happy thanksgiving

T'was Thanksgiving eve

And here in Madrid

A girl sat in her kitchen

And stared into her fridge

She worried and fretted

Grimaced and sighed

Chugged OJ from the bottle

Sat down and cried

She reasoned and rathered

But no conclusion came

There was no other option

Than give into her shame

And in that weak moment

The great deed was done

She gobbled it down

And the chocolate was gone

T'was a whole bar

Family size, to be sure

It's a damnable craving

Only such lengths can cure

She roamed out to the street

Doubled over with ache

The pleasurable pain

She just could not shake

Drunk with her folly

Silly with crime

She welcomed this holiday

For the 24th time.

NO COMMENTTTT

hands

The other day a one-man english theatre show came to our school and put on several age-appropriate performances for the students. The guy was from England and coincidentally dances in Bollywood class with me. The world just gets smaller and smaller with each passing day.

Anyway, being a one-man-troupe, his performances consisted of heavy participation from the audience, with occasional volunteers who joined him on stage. He would shake their hand, ask their names, and then continue to dress them up and provide them with a one-liner and body language of some sort that would leave the rest of the children rolling on the floor laughing.

In one particular performance, he played an crazy explorer in Egypt who had drunk too much camel pee. His two volunteers were first a boy who would play Mohammad the tour guide and second a girl who would play a dancing mummy. After quite a bit of laughs (and confusion on stage), the story had clearly come to an end and the actor asked for a round of applause for his flustered but smiling volunteers. Being quite nervous, they were quick to jump back into the crowd, both accidentally giving their backs to his outstretched hand for a handshake.

In fact, all but one volunteer missed the cue. And of course, these are children we speak of: we cannot blame them for this social faux pas. Nonetheless, every teacher in the room anxiously yelled out half a syllable upon witnessing the event, and for a brief second, tension was high amongst us.

As we say with high-fives ("don't leave me hanging!"), there is nothing worse than a lone, outstretched hand, waiting for the grasp of another. I spent all day thinking about how I'd be okay never seeing a back turned on an amiable handshake again, regardless of age or culture...

But my days at school are filled with non-stop action and each moment could mean the wildest occurrence, from a kid projectile vomiting across his table to a three year old bellowing out something in english that I didn't even intend to teach him ("oh my god!" for example). I quickly forgot about the happenings of the theatre and my reflections on it.

Until today.

It's Friday and I worship Fridays. I've even taken to teaching my Friday students that one line from the song "Friday is my favorite day". In case you don't remember it, it goes like this:

Monday is a bummer,

Tuesday's getting better,

Wednesday is fair,

And Thursday's almost there.

But Friday, Friday, Friday is my favorite day.

They really love that last line, probably because it's super catchy, but I like to think it's because they agree with me. Fridays are holy, and I spend all morning day-dreaming about what I will do at 5 o'clock.

Sometimes I get so caught up with the details that I think about what I will do at 4:50, because being Friday, and this being Spain or something, it's an unwritten law that school gets out anywhere from 10-15 minutes early on this last afternoon of the week.

Today, I was in particular thinking about how I wanted to buy the newspaper, because I like Friday editions and also it's a special day, 11.11.11, and for whatever reason this is important to have written documentation of. Upon making this purchase, I would head to my balcony (where I sit now) and enjoy a nice warm tea. It's a beautiful, crisp autumn day:

But then, for whatever reason, I got to thinking about my departure from school only 15 minutes prior. The look on my boss's face when I sped out of there 10 minutes early, once most of the children from my class had been sent off with their parents at the front door. I had to squeeze through the crowd, and as I waved and wished a good weekend, she looked up at me with a sweaty brow and said in slightly confused tone (which I read as "Off so soon?") "Thank you."

I don't want to give the wrong idea, like my awesome boss is dying to hang out with me or something. But I will note that she often reminds me of their Friday afternoons at the corner bar, after a long week some of the teachers get together and end up downing several large beers...

And this is Spain, this is a school I work in, individualism is not part of the game. The principal of my school, God bless her, is probably one of the most wonderful people in the world, and goes to great lengths to make me feel welcome, as if I had just arrived in this country.

Anyway, I am clearly grateful, but I have never taken her up on the Friday afternoon offer, and I'm not really sure why. I guess I should blame it on my desire to be alone after work, which is totally understandable I suppose...

But nonetheless, I couldn't enjoy my afternoon plan today, thinking about how it didn't even occur to me to stay the extra ten minutes to at least chat for a minute with my co-workers. We had been so busy with the crazy atmosphere of the end of the week, that we didn't get the chance...

I am naturally a bit individualistic, even introverted at times, and I try to constantly remind myself to "cross the bridge", especially in a place where the bridges can be just a tad longer and wider.

But I just can't get it out of my head: why must I constantly turn my back to outstretched hands?

happy halloween from bcn

Spent a long Halloween weekend in Barcelona with Jenna. Back to work for just a three day week...can't complain.

al pedrete

..caga y vete (shit and go).

That's what they say about Al Pedrete, in the mountains just north of Madrid. Apparently there isn't all too much going on in this little sierra town.

We went there last weekend because it was the most do-able option to get the -f out of Madrid and her polluted air. Here are some pictures that I forgot I had taken.

This picture is of seemingly little significance, but the memory it brings back is cozy. Despite the fact that we were shooting for the 11 a.m. bus, AND the fact that we took a taxi to get to the bus station because we were running late...we missed it. Aw shucks, I guess we'll just go have a second breakfast while we wait another hour for the next one. Anyway, this was the first day that I really felt the chill of autumn. We stumbled upon the "Van Gogh Cafe" behind the Moncloa bus station and I don't know exactly what it was (the warmth of the cafe.. it's velvety booths and espresso aroma... flipping lazily through the fresh Saturday paper...) but I remember having one of those moments of happiness where you realize you are living the golden instant of "now".

Upon our arrival, we immediately grabbed the bikes and went up a mountain...

After receiving some advice from the locals (aka Lucas' aunt and uncle), we were like "Oh, hey, let's go to that telegraph thing at the top of the mountain!" It was a long, hard walk. Because we walked our bikes more than we rode them.

The descent...feelin' good.

And here we have some super cool smart phone fotos during our autumnal stroll through the forest. This was on Sunday, the first real day of fall..it rained for the first time in months (note how dry and yellow it is above on Saturday with the bikes).

...with Lucas' aunt and uncle. Thank you!

wednesday

I want to blast my music at 4:30 in the afternoon because that is the natural light primetime for just this activity.

I don't want to respect the siesta. Because I think it's stupid. I think it's stupid that any of us should be on the same schedule beyond the general concepts of what goes on during night and day. But this is what I am plagued with, such sufferings that come with living here in this place that I sort of hate.

THERE. I SAID IT.

Here's your culturally idiosyncratic ex-pat question of the day:

When do formerly irking-but-nonetheless-endearing cultural idiosyncrasies become a pain in the ass?

There exist four phases of culture shock: honeymoon, negotiation, adjustment and mastery. But they don't talk much about regressing. I guess that's just called "ready to go home"? .... as much as it pains me to admit it?

No. Ready to go home no. Home is here and I don't really hate it.

I'm just a moody version of myself who is also at this very moment cursing Lipton and their dumb fancy teabags which I only bought because I can't find mandarin-infused green tea from any other source...picture this asshat teabag: a pyramid (which they announce on the package, have you)...it has a string made of what I believe to be silk (probably announced on the package too--because some other asshats out there at Carrefour see that and feel compelled to enjoy the luxury), and these oh-so-silky and slippery strings make it impossible to wrap the teabag around a teaspoon and drain the liquid, thus making for an altogether wet and messy experience. DAMN YOU LIPTON AND YOUR IDIOTIC FANCY TEABAGS.

Annnnnnnnnnyway, the most worrisome part of all this is that the siesta doesn't even effect my music-blasting-primetime-theory because I no longer have free afternoons during the week like I once did. My complaints aren't even based on current inconveniences.

What is inconvenient is being forced to take a three hour break in the middle of the day to eat/take a nap/waste time. I also find it unbearable that cheap sushi is non-existant, and that strangers don't always respect my personal space in public.

But really, I just wanna be an asshole for a minute and blast my music at 4:30 in the goddamn afternoon.

I am clearly a child, it's 9:30 pm and bedtime.

all i need...

...is some sunshine. Maybe a pet, too.

Timber Timbre - Black Water by Arts & Crafts