Abuelas

And now we come to the part of the story where Biz confesses her stupidity. Once upon a time, Biz created a blog entitled "Viejas," a simple title with a Spanish flare intended to reveal the content of its entries pertaining to "Travels." As her roomate has informed her, however, a slight jmulbnig of letters has resulted in a blog which translates to "Old Women."

However, not to be set back, I have discovered that the title is in fact quite suitable for encompassing my life here, for my teacher has informed me that I am, by Spanish standards, a Grandmother. While a history of knitting and Jane Austen novels may prove I'm a grandmother by all standards, I thought the accusation a bit unjust. I stay awake until 2 and wake up at 9, I go out a few times a week, and I have only been to one Museum thus far. However, as I began to look around, I noticed that all the old people were out until 2 as well, along with small children, and when I wake up at 9, I'm the only non-cane assisted pedestrian headed to the grocery store.

The final blow, however, is the hour and condition in which I tried my first Porras. Porras, like Churros, are slightly sweet fried pastries which one dips in the most dark, thick and tantalizing cup of chocolate in which I've ever indulged. For most Spaniards, it is the only way to wrap up a long night of Sangria, at approximately 6 a.m., and certainly not before. Porras are not a dessert, dear friends, but the beginning of a long road to recovery; one's condition determines the amount of Purras, Churros and cups of chocolate prescribed. By deductive reasoning you may conclude that, with the other old fogeys, I gobbled my goodies before the clock struck 12 and am at this moment still having visions of Purras dancing in my head.

Next week my antique habits will only increase, for Cate and I start class for Teacher training alongside finishing up our Spanish course. We'll be in class from 9:30 in the morning until 8 at night, but may be adventuresome and hop on a bus to La Tomatina for a smathering of rotten tomatoes from local Valencianos.

Until next time, adios Viejos and Viejas, and a big kiss from Grandma.

Tidbits

The past week has passed quite tranquilly. Cate found an apartment and moved in Friday, and though she comes over often, I have had too much quality time already with Spanish game shows and soap operas. But for the next few weeks while my roommates vacation, I suppose this will be the norm. I have been able to read a good amount, and I recently purchased a Spanish translation of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. After reading the first chapter 4 times, I think I finally advanced to a Third grade reading level...

Having the apartment to myself has allowed me the pleasure of observing the workings of this little habitation. The apartment complex is an old building with rooms wrapping around a small public patio/open space for drying clothes, and which has great and/or terrible acoustic qualities, depending on your perception. The morning typically begins with my neighbor blasting his Latino ballads through the central patio area in the building. But one can only have a certain degree of annoyance, because he truly loves his music. I know he loves it, because he cannot bear to keep it to himself, and generously shares it with us until his lids finally droop around 4 the next morning. Not to be outdone, however, another generous neighbor locks his child in this central patio, with the latino music, during meals, naptime, and in general periods of unhappiness. I have not yet decided which background music is more...enjoyable.

I have also begun to do a little cooking at home. While cooking can often be a cathartic activity at the end of the day, I must confess that at the moment it fills me with fear. While a gas stove is a bit of an adjustment, a gas oven is terrifying. The simple task of heating a frozen pizza involves skimming a lighter over the bottom surface of the oven, waiting for that fatal moment when a cloud of blue flame consumes the lower portion of your arm. I tricked Cate into lighting it for me tonight, but I do not think she will volunteer for the next lighting of the torch.

This past Sunday Cate and I found a wonderful little church in Southern Madrid. We walked in a little late to what was supposed to be an English speaking church, but was entirely in Spanish. After the service, we were greeted by every member and treated to homemade empanadas. Two really sweet teenage girls talked to us for an hour, and overall, we were blown away by the immediate friendliness of this body of people.

Other than the centipedes which haunt the kitchen sink and the overabundance of meat pastes in this country, this week passes without much astir.

Besos

Kisses to all of you who have been praying for housing for me, because Friday I was finally able to move into a room of my own. If my room at college was a shoebox, then the room I inhabit now is more of a cigarette case. Besides an itty-bitty living space, there is a nice den with a tv and pull out couch, for anyone who wants to visit ;), kitchen and bathroom. I share the apartment with a Columbian ex-pat named Alejandra and an Italian-Spanish fellow whose name I know not and whom I have not yet met. Alejandra is very helpful, speaks English, and has taken Cate and I under her wing. Cate is still looking for an apartment and it is quite a grueling process. Our little Spanish skills make it difficult even to ask questions or understand answers, and we walk miles and miles in the wrong directions for lack of direction sense and just about any other type of sense. And then at the end of the day, we are just goldilocks with apartments that are too small, too large, and waiting for one that is juuuust right. But Alejandra is allowing Cate to stay in an empty room for a month or so while we look for something suitable, so that is a nice relief from hostal fees.

But let me not digress from the title of this blog, which is besos. I'm sure my family knows how much I dote on the American habit of hugging. Since a child, my hugs involve arms rigidly at my side, eyes glaring into the distance, and bottom lip spilling over in contempt. While Spain provides a relief from this tradition, it introduces the newer and even more invasive greeting of besos. I had avoided the salutation for the most part, until Cate and I had our second day of Spanish class. After an outing in the mountains with our teacher, our session ended with the farewell of kiss on the right cheek, kiss on the left. I have had Europeans explain this custom as completely friendly, and I'm sure in time that I will get used to it. But, thus far, I do observe that men are not quite as methodical with one another as they are with women in this sticky hello.

I must say that it was quite a warm greeting this morning, however, when Cate and I attended our first Spanish church. The church was a Presbyterian church of about 12 or 13 people, and we had to use our rudimentary skils, once again, to try and get to know a nice taxi driver who was very patient and nice to us. Leaving early because of a prior appointment came as a relief, however, due to many factors. I believe most of you understand the difficulty of evading the sunday morning sand man, but i believe this difficulty is intensified when one cannot understand the sermon at all. Added to a hot and sticky room and waking up 3 hours prior to a regular schedule, I barely escaped collapsing in my chair 10 feet from the pastor.

Touring through the local supermarkets has provided some diversion: beer in a plastic 2 litre bottle, meat pastes and unrefrigerated boxed milk are only a few of the interesting items. The rumor about a shocking absence of peanut butter is true, along with any items for cooking Mexican. But if I miss these items, the Fruteria located just next to my apartment has provided a welcome surprise of the most deliciously juicy peaches. I do not intend to make all you Southerners jealous, who might not have even tasted this delectable fruit all summer...but...well...yes I do :)

Please pray for an apartment for Cate that is cheap and comfortable, and that our Spanish would continue to improve, and, most importantly, that the besos stay on the cheek ;).

Gracias (Gro-the-as, as the Castillians say)

Tapas- No Mas, Por Favor

No more tapas for me. Not knowing the language has continued to be problematic at the dinner hour. Cate and I, being the well organized and wise individuals that we are, decided to go to Toledo for a couple of days because the hostals were cheaper and and had a few extra days off. In a poorly planned strategy to avoid the tedious process of apartment searching, we chose a hostel-inferno on the third floor in Toledo during the hottest part of the summer. Sleeping was impossible. Perhaps it would have been better if we could have found some tasty items to consume. But, being bold, I declared I would be adventurous and point and shoot at the menu. A fun way to experience culture? Only if you aren´t hungry. My dish was squishy, garlicky and of a badly pungent flavor. Cate´s meat had a decent lettuce leaf, but we aren´t sure the swine was ever cooked. I was convinced that I had ordered a lamb utter or something similar, but fortunately, I found out today, it was only mollejas-pig brain. I just hope it doesn´t affect my own. Unfortunately we did not see many of the religious sights associated with Toledo, but it is a short trip away, so we plan to return when it is cooler and we can bear to walk around.

As for now, I am enrolled in Spanish class and enjoying it very much. Friday we have class in the mountains at a cafe- quite a treat. I plan to sign a housing contract tomorrow or the next day, and right now am enjoying my last days of watching Spanish dubbed soap operas on the television at the hostal.

I enjoy all of your commentaries; I´m always happy to provide a new forum for my siblings to verbally destroy one another with their witty derisions...also glad to see that Joel´s Spanish has already far exceeded my own...in a manner of speaking...

Besos de Madrid!