endearing about the elderly duo now makes me pine for rigor mortis to set in.

I will recount to you why this sudden change of alliances occurred. Last Thursday I went with my mom, Ana, to Costa Azul to spend Semana de Turismo with the ta-tas. We arrived at 9, tired and hungry, but in Blanca’s house, one doesn’t eat until Blanca serves her. Because Blanca is a maniacal and deeply entrenched in the throes of obsessive compulsive disorder. And that Thursday night, Blanca and Raúl were busy watching home videos of their garden from 1994. So that Thursday night, Beth and Ana sat hungrily staring at chrysanthemums blow in the wind for an hour until the television snowed. Bad start.

The next day I went for a long walk on the beach and came back to find that I had delayed a road trip that they had planned for me, deeply offending Blanca, who must always be on schedule. We set out at 11 and drove through what Raúl deemed to be “the most beautiful part of Uruguay.” Also known as barren hills. To mix things up a little, we stopped at an alligator farm. Unfortunately, it was pouring rain and all the alligators were hiding, so we only saw a cage with hundreds of baby alligators in a stinky shed. For the rest of the trip, I sat on vinyl seats with a soggy bottom. When we finally got out of the car at 5 to eat, Blanca said that I was unsanitary with my wet pants and almost didn’t let me get back into the car. Honestly I didn’t really want to, either.

On Saturday it was chilly, so I spent the day inside with Blanca literally following me around cleaning up what I was doing as I was doing it. She told me my pimples looked like fly bites and I should get them checked out. Also, she made muffins at eight in the morning but wouldn’t let anyone eat them until five. That’s cruel. To spite her I grabbed a piece of lettuce out of the bowl during lunch. It felt so good. I also forced another shit when I realized she sanitized the toiled bowl each time someone went to the bathroom.

Another thing about Blanca is that she doesn’t use salt in her cooking. Or spices. Or sauce. And she tsks me when I do. Then they sit around exclaiming how “rico” everything is. I’m sorry. This is a white potato. It has no skin, no sauce, no salt, and no spices. This is not rico, Blanca. I’m going to set you up with Nancy, my Nana Extraordinaire, and then you will learn what rico is.

It wasn’t all tears and jeers, though; there were a couple redeeming moments during the weekend. For three nights I fell asleep to the ocean instead of car alarms. Also, Raúl randomly had a copy of An Affair to Remember, which I cajoled him into watching instead of home videos for an evening. And best of all, on Saturday night they taught me how to play gin rummy, and when Blanca and Ana lost, 87-year-old Blanca flipped us all the bird, making my 17-year-old sister Lola pee her pants in laughter. Mark that one down for the record books.

So I guess it could have been worse--I hear 5 eggs are missing in the Holmes household.

2006-04-10T15:02:00.000-04:00

Okay, two little unrelated anecdotes for you.

Numero 1: I have perservered with this blasted swimming regimen, and I actually am a little addicted to the smell of chlorine on my skin. Last week, though, it was rainy in the morning and my butt had made a deep, comfortable divot in my lumpy mattress, making it utterly impossible to get out of bed to swim. I mustered up some motivation later and went for a dive in the afternoon. That also happens to be when 47 kindergarten tots swim, too. At first I thought it was adorable. Smiling, screaming chubby 6-year-old cheeks are much more entertaining than the drooping 68-year-old cheeks I see in the morning. Then I remembered that my absolute favorite thing to do in a pool when I was 6 was pee. And then run inside and drink a glass of water so I could get back in the pool and pee some more. That slightly cheapened the cuteness. From now on I think I'll stick to the mornings.

Numero 2: Freshman year I signed up for Amnesty International, but to date I have never attended a meeting. For the past two and a half years I have received weekly e-mails, which have never been annoying enough to impel me to request to be taken off the list. However, since I've been abroad, Amnesty International has lost control of itself. I receive e-mails by the hour, and they're usually about going to get dinner in Fireplace Lounge, NOT about Amnesting things. So, I write to dear Ms. Bridgette Frett requesting to be taken off the mailing list, and she e-mails me back saying "this was an all school email." Nice capitalization, Brid-geeet. And excuuuuuuuse me that I can't keep track of the tens of thousands of e-mails with which you bombard me, and the rest of the campus every week. I don't even know what amnesty means! Just because you get people to sign letters doesn't make you priestess of the universe. I would bet my college writing credit, too, that NO ONE reads those letters, anyway. I'm going to send YOU letters, Bridge, bitching about the cruel and unusual conditions to which you submit my already crowded inbox. And we'll see if you read them.

Hippity hoppity Easter's on its way!

2006-04-07T19:11:00.000-04:00

In ten days the Christians of the world will celebrate the rising of Jesus Christ the Savior, probably the most important holy day on the calendar. In the Holmes household, Pam will hide hard boiled eggs and baskets full of num-nums for the little ones, and inevitably I will find one of those eggs when I come home in August, stinking and rotting in the basket of gloves and mittens. Here in Uruguay, Catholicism is associated with the dictatorship of the 1970s, which was horrible and oppressive. Thus, this upcoming week isn't "holy week," it is "tourism week." Thus, we still get the ENTIRE week off from school and work, and we don't even have to go to mass on Sunday! Hooray for disbelievers!

Costa Azul

2006-04-03T10:35:00.000-04:00

Yesterday we went out to Costa Azul to visit the grandparents (ta-ta's) of my fake sisters. They are both in their upper eighties and probably the most adorable things I've ever seen in my life. Abuela Blanquita's face is so wrinkled, she could carry around snacks in the crevices. Abuelo Raùl is famous for his open-flame fried french fries, which he claims is a Uruguayan indian recipe (while pouring the frozen french fries from the bag.) Costa Azul is about an hour by car, two hours by bus, from Montevideo, and has the most gorgeous white sand beaches. The water is calm, and the tiny town is barely inhabited because everyone's gone back to the city for the fall. All the neighbors know each other and all the kids have grown up together for what seems like at least four generations. It's pretty much Pleasantville on the beach. And when Blanquita talks to me, she grab my face with both hands and kisses me for no reason. I am enamored.

Working Girl

2006-03-29T15:15:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I get in this weird mood where everything in my life must be organized. By size, type, color, title, date added to my life, and every other categorization I can think of. I say that this is a weird mood for me because usually I'm fairly disorganized--my mom alternates calling me "sweetie" and "such a slob," affectionately, of course. That said, I started my first day as an intern at the Uruguay School of Cinematography. My first task? Organizing 800+ backlogged, semi-titled student-made VHS tapes. I have never had to force myself into organizational mode like that; if I ever have to do so again, I hope I'll be in a city that has a Starbucks.

My brain is fried, and I smell like an attic. After a tough day at any of my previous jobs, I'd just go blow all the money I made that day on making myself feel better. After all, I'd earned it. Unfortunately, I am getting paid nothing but "valuable life experience," which is nice, but isn't accepted at most tiendas around town.

Middlebury conquers the planet

2006-03-24T09:00:00.000-05:00

I went to the US Embassy here in Montevideo to register myself. You know, in case I spontaneously combust they'll know to call Pam. I could have registered online, but I like the embassy environment. I like having my number called the most, I suppose. So anyway, I made it through the outside waiting lines, the first round of bag checks and metal detectors, the second round of metal detectors after my bag was confiscated, and a beautiful grandiose lobby when I finally reached the waiting room. I anxiously listened for my number, lucky number 87, to be called, when something caught my eye. On the bookshelf, stacked between Forbes and The Economist was none other than Middlebury Magazine. It was about a year old, but my heart still jumped with pride (and confusion) when I realized what I was looking at. I wondered what impression the magazine gives bored Uruguayans when they peruse it. That we are obsessed with interdepartmental mergers? That we all get married holding our college banner? That Middlebury is so formative that crazy 90-year-old alumni are still reading the publication from cover to cover searching for grammatical errors to bitch about? Who knows...I just wished they had the issue with the article about the kid who grew up with a leopard. I don't know him, but that story was the shit. Uruguayans think we all carry handguns, why not spread the word that we all have pet leopards, too?

Giving it another go.

2006-03-21T08:20:00.000-05:00

Okay, so my class sucked. Who knew that Philosophy in Latin America is the most excruciatingly boring class in existence? I'm not exaggerating. I considered puncturing my ear drums with my pen, but instead I just drew amorphous blobs on my notebook. Today I have my Uruguayan lit class, as well as an introductory Italian course I'm auditing. Ciao!

I just wanna bang on my drum all day...

2006-03-20T08:15:00.000-05:00

Today summer officially ends here in Montevideo. My adoptive sister, Mariana, and I started a strict workout regimen. Every morning we're going to swim laps for 45 minutes. It wasn't as painful as I thought it would be, but there was a lot of wheezing and flailing involved on my part. After working out, she headed to work, and I went home and beached myself on my bed. I live in a room separate from their apartment on the fourth floor of the building (the technical term is the roof), and it took me approximately ten minutes for my jello legs to climb the stairs. The upside is that I am addicted to the musky scent of chorine the way that little kids love to smell markers, so I've been happily nuzzling my head into my shoulder all day.

I also start classes tody, which, supposedly, are harder than classes at Middlebury. I'm not saying that I did absolutely nothing in Spain, but I will venture a guess that I'm going to be bitching a lot about the workload. Who knows, maybe an in-depth knowledge of Uruguayan literature will come in handy down the road. Ahem.

Sticky Situation?

2006-03-16T10:08:00.000-05:00

I have officially been in Uruguay for one week. It still feels good. I''ve chosen my courses (Uruguayan Literature and Filosophy of Latin America) and this afternoon I have internship interviews. All in all, it's a faster pace of life here than in Spain, which may be because Montevideo is significantly bigger than Segovia, or because Spanish people do nothing. In any case, it seems like after this semester, the workload at Midd won't be such a terrible shock.

It's really hot and humid here--which I like, don't get me wrong--but I have a sweat problem. I have this permanent grease on my face and clammy hands and wet armpits. It's like being really awkward and hormonal in middle school again...except without the slow dances to KC and JoJo. Anyway, the weather should cool down soon so I can stop being the gross kid at school, but feel free to post any suggestions to assist me in my condition.

Change of Hemisphere

2006-03-13T09:12:00.000-05:00

Hello world. I don't know who is still reading this besides my mom (Pam...are you there?), but together we start a new chapter in my journey abroad and your vicarious living. Five days ago I arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay. You probably best know it as that South American city where Carmen Sandiego was rumored to hide according to official dossiers. To be concise, because the temperature is about 80 degrees and it's just me and some 14 year old boys playing FIFA soccer in this cyber cafe, I love it here. The people are friendly and unpretentious, the country itself is gorgeous, and the beaches are never-ending. Take that, Spain!

It's Like WWF in your No-No Zone

2006-02-02T08:11:00.000-05:00

In English, we call a woman’s monthly menstrual cycle her “period.” Logical, wouldn’t you say? It comes periodically, and “bloody plunging uterus tissue” is bit graphic. In Spanish, the commonly used term is bajar la regla, which translated literally means “to lower the rule.” A better translation is “your uterus is laying the smack down on all other aspects of your life.” I believe this description more accurately describes the process than “period.” One point Spanish, zero English.

Bendy Beth

2006-01-30T04:51:00.000-05:00

For Christmas, Mama Bear Holmes sent me three pounds of Sour Patch Kids, a large sack full of chocolates, and a homemade pecan pie, all of which promptly disappeared into my tummy. As I lay bloated and gluttonous on the ground, I discovered that wedged between these goodies was The Essential Yoga DVD. Even though I haven’t been in a gym since last August, I was pretty sure I could still dominate some "essential" pretzel postures quicker than you could say pranayama. I guess you can figure out what happened next. I got past the breathing exercises fine, although we did a weird puffy thing that makes me sound like an asthmatic smoker. By the end of the first move, my muscles were trembling. What I don't understand is how I can be out of breath while doing yoga when I don't even move. I tried to make my body into dogs and cats and camels and trees, but I just gave up and lay on my cold floor waiting for lunchtime. How can Madonna do this?

I think I'm going to try Scientology out instead, can someone send me a pamphlet, please?

"Shut up, just shut up, shut up"

2006-01-25T09:59:00.000-05:00

So, since I returned from Christmas vacation, my life has totally changed. For the worst, mostly. You see, at Middlebury, students do lots of work and hate their lives. Here we just take it easy and act Spanish and stuff. Except now finals have started, and there's a great divide between the people who are ignoring the fact that they have finals and are failing school, and those of us who are doing lots of work and hating our lives. The failers, like Ms. Rocío I-don't-have-an-inside-voice, are tearing it up and screeching like Rhesus monkeys at all hours of the day. The haters, like me, have bought guns. We'll see who's going to be acting all Spanish now, Rocío.

The Only Word I Learned was Whipcream

2006-01-17T05:23:00.000-05:00

The second week of Christmas break I ditched the crazy European family for a crazy European city. After ringing in the year of two-thousand six, I promptly hopped a train to Amsterdam with my dear friend Anna. Although we’re usually fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants travelers, we were surprisingly responsible and even reserved a hotel ahead of time. Alas, when we arrived at the Heart of Amsterdam Hotel, we realized that the heart of Amsterdam is a giant festering red-light district of immorality, riddled with sex workers and drug tourism. Anyone who has ever stepped foot inside my bedroom at home knows that I can tolerate more than a little filth; however, I draw the line when middle-aged Dutch men invite me into live porn theaters with the less than appetizing catch phrase that “big willies await.” We stayed the night there, but only because we had already paid for the beds and dire poverty goes hand in hand with being twenty years old. The night didn’t do badly—a nice Yugoslavian boy even invited us to eat psychedelic mushrooms with him and his Canadian friend and then go tripping to the Van Gogh museum the next day. Unfortunately, we had already made big plans to pay for sex, so we had to decline.

We spent the rest of the week in a better location on the 587th floor of a hostel without an elevator or functioning showers.

Our waking hours were a little more favorable, as Anna has relatives in Amsterdam who treated us to some nice Dutch fun. Uncle Dirk conveniently works at a museum and snuck us into the backdoors of all the major museums of the city. I saw The Night Watch, a wonderful Rineke Djikstra photography exhibit, the Van Gogh museum (sober), and really fascinating history of Amsterdam museum. However, the dear man kind of made me reconsider a career in museums. Partly because he was a lonely bachelor whose sole companion was a cat named Beibel, but also because after twenty years in museums he pretty much detested all the art and had to cap each museum visit off with a beer. Or two. Oh, Uncle Dirky.

Another night, Aunt Eva and Uncle Ari took us out to a five course authentic Indonesian dinner. While I was eating the deliciously exotic food, I guiltily thanked my lucky stars that Indonesia had been a colony of Holland. Then I cursed the Spanish because if anyone has conquered and oppressed half the world and should have the spoils to prove it, surely it would be them. But still, the cured ham persists. Dammit.

With a visitor’s guide whose first sentence warns that women may not always be women, and an entire food industry of pizza, waffles, double fried French fries, and crepes catering to high tourists, I must say Holland was a lovely break from Spain. And, despite the grungy film I had to scrub off when I got home, I must give Amsterdam a great big dank u wel met slagroom for a great start to the new year.

José Feliciano Never Mentioned Any of This....

2006-01-09T12:43:00.000-05:00

The following is a small summary of my Christmas adventures in Spain. Read on.

I. It was just thirty years ago that he dictatorship of Franco fell and Spanish women were allowed to, and I’m just barely exaggerating, leave the house. For all the ground they have covered in being educated and infiltrating the work force, they sure haven’t lost any territory in the home. In Teresa’s cozy, and yes, I mean that in the most condescending way possible in order to convey the fact that I am going insane in this teeny apartment, we have a power struggle between a hefty, mean grandmother and her daughter, Teresa’s mom, who is wavering dangerously on the border between a MILF and haggard housewife. Half the time she wears a tattered pink robe, hair rollers, and has a cigarette hanging out of mouth, and the other half I have a nice ample view of her bosom and butt cleavage. Her grandmother spends half the time telling Teresa and I we are fat, and the other half insisting that we eat obscene quantities of sausage. I have witnessed both women sneaking sherry from the liquor cabinet on more than one occasion.

II. One of the main differences between my house and Teresa’s on Christmas day reflects the fact that instead of living gifts on Christmas day, Spaniards wait until the Reyes Magos, more or less the equivalent of Santa Claus, come on the 5th of January. So the focus of Christmas day is just eating and enjoying the company of friends and family. Too bad my “family and friends” grilled me about American politics for a good portion of dinner. And the funny thing was, I didn’t understand at first that when they said “Booooos” they actually meant “Bush,” so I really looked liked an informed citizen when I said I have no idea who Booooos is.

The “food” thing didn’t go over so well, either, considering we pretty much ate the entire cast of Spongebob Squarepants, save Sandy the Squirrel. I had to decapitate and dismember most of what I ate, except for the octopus, which was already cut into little bite-size pieces for me. They gave me the end of the tentacle, which unraveled and got stuck in my esophagus for a bit. But don’t worry, Mom, I was a polite guest and ate everything. Then I proceeded to get the stomach flu accompanied by a high fever for the next three days. Teresa’s mom blamed it on a virus, but I blame it on the fact that the raw meat likes to chill out with the fruits and vegetables in their refrigerator.

III. I have, however, won the affection of both Teresa’s thirteen year old brother, and her wiener dog. The dog, whose name I still don’t know because it’s in English and they can’t pronounce it, was so dumb that it literally forgets who I was every time I left the house. It just barks and barks and barks. It has bit me twice. Once in the face. When it does, they just say its unintelligible name over and over again until they forget why they were mad at it and then just pet it. Mostly it just humps my leg, though. Kind of like the little brother, who always found an excuse to close the door when we were in a room alone together. That’s the most Spanish action I’ve had in a while.

IV. For New Year’s Eve we ate twelve grapes at midnight for good luck, then got all dolled up to go to cotillion, a big party in a hotel that you stay at all night instead of bar hopping. A loose translation is “prom with an open bar.” We looked very pretty-- which I can say without seeming conceited when I add--and when the grandmother saw me, she told me I should try to find a husband because I probably wouldn’t have much luck any other night. Thanks, gram. I had fun though, and I think this whole 2006 thing is going to work out just fine. HAPPY NEW YEAR!

You Know You Giotto... Saturday, December 3, 2005

2005-12-14T09:08:00.000-05:00

Pretty much all the art history professors I know entertain a certain fetish for the Arena Chapel in Padova. A watershed in the sphere of art, the frescoes of the chapel by Giotto mark an early emergence of the perspective of the Renaissance in a world of planar medieval images. It's pretty important--don't get me wrong--but after visiting it I realized that art historians are off their rockers.

In order to enter the chapel, built by the notorious usurer Enrico Scrovegni in order to save his dirty soul from the blazes of hell, one must make a reservation before arriving in Padova. Then, one must present herself exactly one hour before he rerservation at the ticket desk, which is impossible to find. The Chapel's website suggests taking buses 3, 8, 10, or 12 to get there from the train station. I suggest NOT because it is a 2.5 second walk from the station, and one might, perhaps, wait twenty minutes for a bus ride that will deposit her 40 meters away. The next step in the process is a mandatory 55 minute walk through the most boring museum I've ever been to in my life, after relinquishing all bags, coats, and undergarments to the coat room. Then, exactly five minutes before the time of one's reservation, one must present herself, ticket in hand, to the pressurizing chamber. In the PC, the group of 25 lucky viewers watches a photomontage of the chapel while all the bad, normal air humans breathe is sucked out, and special Giotto air is bestowed upon them. Finally, after fifteen minutes in the holding cell, the group escorted into the chapel by a member for the mafia equipped with an automatic rifle to be used if someone tries to breathe on the work. Everyone proceeds to strain their necks to see the frescoes for a grand total of 15 minutes before being released back into the lowly human world.

Despite of all the hoo-haw that the Arena Chapel has aroused, I'd bet a dime or two that Enrico Scrovegni is still burning in hell.

Venice the Menace: Sunday, December 4, 2005

2005-12-13T12:12:00.000-05:00

There comes a time in our lives when we just stop replacing things. To buy an oven with a 25-year warranty when we are 80 would be wishful thinking. So instead we just eat our meatloaf a little underdone. It's not that we welcome death; it's just more like saving up for a nicer tombstone.

Although it may be a little morbid, I think Venice has adopted this attitude with, well, the entire city. The founding Venetian fathers were an ambitious bunch, choosing overpriced gondolas, murky water, and extreme inconvenience over the practicality of boring old roads. However, the Venetians of today are sinking, and they are making sure no new siding is going down with them. The city is absolutely stunning; however, the dilapidated facades of most of the buildings and the general poor condition of sidewalks and bridges are a depressing reminder of the eventual demise of the water-logged city. So go visit it--it's way better than the Venetian in Las Vegas, I promise.

Luftwaffe II: Thursday, December 1

2005-12-12T11:55:00.000-05:00

At first, the requests by 50-year-old men in the streets of Spain for fresh milk from my tetas offended me. But, as the months here wore on, I became a master of ignoring the men and internalizing their offensive remarks not as rude affronts, but instead as compliments. Sadly, my method of walking away from these catcalling middle-aged men does not work, as I learned today, when they are sitting next to you on airplanes. A gentleman about 25 years past his prime was my plane buddy on my flight to Florence. When he realized I wasn’t, he told me I looked Spanish. I told him that was bullshit. He told me he wondered how a Spanish woman could be so beautiful. I cursed the airport for not letting me bring my pocketknife as a carry-on. He invited me, in earnest, to travel to Istanbul, Turkey with him instead of going to Florence. I told him my friend in Florence was like a sister and I couldn’t pass seeing her. He told me he would be my sister. After that I immediately feigned sleep and awoke to find him fondling himself. At the end of the flight, he took pictures of me with his camera phone. Ladies, bless the Lord you are in the United States.

Sorry It's Been Awhile, But.....

2005-12-05T05:48:00.000-05:00

I am in Italy. Florence for an art history major is like the bank for an economics major. I will debrief you all when I get back to Spain. Ciao!

Gobble Gobble!

2005-11-24T09:04:00.000-05:00

Imagine yourself on Thanksgiving. You're in a warm home surrounded by friends and family; you can smell the turkey roasting in the oven and pumpkin pie cooling on the range. You hear glasses clinking and the murmur of loved ones chatting and the hurrahs of the football game coming from the television. Outside, a few light snowflakes are gently tossed through the crisp air, and warn you of the impending winter.

If you dig a hole through the center of the earth, and come out on the other side, you will be in Segovia, Spain. I MISS YOU ALL!

Then I Stopped, Dropped, and Rolled into Bed

2005-11-21T07:51:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite pastimes is to bitch about the fire alarm system at Middlebury. I swear, Public Safety (in cahoots with NASA and NOAA) pinpoints the coldest, rainiest, snowiest, windiest, horriblest days to test the fire alarms. But they don't do it until five minutes after everyone is in bed. However, I shall complain no longer.

Saturday night, everyone was living it up the way Spaniards do on Saturday nights. We didn't leave to go to the discoteca until 4 A.M. When we arrived at 4:15, I had expended all the energy I had left and decided to turn right back around and hit the sack. When I got home, the entire patio was filled with smoke. This is normal. However, usually it's cigarette smoke. This was "Hey! Somebody left plastic shit melting on top of the stove!" smoke. I went into the kitchen and turned off the burners and found some drunken kids to take care of the plastic because I didn't really feel like having lifelong burn scars.

I was kind of amazed that not one of the fifteen or so people sleeping in the dorm had noticed the mass quantity of foul smoke. And I don't want to go all Smokey the Bear on you, but without smoke detectors you would all probably die a fiery death. So have fun freezing your butts off in January when Public Safety takes their revenge on campus this year.

Nothing But the Truth

2005-11-18T07:40:00.000-05:00

Spain isn't always as glamorous as I make it out to be in my blog entries. The pace of life can be stiflingly slow, and I sometimes have feelings of homesickness, depression, and general uselessness. Luckily, I have the support from loving family members to keep me going. For example, I was on the phone with my mom last week, and she wisely told me:

“Maybe I’m closed minded, but I don’t see any reason for you to be over there. I suppose it’s a cultural experience, but what’s the point of doing nothing for a year?”

I don't know what I would do without such a strong support system. Thanks, guys.

The Handiness of the Left Hand

2005-11-11T11:09:00.000-05:00

Since I have been in Spain, I have acquired and diagnosed myself with Acute Overactive Bladder Syndrome. I think it may be the altitude. Consequently, I have had the pleasure of sampling a wide variety of public restrooms, ranging from the ultra-modern servicios with a cleaning staff at La Alhambra to the wall around the edge of Segovia. No matter where I go, however, one thing remains the same: there is never any toilet paper. I tried being a man (...dog? hm, which reference to use?...same difference...) about it and just shaking off, but for a variety of reasons--read: hygiene--that didn't work out. Now I just shamelessly carry a wad or even roll of TP with me wherever I go.

The Spanish women must not have this problem, though, because they gave me really funny looks in the library the other day when some toilet paper made its way out of my bag and rolled across the room. Go figure!

Can I Still Come for Thanksgiving?

2005-11-08T11:11:00.000-05:00

Dear Hannah Foote's Dad,

Your daughter visited me this weekend from Granada. I showed her (how to be shady and drink botellons* by) the famous Roman aqueduct, the Plaza Mayor (where she may or may not have stolen town property), and the cultural (social) differences between Spanish and American dorms, all while housing her in my welcoming abode ("Beth, either this mop was here when you arrived, or you really overestimated your motivation to clean.")

I had a SUPER fun time and I think Hannah did, too. You might want to send her some Dramamine, though, because she gets queasy really easily--even from just sleeping on the top bunk!

Wish you could be here,
Beth

PS: See, now you can feel free to leave me a comment.

*Large bottles filled with non-alcoholic beverages

Just Smear Some Immodium AD on Your Face, Too

2005-11-07T07:11:00.000-05:00

The most common side effect of my acne cream is bloody diarrhea! Can someone explain that connection to me?

Smile and Say Hamburguesa!

2005-11-05T07:36:00.000-05:00

In my wonderful photography class (still not receiving credit, thanks Midd), we will finally begin taking photos on Thursday, and we need a single-lens reflex camera. Those are the really expensive, ginormous ones that tourists like to wear to make sure they get punched in the face and robbed. So, I went to Madrid today to further drain my bank account for the sake of knowledge. (If you haven’t heard, kids, knowledge is power. Look at George Bush. Stay in school.) Have you ever seen the 20/20 Special Report in which John Stossel explores the seedy electronic stores of New York City to show you that they all rip you the hell off? Well, if those stores could get any shadier, they’d be in Madrid. So, Amanda convinced me to just go to the Corte Ingles, the largest department store in the entire world. And although their selection in just about everything is…..expensive, I decided to suck it up and go legit. We entered the store and made our way up to the photography department where I whipped out my Consumer Reports list of camera I’d like to purchase. The saleswoman read the list, told me curtly that these were American models and were not sold in the Corte Ingles, and proceeded to carry on some fantastically hilarious conversation she was having with her coworkers. The whole concept of customer service hasn’t quite reached Spain. Wanting to sell things to customers? Not so much. When I literally asked her to sell me ANY other models she had, she pointed to a case of thousand euro digital supercameras and asked me which one I wanted. I proceeded to run away and cry outside for awhile.

I considered dropping the class, but Amanda reminded me that it would be incredibly outrageous to do so just because some woman was a cabrona to me. I then grew up, went to the information booth, found a store, bought a camera, and soothed my soul with a Frappuchino.

I'd Like a Numero Dos, Por Favor

2005-10-28T08:08:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I don’t know if I am really mature enough to be living on my own in a foreign country. Usually I ask myself this question after a day like today. On one hand, Amanda and I got ourselves up at the buttcrack of dawn, caught a bus to Madrid, took the subway to another bus station, traveled to Granada, navigated the city to find our hostel, and talked the hostel owner into letting us stay even though we didn't have passports and are obviously sub-Saharan illegal immigrants. On the other hand, today we only ate ice cream, candy, and Burger King. It makes me wonder.

....Jack Frost Nipping At Your Nose....

2005-10-27T07:51:00.000-04:00

Today Amanda and I were out for a walk and we ran into some of the kids from our vivienda. We had just bought candy, and they were eating roasted chestnuts that are sold at small street side stands, and we made a classic second grade my-poptarts-for-your-lunchable swap. I took a great big old bite out of mine and watched as their faces froze in amused horror. Amanda’s laugh then told me that one must remove the wood-like, flaky layers of peel from the chestnut before you eat it. Everyone then proceeded to roll around on the ground in hysterics for a bit while I tried to spit out disgusting char burned chestnut skins.

I think that I may gone past being foreign into just plain old stupidity.

Holidaaay.....Celebraaaaate....!!!!!!!!

2005-10-25T11:15:00.000-04:00

While all you suckers in the United States went to your jobs, I commemorated the Día de San Frutos, patron saint of Segovia. I don’t know what this so-called Saint Fruits’ deal is, but I’m pretty sure it involves late night bingeing and elephantiasis.

At midnight yesterday the ENTIRE population of Segovia sober enough to stand gathered and played homeless. The Plaza Mayor was literally converted into a giant soup kitchen, with professional chefs doling out their broth from large cauldrons. Then they, too, began throwing back the calimoxos.

Today, as Amanda and I lounged by the aqueduct, blending in with the other 40 million Spaniards who never have anything to do, we were taken aback by a group of six or so grown men wearing large heads beating people out of the street with brooms. We had one of those moments where we had to ask each other in all seriousness if we were both seeing bellicose Disneyworld-like personages scare all the tourists away. Of course, had we known they were clearing the path for the largest couple in the WORLD, we wouldn’t have doubted our insanity so. The gargantuan pair passed by and then the "parade" was over and everyone went to mass in the Plaza Mayor to repent for the night before. I skipped mass and took a siesta instead.

Insufficient Funds

2005-10-24T11:06:00.000-04:00

When writing numbers, Spain uses commas where America uses periods (and periods where we use commas). For example, in Spain, one-thousand is written 1.000, and six-point-two is 6,2. Today this slipped my mind, and I attempted to withdraw ninety thousand euros from my checking account. Is National City going to have a problem with that?

"His Balls Were So Big He Missed School for a Week!"

2005-10-23T11:53:00.000-04:00

Less than 48 hours ago, I griped to Amanda about how I truly missed American boys. The awkwardness, the loose pants, the infrequency of skeeze. “Muahahahhahahah,” laughed God, and he reminded me I didn’t.

On the early morning ride home from Salamanca, Amanda and I sat in front of two guys about our age. We were both fairly pissed at the world for having to be up so early and paid them no mind. About twelve milliseconds into the trip, they started speaking loudly and did not stop for the next three hours. I can sleep through just about anything—the man who lives on the other side of the wall my bed is against has an affinity for hammers—but these guys were speaking Americanese, and listening was irresistible.

On one hand, I almost barfed. The last forty-five minutes of their conversation was a series of anecdotes of people they knew who had been hit by hard, rapidly moving objects. Specifically in the testicular region. The rest of the time they talked about food, girls, food, moving large objects, guns, food, and a little bit about Spain, in that order. Insert vomitus retching here.

On the other hand, I was shocked and a little scared as to how alike we were. They were from a small liberal arts college in the middle of Ohio, and were studying abroad for the semester. They played sports in high school. They were having trouble deciding between a Spanish major and minor. They missed driving. And drive-through windows. And trees. They too thought it is ridiculous that Spanish people eat subs without lettuce. So I guess if I have to come to some lame-o conclusion about the whole experience, I guess I'm not the only one who's missing America a bit. But I can live without the boys a while longer.

Down and Out in Salamanca

2005-10-22T12:13:00.000-04:00

This weekend Amanda and I went to Salamanca. We both have off-the-charts mucous production and the weather was mierda, so we mostly just stayed in our room* and played M.A.S.H and made MadLibs and Cootie Catchers.

*By the way, our "hostel" was an abandoned, ultramodern dormitory in the middle of an industrial district. We had an entire hall (or module, as it was called) to ourselves, but no hot water. Go Spain!

"A Situation Akin to That of the 1918 Flu Pandemic"

2005-10-17T07:21:00.000-04:00

Do you know how many people died of the flu in 1918? Fifty million.

Apparently, there is some dirty bird flu going around Europe that's going to kill us all, starting with me. I have had a fever for the past two nights, and I may be mistaken, but I'm almost sure there's a hole in my throat. I've decided to stop making out with poultry.

Seriously, though, does anyone else think that it's funny that the avian flu is coming from Turkey?

Hungry Eyes

2005-10-15T07:07:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time, in a land far far far far far away, food stores existed with aisles SO wide you could push a cart through them. You could pick from billions of different products, and even choose your own fruit instead of having a bitter old woman with plastic gloves pick it for you. People called this enchanted place a supermarket.

In Spain, dear friends, supermarkets are far and few between. On the bus ride to Madrid, Amanda and I swore that we spotted one on the outskirts of Segovia, before the land turns barren and dry and all civilization disappears. So, today, in search of Special K Bars and whole grain bread, we began our journey towards Madrid on foot. We didn't know how long it would take us or whether the Mecca of a supermarket we had seen was just a mirage, but we both heard the spirit of the shopping cart calling out our names.

Long story short, we took the wrong route to Madrid, walked for an hour and a half in the wrong direction (uphill, seriously), and ended up just buying candy and commiserating on the way home.

Please send food.

Big City Life

2005-10-08T13:18:00.000-04:00

Amanda and I went to Madrid today. The urban rush was a welcome change to dawdling pace of Segovia. Here are a few of the day’s happenings that definitely would not have occurred in Segovia:
1. Upon passing a haggard, scantily clad woman of ill-repute, I commented, “She was definitely a hooker.” Amanda had evidently seen the prostitute better than I, as she remarked, “Beth, she was definitely a man!”
2. Remember the scene in Lion King when the hyenas cause the wildebeasts to stampede? Okay, picture this. Instead of a canyon, this is a full pedestrian street in the shopping district of Madrid. Replace the hyenas with an obese police officer balancing precariously on his moped. For the wildebeasts, substitute fifty young, African immigrants running with sacks full of knock-off CDs and purses they were illegally pushing. Amanda was Simba. We are lucky she is still alive, thanks in part to my Mufasa-like skills.
3. Amanda and I were mistaken for being knowledgeable. And Spanish. Sweet.

Bacon

2005-10-07T07:12:00.000-04:00

A kid who lives in my dorm asked me what Americans think of Spain. I told him that a lot of Americans think that Spanish equals Mexican, the basis of that claim being that my mom took me out for tacos before I left to get me used to "Spanish" food. In Spain, a taco is a swearword. He told me that many of the Americans he’s met have been surprised to see that there was electricity here. I scoffed, and then remembered that this summer my little sister had asked me if Spanish people lived in huts.

The misunderstanding goes both ways, though. The first day I ate with my neighbor Jose Antonio, he asked me if I had ever had ham before. You see, he had seen the movie Babe and was under the impression that eating a pig for American was akin to eating Lassie.

God Bless America

2005-10-06T06:57:00.000-04:00

Although I haven’t encountered nearly as much anti-Americanism as I had expected, I have run across a little. In my photography class last week the professor was showing us extraordinary photos of death and destruction caused by natural disasters. Then, out of nowhere, he stopped, pointed directly at me, and said, “As we’ve seen from the recent hurricanes, even people from the richest country in the world can’t escape demise at the hands of mother nature!”٭ This was followed by a sinister laugh.† I seriously expected a lightning bolt to strike me to the ground. Really, how does one respond to that? “No way, José! We’ve even bought off Mother Nature.”

My new Spanish friends have also played this great song for me which pretty much consists of the lead singer screaming “Bush, Satan” over and over again. Also, in a MadTV-esque parody show, there exists a skit in which…hm, how to put it…George Bush plays Monica Lewinsky to a male member of the Ku Klux Klan. I’d bring back a copy for you all to see but I fear I’d reside in Guantánamo Bay for the remainder of time if I even tried.

٭Rough translation
† Also a rough translation

The Literal Translation is "Seasick"

2005-09-30T07:28:00.000-04:00

After a big night at Middlebury, students don’t emerge from their rooms to suffer the light of day until around noon—and generally only to self-medicate our hangovers with crispy potato cubes and chocolate chip pancakes at Atwater. Campus can look pretty deserted on a Saturday morning.

In Spain, Thursday is the night of choice for major partying. Today all but the Japanese tourists are hiding like its cool to be Saddam Hussein. When I got up at 11:30 this morning the Plaza Mayor was so dead I considered buying a newspaper to check if I had been left out of the loop and no one had informed me of a SARS attack. I can’t though, because even the newspaper vendors are resting. It’s a hard knock life here.

P.S. Last night I was so sketchy I didn't just drink 40s, but also home-brewed alcohol that I believe would have been termed "coffin varnish" in the 1920s.

Fitting In

2005-09-29T07:23:00.000-04:00

Today I attended an amazing photography class that Middlebury will never give me credit for in a million years. It also happened to be my first class without other Americans. But this extraordinary thing happened. Let’s see….how to describe it? Do you know that feeling you get when you help a small disabled child out of a well? Your heart is seems like it will just burst out of your body with pride and self-assurance and unadulterated joy? It was like that. Because I made friends. During one of our cigarette breaks, I reminisced with another student about how much we both miss American cheerleaders. He was pretty eager to meet my sister when I told him she was a cheerleader. Even after I told him she was twelve. Anyway, that’s beside the point…. After class, he and some other journalism kids asked me if I wanted to meet them for 40s by the aqueduct. Finally, my dream of being a sketchy European youth will be realized!

I Have to go to School?

2005-09-26T12:35:00.000-04:00

Today was my first day of class. But don’t get the wrong idea—I didn’t “go to class,” per se. I got to the university ten minutes late due to a slight oversight on my part (not getting out of bed when my alarm went off.) Finding my classes was a little like trying to find a Wal-Mart in Europe. Who would ever even bother?

I would describe the process to you that one must follow to find out the classroom for her first class, History of Architecture, but still I don’t understand it. After excusing myself from Urban Engineering, I ended up sitting through a two hour Intro to Mechanical Physics class. Although the professor was a little dull, the immense amount of gel the Spanish boys used in their hair created a mesmerizing, glimmering effect in the room which kept me engaged for the duration.

For my second class, Intro to Archeology, I paid homage to my awkwardness and asked for directions to the classroom. Today, however, the only other person who decided to come to class was the professor, who I’m pretty sure has jaundice. He told me not to come to class for the rest of the week and we’d just start next Monday when he’s found some more students. Okey dokey.

My other two courses start next week. So I have two more hours of Architecture for the rest of the week. If I can find the cage.

Very Funny.

2005-09-23T12:33:00.000-04:00

It’s really no joke that humor doesn’t translate well. In fact, in general, jokes make all parties involves appear as if they have severe brain damage. Today when we were picking out classes with the affable director of international studies, Miguel, I cleverly commented as to how much the word for classroom—aula—sounds like the word for cage—jaula. Ha-ha, right? Not so much. Miguel tried to spend the next five minutes trying to explain to me that I wouldn’t have to go to class in a bird cage as I tried to say “Yeah I know.” I finally let it go when he commented, ¨But some people in class do act like birds,” and then laughed hysterically. What?

Orientation

2005-09-19T12:31:00.000-04:00

Today I was oriented for school with Middlebury folk. Which meant that I actually had to speak conversational Spanish, not just ask for a café con leche. I am officially humbled. It’s frustrating to be asked after every sentence if I have understood. It is also frustrating not understanding.

Segovia is nice, but I’ll miss the Russian prostitutes from down the block.

I Just Can't Get You Out of My Head….

2005-09-17T12:30:00.000-04:00

The online description of my hostel forgot to include the perk that on Saturday afternoons, the street on which it is situated doubles as a crowded dance party complete with giant speaker towers playing the voice of Kylie Minogue over 80s pop beats, trashy European hipster teens with forties in bags, and a mysterious, opaque DinoJump pod that would probably be illegal in the States for so many different reasons.

It Hurts Me More

2005-09-16T12:28:00.000-04:00

Like any diligent tourist would, I went to the Museo Arqueológico today and looked at all the pretty rocks very patient people have dug up. It was surprisingly interesting, but the real action occurred on my way out. A fanny-pack laden man who was sweating his sunscreen off asked me to take his fotografía in front of the building. Sure, I replied, and snapped away on his mammoth camera that was probably as old as me.

He asked about my accent and we ended up having a dreadfully awkward conversation about nothing in particular which simply would not end. Run, signaled the chemical released milliseconds too late by the brain which notifies a girl to the impending inquiry for a date. Don’t tell him your name. He can’t ask for a date without knowing your name. I opened my mouth to say goodbye, but alas I found myself instead twittering about in a conversation about how distinta my name is. His was Daniel. Oh, poor Dah-nee-ell.

I felt kind of lousy about saying no, but later a bum on the street made a song for me about my pretty eyes and now I feel a little better.

Hey Condi!

2005-09-15T12:26:00.000-04:00

I went to the American consulate today to register my passport. After making it past two security checkpoints and a metal detector, my purse was confiscated and searched in front of me by a big scary man in a bulletproof booth. He took my camera and my apple. Why the apple? I inquired. He glared at me. “No eating,” he replied. They let me eat in America.

I entered the waiting room which looked just about like the DMV, not counting the uniformed guards with automatic weapons. Inside sat about 20 well-behaved Spaniards waiting to apply for a visa to America. In contrast, an almost middle-age American stood at a service window loudly badgering his attendant.

I got to the airport and they wouldn't let me on my Goddamn flight.
Sir, you need your pasaport to get on the plane.
No one told me that! Can you get me another?
You will need a photo.
How long will this take? The last flight today leaves at three, and I can’t miss it. I don’t want to spend another night in this country.

I swear I heard the faintest trace of satisfaction as she sweetly informed him he would not be boarding that flight. On my way out I nearly swallowed my chicle when I saw, hanging as proudly as any suburban mother would hang the photographs of her children over the fireplace, the 8 x 10 press photos of Bush, Cheney, Rumsfield and good old Condi. No comment. Except that Cheney bore an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Bighead from Rocco’s Modern Life.

Prado Schmado

2005-09-14T12:24:00.000-04:00

I went to El Museo Prado today, which where the art works of the great masters come to chill and throw back some brewskies. I love art. I love the history of art. But oh my, that museum could put Dave Attell to sleep. Walking through the Prado is like flipping channels on a giant, 3-D television. There is simply so much art that it’s impossible to focus on anything. The visitors walk around in a daze, going wherever their art-history-in-a-headset takes them.

The visitors to the museum were at times more intriguing than the art. When confronted with an image of a donor portrait (an image of the patron actually in the scene of a commissioned painting) of a man looking out at the viewer, pointing to the crucified Christ, an shrewd young man commented, ¨Hey, who’s he? He’s just like “Dude, look, it’s Jesus! He’s a goner.” Later, an American woman, leaning in to take a closer look at a painting from Francisco de Goya’s disturbing, personal, psychologically intense caprichos series exclaimed, “God, they are so hideous!” I gave her a sideways glance and let out my best attempt at a “Ha!-learn-a-thing-or-two-about-art-history-you-intellectual-pauper” chortle that I hear my art history professors use ever so frequently in conversation. I then pretended to not appear bored out of my mind to preserve my guise of scholarly snobbery.

My Very Own Mullet

2005-09-13T12:20:00.000-04:00

In a bold attempt to blend into the urban European crowd, I decided to get my hair cut. I wouldn’t say that the popular hairstyle for young ladies is ‘pretty’ or ‘flattering,’ but it is surely hip. So, I went to Spejos Peluqueros, and requested a haircut. ¿My name? No, not Dech. Be-e-te-hache. I had to write it out for her. Carlos was my hairstylist. I explained to Carlos that I wanted more ‘levels’ in my hair. So that my ‘freenj’ wasn’t so ‘separado’ from the back. He politely honored my request to keep it long—on about 10 hairs at the nape of my neck. Thus resulting in what an American would call a mullet. He called it finished and styled it into a shaggy mushroom. I asked him why he hated me, but he wouldn’t give me a straight answer.

When I got back to the hostel, I hacked off the couple inches peeking out of the bottom of my hairstyle, amending my mushroom-do to a pretty good rip-off of Carol Brady.

Trying to keep up some semblance of my normal life, I went for a run in El Parque del Retiro, the Central Park of Madrid. As it turns out, the only other runners in the city are men who shave their legs. Mostly, the park is just for heavy petting if you’re under 30, reading the newspaper if you’re over thirty, and sleeping if you’re homeless. Maybe next time I can find a nice homeless boy to neck with in the grass.

Spain ≠ America

2005-09-12T12:19:00.000-04:00

I have a theory that the first Americans weren’t escaping religious persecution, but instead were simply fleeing their popular peers to form a nerd utopia. Otherwise, how else can one explain the palpable aura of dorkdom surrounding me, and all the other excruciatingly American tourists, everywhere I go in Madrid? I am frequently forced to check to make sure I didn’t accidentally draw swastikas on my sandals when I see las madrileñas stare at my feet with looks of utter contempt on their faces. I have yet to see the ignominies of Americana: sweat pants, a denim cut-off shirts, trucker hats, or MIDD flip-flops.

My goal for tomorrow is to look like a European youth. So tonight I am going to sleep outside on a street corner and piss myself.

The only way I am going to be able to carry on conversations in Spanish is to avoid snarky, self-righteous young adults who automatically assume that their English is better than my Spanish. That leaves me tapping the 50+ crowd. I managed to chat up a security guard at La Sofia Reina Museo who somehow spoke without separating his top and bottom teeth. That fact fascinated me much more than our conversation about modern art, most of which I didn’t really understand anyway.