Felices fiestas

Come Christmas day, I still find it hard to extricate myself from the computer. I've been going through internet withdrawal since I broke my laptop a few weeks ago, having tripped on my headphone cables and subsequently destroying one of the USB ports in the process. Thankfully, I have a three-year warranty, although I won't be able to get the laptop back until Februrary, at the earliest.

My, I'm always fretting/complaining--more so during the holidays! Three flights later, I'm back with my family and friends for a short while, and even got a white Christmas in the process. I suppose, then, that I should set (most of) my worries aside, at least until I get closer to my departure date. Vacation should be about relaxing, and for me, hot chocolate and delicious burritos.

Qué?*

My station, towards the eastern part of the city, is not an especially clean one. On a regular day, there is grime caked along the floor tiling, graffiti on the ads, stray beer bottles, cigarette butts, and pages from 20 Minutos*. Yes, sometimes you can't ignore it, but you just follow along and deal.

Recently the voyage has been less pleasant. Since the cleaners' strike began on Monday, the station's orderlinesss--relatively speaking, of course--has been shot. There's "intermittent service" (MetroMadrid's words) but the trash bins are overflowing and passengers are trailing newsprint to the platform. On the way back from work, for example, I passed by a woman who was haphazardly tearing up sections from a daily and littering all over the floor. An elderly lady stop to either ask--or admonish--her, but I walked on by before I heard the answer.

Now, I understand the right to strike for better working conditions (and pay!). This is crucial to a functional labor force. I also understand that, lacking these specific workers, the cleanliness of the metro system will deteriorate. What confuses me is why someone would contribute to this problem, because I highly doubt that it's a question of class solidarity.

And again, some stations--and to a general extent, neighborhoods--have always been much cleaner than others, strike or not.



*Qué? is another free daily given out at many subway stations.

24 hours in Paris

8pm - Still 20 minutes from the Gare du Nord. I get three different texts from S, asking me where I was, if she should meet me at the station, and then telling me that she was going to wait for me at Point Ephémère.

8:45 - Bumbling up the quai du Valmy and see S, a blurry figure in the distance. It's cold, and she's wearing what she calls a babushka hat. We walk halfway around the block and onto the actual bank of the canal, walk by a café/restaurant, and spot two guys fawning over Annie Clark, before we head into the show. Bouncer stamps Fs on our wrists. Clare & The Reasons have barely begun their set, but I have to hightail it to the restroom.

9:30 - I look at S, my friend that I always want to impress, my friend who reminds me of the word melena. She's wearing a khaki trench coat and gray Converse, and is the only person in the room singing along to the opening band's encore, a cover of Tears for Fears.

10:15 - We are kind of aghast by the second band, and don't know whether to take it seriously. I scan the room, half-obscure at fellow quirkly-dressed indie music lovers, and hear mostly English (the U.S. kind) in between songs. S and I slump against the wall and catch up, then find courtesy again to appreciate the last few offerings of Windmill.

10:55 - Fog and lights for effects. Annie Clark, aka St. Vincent, has reason to enjoy Paris very much. Very fair, with somewhat untidy black hair. Sleeveless green dress and shiny black shoes, and MOST IMPORTANTLY, a guitar, that she totally slays.

11:25 - She plays most of the songs from her album, and I'm duly impressed, wishing that I could also be a multi-instrumentalist virtuoso.

midnight - S and I are walking steadfast to the Gare de l'Est, trying to decide if we should take the 4 all the way down to her stop, or to transfer to the RER one stop over at the Gare du Nord. 10 stops versus 4? You do the math.

*

around 2pm, the next afternoon - We took our time getting out of the house. Walking past the Montparnasse Cemetery, S comments on how much she appreciates her neighborhood. I joke around and say that it's very quiet. S had heretofore been a fan of the 11th, bastion of bobo chic. According to S, it also now includes the 20th. We stop by the Grande Epicerie for macarons, maple syrup, and baking powder. Upstairs, we also peruse many lovely clothes neither of us can afford. S points out that we could at least "get ideas." My perennial favorites: Tsumori Chisato, Marc by Marc Jacobs, Etoile by Isabel Marant, and Sandro.

4:30pm - Still on a high from last night's musical endeavour, St. Vincent streams from the living room. Then, it's Jawbreaker. I find out that my friend makes cookies. And really good ones. She implores me not to eat any more so I don't spoil my dinner. I tell her she'll make a good mom.

5:20pm - G, S's husband arrives. For the first time since we have known each other, on fait la bise. He, also like a little kid, steals a couple of cookies. My friends are very sweet to each other, very couple-y, and I busy myself with their stellar mug collection. S comments on how his Eeeng-leesh has vastly improved, and I have agree that it's awesome, too.

6:40pm - S is ready to go drop me off at the station, and I've yet to put my shoes on. I don't want to leave, but I'm also somewhat responsible. After saying goodbye to G, saying that we'll see each other next year, S and I retrace our steps. A quick hug and I jump on the train, then she fetches me 15 seconds later and tells me it's the wrong one. We chat for a few minutes more until my actual train arrives. Another hug, and I'm off, watching the city fly by.

The thing that I loved the most was that I did practically nothing and still had a great time. Now I'm counting the days until I return.

All by myself

I've never been alone with the children for more than half an hour, but today I'll have them for all four sessions. This is because the teacher will be working with folks from our twin school in Sheffield, UK, and will thus be occupied for the majority of the day.

Luckily, I'll be more than the glorified childminder. The teacher--who's the school's bilingual program coordinator--has left lesson plans. More importantly, she's secured a sub, mainly to monitor. In a nutshell, to get things to calm down if it gets too out of hand. This is a particular problem with the bunch today, referred to by the teacher as "the naughty group." The children and I get along fine, but a) I suppose that I've been a tad too friendly with them this term, and b) I'm not the "real" profe.

I took down copious notes of how the teacher wanted the lessons to be presented and--as a last resort--I can send kids to the sub for disciplinary action. In any case, I won't let this bring me down.

After all, I'm going to Paris tonight.

'Tis the season

The end of term--and of the year--is
nigh. Holiday merch is on sale, the lights are turned on, and people are hoping to win El Gordo. In class, we've learned prepositions and body parts; now we're preparing reindeer and los crismas for our penpals in Sheffield, UK. My parents even sent candy canes to dispense to the children.

Long before the real vacation begins, however, a mini-exodus starts this weekend. Many are fleeing the city to spend the very long puente elsewhere. As for me, I'm staying in town, drinking massive amounts of tea and hot chocolate (not at the same time) and perhaps squeeze in a day trip (or two) to, say, Toledo or Segovia. Who knows? I would've liked to go up north again, but I still have quite a way to go here. With that in mind, I'll attempt exploring other parts of the country when the weather (and homesickness) isn't so exhausting.

Maybe I'll actually, literally take a break--or learn how to. I could go to the Reina Sofía (it's free tomorrow) or to the movies (I recommend Persepolis) or to the park and draw (something which I haven't done in a long time) or, like always, wander around like the perpetual (yet presumably more "conscious") flâneuse and take pictures. So many possibilities, indeed.

(One of my worst vices is indecision, exemplified by my reluctance to single out ONE foible).

For those keen on holiday-themed activities, your choices vary, which include a Christmas bus, an ice sculpture exhibit, and (most interesting to me) pyrotechnics at Plaza de Oriente on the 14th. I've never been too big a fan of seasonal festivities myself, although curiosity might get the better of me and implore me to find out how Madrid does it up.