Seeing stars

Seeng as how I had little time before I left for good, I thought I'd go out with a bang: Granada. I had originally planned to visit in March until I lost my camera. Echoing Icaza, the trip down south might not have been worth it if I couldn't record its beauty.

Luckily, a friend gave me his, and so off I went to enjoy my last weekend in Spain. A relatively smooth five-hour bus ride later, I was deposited at the city of a certain palace-fortress and a reknowned poet. The hostel was located in the Albayzin, making for a lot of narrow, windy streets, and the usual rowdiness associated with twentysomething revelmakers. Despite this (and finding out that I'm allergic to peanuts--long story), I managed to relax and take advantage of the local offerings, including the famous Alhambra.

I'm going to assume that most of the few people who read this blog have either been to the Alhambra or at least have seen photos/read literature that sings its praises, so I won't even go there. Let me just say this: it's definitely one of the maddeningly, achingly beautiful places I've ever experienced in my short life thus far. In true Bill & Ted fashion, dudes, it totally blew my mind! Of course, I took a ton of pictures, though none will truly capture its glory.

After spending most of my allotted time at the Alhambra, I mostly just wandered, as I'm wont to do, especially as a lone traveler. I forgot how hot it can get in Andalucia in the summer, so I was melting and was ready to pass out even before I made it back down to the Plaza Nueva. Among the treats that remedied this constant problem was an ice cream from Los Italianos (overheard as the "most famous" heladeria in Granada city) and an "antioxidant" smoothie from a random juice bar near the cathedral. As friends will be able to tell you, finding a smoothie was no small feat, considering that I've searched high and low for that perfect fruity antidote to the summer heat. After properly quenching my thirst, I was mostly all smiles (at least on the inside!) and didn't care (too much) that no one ever bothered to say "Excuse me" as they brusquely brush past you, that I was overcharged at a terraza ("Disculpa, no pedi tres jarras!"), or even that my bus back to Madrid was overbooked, forcing me to get on the next one an hour later and pushing my return to one o'clock in the morning.

Maybe it's a stretch, but I give props to the smoothie anyway for endowing me with enough confidence to write an hoja de reclamacion, my first full-length composition in Spanish since my school days.

Now I find myself quite tired because I haven't given myself any rest para reponder las fuerzas. It's just been non-stop errand-running and farewell-bidding, which wouldn't be too bad, if I wasn't just now recuperating from the illness I developed over the weekend. Good thing that it wasn't too debilitating as to impede me from getting things done...or else I wouldn't have had a very random sighting of Gael Garcia Bernal (and a girl who looked like Michelle Williams) at FNAC.

I tell ya, it was quite a fortuitious event. I'd been stalling on buying First Aid Kit's Plaits (the Barcelona duo's sophomore effort) and the much-touted Russian Red's debut, I Love Your Glasses, but I figured that since they've been on oferta forever, that I could wait until the last minute. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing on Tuesday; I was down around Sol and I had no desire whatsoever to find myself there again before I left, so I figured why I just not pop in to FNAC and pick up the albums.

20 or so minutes later, I'm riding the elevator to the ground floor, gleeful about the CDs and also the copy of a French literature magazine (really, that's the title) with a feature on English novelists, when I happen to glance to my left and notice a very cute, sort of floppy-, raven-haired boy with thick black glasses. He looks A LOT like Gael Garcia, I thought to myself. Before I walk out of the west doors by the steps up to the digital camera section, I spin back around and realize that it is Gael Garcia, as I watch him absentmindedly sign a notebook a girl had given him. In a frantic rush, I call same smoothie-loving friend, walking in circles and stalking from the same position for another 15 minutes, babbling and repeating myself.

I wonder why no one else recognizes him and understand that perhaps some folks to do, but don't want to disturb his privacy. Like me, maybe they want to stalk in close vicinity. Y'know, like Michelangelo's "David," look, but don't touch. We debate on whether or not I should approach him and whether or not I ought to take a picture (my camera has a great zoom!), though we agree that it was best to gawk (however discreetly) from afar and rather, pledge our ultra-nerdiness online. As you can see, in no way does this prevent me from sharing the "news" with all who'll listen, even the ones who've never heard of the actor, or who don't care, through whatever means. More than being starstruck--which I obviously was/am--I'm reminded that "celebrity" is created, a process of which us "mortals" are part and parcel. By this, I mean to say that celebrities have power insofar as we accord it to them. With this philosophy, one would think that it would've been easy to approach Gael, but at this juncture you readers should know that I have communication deficiencies ESPECIALLY with utterly beautiful people, so I probably would've just done like Lars and run away, or worse, pull a Stan. Best to keep this one as a nice memory, I'd say.

Snapshot

Just a quick note to let folks know (if you didn't already) that tomorrow is the Noche de la Fotografía. I'm sure lots of places have offerings to coincide with PHOTOEspaña, but it seems like the bulk of tomorrow night's festivities will be happening in the Barrio de las Letras/Huertas. Also, if you're in Alcalá de Henares, make sure to check out the Henri Cartier-Bresson exhibit at the Antiguo Hospital de Santa María la Rica, near the Cathedral.

A broad abroad

If I'm running out of a select item--something easily portable--I usually stop by the Mercadona on my walk home from the metro station. Today was a slight change, as I didn't limit myself to just the necessities. After months of eyeing them in stores, I finally caved and bought my first package of Filipinos, mainly due to curiosity, but also, um, because of that publicidad featuring Mom and Dinosaur Jr. (not the band).

My thinking went along the lines of, Heeyyyy, I'm Filipino(a), and even though this is (more than) kind of odd, I'm willing to try this novelty snack item that's (again, kind of) weird (backhand) evidence of the long relationship between my temporary adopted country and the one of birth.

I was also won over by the fact that the Filipinos were significantly cheaper than the Oreos on the next shelf.

When I got home, it occurred to me why the Filipinos were more affordable: I had inadvertently picked up the pack of minis! I felt stupid. How was I supposed to gallivant dinosaur-style, as it were, from the kitchen to the living room, without the regular, donut-shaped goods in my hands?

I had duped myself. More importantly, I proved to be the perfect consumer. While I'm not quite the cookie fanatic, I still went ahead and made the purchase because the brand spoke to me. A Filipino eating a Filipino. A chocolate-covered white biscuit. A variation on the past: a banana, a Twinkie. Coincidence and irony.

According to this Wikipedia article, the current Filipino cookies were inspired by rosquillos from the Visayas, hence the props. Rosquillo itself comes from the Spanish rosca, i.e. ring, as does the chocolate coating.

Homage or not, however, Filipino cookies still rub me the wrong way, so that was my first and last package. I know, it's just food! I'm nevertheless not the only one who had issues with it. A decade ago The Philippine government was wondering more or less the same. Obviously, nothing ever came of it, which makes me wonder about the popularity of the cookies.

On the other hand, I don't doubt the extensive Filipino presence here. As in, the people. It's not exactly as cohesive--ok, well-known--as the Chinese community, but I've definitely identified more Filipinos out and about than my home state (obviously neither California nor New York). Clearly, MetroMadrid a) agrees that there is a significant Filipino community here, b) suggest that Madrileños (of Filipino descent or not) are conscious of it, too. In recent months, they've circulated (a much shorter version of) the following commercial:



As with the cookies, I was mostly surprised when I first saw this ad, waiting for the movies at one of the Cines Renoir. For once, I didn't have to read the subtitles. I even giggled; nos ha queda'o igualito. In a few months, I will also be that balikbayan (twice removed) recounting my adventures in Spain. You can bet that one of the things I'll be championing will be the subway.

Upon further chance viewings, my frowns grew wider. Yes, the Philippines is a country in development. Yes, many Filipinos continue to lead the agrarian live. Yes, many Filipinos have the tendency to imitate, emulate "Western" ways.

And yes, I understand that overall, it is just a publicity campaign for MetroMadrid, like the Filipino cookies are just...cookies. MetroMadrid's commercial is a witty, even charming statement on the cleanliness and efficiency of Western Europe's third-largest system. What pueblo--Spanish, Filipino, or otherwise--wouldn't want one of their own? Maybe I am reading too much into things (thank you, cultural studies). I just hope that folks don't take it too much at face value because whether we like it or not, some of us still retain fragments of that colonial mentality.



(Image: Wikipedia)

Spring is in the air

It's hard to be depressed when it's ridiculously beautiful outside. Since I've been kind of--natch, mostly--down on myself as well as my time thus far in Spain, I thought I'd do a complete 360 and attempt to cheer up a bit by presenting my scant readers a list of some of my personal Madrid favorites:

* Terrazas -- With the good weather about, all the gastronomic establishments are busting out the outdoor seating. Gaudeamus in Lavapies is a perennial favorite, but unfortunately, they only open up in the afternoon on weekdays, at 8 on Saturdays, and are--gasp!--closed on Sundays. On weekends, I like any of the places giving out to the Plaza de Olavide.

* Los Alpes -- Because this ice cream shop can make any flavor into a very delicious shake for 3,20EUR, and because I can walk to it, and because it's not yet packed with the summer crowd.

* Panta Rhei -- My preferred design bookshop in all of Madrid. The owners/employees are nice, help you when you need it, and otherwise leave you alone to peruse the excellent selection. Sure, it's all expensive, but it's a great place for inspiration.

* CD Drome -- Caters to (most of) my music needs. Again, browse for hours! And if I can't find it, there's that behemoth in Callao.

* Mingote -- I've personally never seen the illustrious illustrator's work on paper, but its city-wide presence never fails to elsmile. Find the drawings on the facade of a building on Duque de Osuna, behind the staircase near Plaza de España, on C/Sal in Las Austrias, and in the Retiro metro station platforms.

* Centros culturales - A great and cheap way to get your kicks in your own neighborhood. In April, for example, my local center will be offering a slew of conferences, concerts, a few exhibits, and even a weekend guided hike in Cuenca.


More to come when I think of it.

Thank you, global warming!

Spring seems to have sprung prematurely, and as foul a mood as I have been in lately, it hasn't take long to desist. Indeed, I often feel guilty if I dare to do nothing, overcome with the concept of "wasting time." Why have I not yet been to Sevilla? Gijón? Cuenca? Or El Escorial, for that matter?! It seems as though half my decisions are predicated on the fact that my time here is limited, but let's face it: I'm a homebody, wherever I am. Especially now that I've found more habitable digs, I prefer to stay in within the confines of my temporary home.

On the other hand, I do believe that I've opened myself to a lot more in my short time here than I have stateside. For instance, I walk a lot, and often. This may not be much of a big deal, but after years of living in a car culture, walking a little under two miles "just" to get bagels is actually a welcome respite. Sometimes I'll check out exhibits or live shows or simply sit in a favorite coffeeshop and read. Such trivialities, perhaps, though for me requires a lot of effort.

As far as making friends goes, I admit that I'm still quite cautious, and don't like to "bond by default," due to shared nationality or cultural interests, for example. On most days, I would prefer to hang out with dogs. Folks here may say that no se relaciona bien con gente but I've definitely tried my hand at being more sociable, precisely because I don't have the "support network" that is my family and friends. In steps, of course.

Don't worry; I'm not so insular as to think that loneliness is a condition unique to me. I'm also aware that complaints are null if I don't try to reach out to others.

So, what solution(s) would I propose, then?

I'll take it in strides, I guess. I'll continue to do as I do, and if someone wants to join me for a shake at Los Alpes, all the better.

Concrete jungle, or: conquering shopping fears

As much as I may appreciate "fashion" and "style," I'm actually quite afraid to go shopping. Afraid of entering the store, of clerks approaching me, of me approaching them, of the other shoppers, of trying on clothes. You get it; the whole experience makes me more nervous and paranoid that I usually am. And in the month since the rebajas (sales) have started, I've grown increasingly wary of jamming into high-street shops like Lefties, H&M, and Sfera, trying to stock up on last season's goods at sharply-reduced prices. Indeed, even when it's not rebajas time, the shops can be like almost as asphyxiating as going to the Rastro.

I nevertheless woke up this morning with the urge to check out some of the boutique shops, particularly those within walking distance of Plaza Santa Bárbara (Metro: Alonso Martinez), recommend as part of the stylists' trail. The first stop was Pez, one of the bigger, delightfully airy little spaces that channels a very bobo feel. Silly, but I call it the "looking and the cooking," for that simultaneously intellectual and stylish woman who favors quirky but feminine and sober prints. The Deschanel sisters, for example, or Annie Clark. I'd walked by the display more than a few times, and previously intimidated, had only entered this afternoon.

The new attendants were unobtrusive, and let me peruse as long as I want, feeling the fabrics and pretty much fondling an exquisite Les Prairies de Paris jacket that was much too much for the pocketbook, even though it was in the rebajas section. The plaid dress I'd also stared at from outside was much less appealing up close, feeling more like a potato sack, if anything else. The item that I coveted most, however, was the bag of my life (ok, the day), an Egyptian blue piece that doubled as a tote and a purse when you folded it over. This isn't much of a description, so I urge you to check it out, though I should've taken a picture.

In an effort to thank them for letting me spend a good chunk of time in the place without any purchases, I asked what music was playing in the background. I'd already known the answer.

He's Swedish, right?

I headed up to Oliphant next, a chance discovery from last December when I was at Biblioketa. Oliphant had a similar vibe to Pez, though on a much smaller scale and as it seemed, offering more French labels, like Tara Jarmon, Madame à Paris, Mellow Yellow. Many gorgeous pieces also on sale, but none of the ones I liked, like the hunter green Madame à Paris tunic, was no longer available in my size. Another stunning piece I tried on was (of course) a cobalt blue top by Bellerose. Since there was no price on the tags from the new collection, I had to ask, and almost choked.

Then 10 minutes later, at Mott, where I first turned the corner in order to not enter, but ended up spending about an hour. The storefront is deceiving; the shop actually extends to two more spaces behind, the last dedicated to--you guessed it--rebajas. Of the three shops I'd so far visited, Mott offered the most pieces I wanted to try on, from a leaf-print dress by a label whose name starts with M to delicate cotton shirts by Iro. I was close to purchasing a hazel tunic by Iro when the attendant informed me that they were, again, out of my size.

Un/fortunate.

What I was hoping to be my last stop was Zadig & Voltaire, one of two Madrid branches of the French label. The style here is also quite bobo with the rocker tinge. Skulls and crossbones everywhere. Or pirates, I guess. The last time I visited, I wasn't compelled by any particular item as much as I was by the color palette: muted (not pastel) pinks, blues, greens. Also some items for men, which I admit, weren't half bad, for the modern Baudelaire--oh, I meant Voltaire, haha.

I toted a sweater in my hand and when I turned around, there was an attendant smiling at me, waiting to cater to my needs. She recommended a few other pieces from the spring/summer collection, "super cute," she said under a cardigan and over a jean miniskirt and tights. Like she was wearing! I had to grin shyly and burst the thought bubble, invisibly rising from my head, screaming, "Yo! I just want to try this sweater on!"

The attendant was quite, well, attentive, as per the job title, I'd imagine. She was quick to give me different sizes, different colors, recommend this one to go with that one, etc, that I had to keep rushing to put my shirt back on before opening the dressing room curtain. At the counter, I was half-eavesdropping on another attendant speaking flawless French with another customer (who I assumed from her accent to be a native francophone), and asked the one with whom I was working if she spoke French. She smiled.

A little bit...but it's not mandatory.

I took advantage of the situation to ease up on my nerves. French was something I could do. Small talk in French, at this bastion of French rocker chic, was something I could do.

Do you guys spend a lot of time in France, then?
No, not all...but you must?
Just some friends.
So you must know the label very well, then? The brown eyes looked up, with a conspiratorial twinkle.

It's half-fiction: I knew the label, but once again, I'd never seen myself actually going into the shop, for fear of the hyper-cool...whatever. All my insecurities to the fore. The ladies at this branch, however, seemed real, but I played dumb again, asking if there was another branch.

On Claudio Coello.
Number 80..8.

I wished the attendants as I headed out into a pleasant afternoon. The actual last stop was Zara, that Galician fashion empire, as Time Out calls it, and rightly so. I don't doubt that generally speaking, every Spanish woman has at least one piece in her wardrobe labeled Zara. The company's schtick is a "downmarket" take on catway fashions without, supposedly, the "downmarket" quality. In other words, a kind of sartorial democracy, where the Zara woman's assumed schtick is to take the piece and make it her own, at a fraction of the price. In my opinion, Zara can be quite costly but from the looks of the register lines, its popularity isn't dwindling any time soon.

Still, I wonder if there isn't room in the Spanish economy, in the fashion system, in the culture for US-style thrift stores like Goodwill and ARC? There are places like Humana, but they aren't as wide-spread, with (I think) only five in Madrid. Perhaps this is a topic for later inquiry...


Shops listed:
Pez - Regueros 15
Oliphant - Santa Teresa 7
Mott - Barquillo 31
Zadig & Voltaire - Almirante 27


(Image: Hola.com, an ad for Misako, a bag chain:
Careful!
Rebajas!
Don't lose sight of the desired bag
Don't insult, step on, or push anyone
Stay calm; there's something for everyone)

Eureka! (and other happenings)

I spent the last weekend in Córdoba and when I came back, I had a room. I also had a last unpleasant (financial) surprise from my ex-roommates, but nothing could really hold me back from the thought of high-tailing it out of there. So, the apartment is at the opposite end of the city from work, and so, I have to walk through the roommate's apartment to get to the bathroom. The location is closer to places where I actually hang out, everything is new-ish, IKEA-ish, the walls are a cheery yellow, and the roommate herself seems clean-ish and responsible. Both she and the landlady agreed to let me move in a week earlier, so more points to them.

Nevertheless, my bubble was burst too soon. You may or may not remember my having tripped on a USB cord, then trying to jam it into the port anyway, and then crashing my motherboard. Or maybe not. In any case, I took it back to the U.S. with me to get it repaired. Now, all fixed up, it's in the hands of Spanish customs officials who want me to claim it with my internet receipt because they think it's a recent purchase and thus want me to pay duty on it. Issue one.

Issue two. I jaunt up to my nearest post office to retrieve a wire transfer. I grin, say I don't have a second name, which would technically be my mother's maiden name. I'm not handed the money over because none of the ID I brought with me states my full name, precisely the one with my mother's maiden name. I jog back to my new place, sure that all that grandeur is on my passport. No! Just the middle initial. I scurry through all the documents I have; an acceptance letter from grad school has saved me. Back at the post office, the very amiable clerk--who likes García Lorca and Machado, he admits during small talk--regrets that he still can't dole it out, due to some spelling mistake on either the sender's or the US post office's behalf. This is the reason I don't use her name.

Issue three, something I've been handling as best as I've been able to, is the illness of the teacher with whom I work, and the school's bilingual program coordinator. She's prepared me with as many activities and worksheets than you can shake a stick at. Last week, other teachers were rotating the disciplining and monitoring duties, and all I had to do was implement the very meticulous lesson plans. This week, the school's even hired a sub. However, it's quite clear to me that I'm so very not a professional and whatever dreams I entertained about teaching languages to primary school children is fast spiraling down the drain. Then again, I suppose that this itself is such a non-issue, and I ought to deal it with the way I do.

Even after these small trials, though, I no longer fear going home. There, I can blow off steam, relax a bit, and wonder how best to tackle the next day. For once, I'm perfectly content in my own very tiny corner of the world. Worry-free, if only for a short while.

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.

Canjear

v. Intercambiar, trocar o hacer una sustitución.
(Diccionaro de Español para Extranjeros, 2002)

After my three-person intercambio this evening, I trekked on over to La Palma to see First Aid Kit, a band I heard by chance while perusing--ahem--thatspace.

I knew I liked the music, but was still doubting whether or not I'd stay. It's been ages since I've been to an intimate show, and even more time has passed since I've hung out at a club/bar/disco. In other words, the last time I "went out" at night was many, MANY moons ago, so I was already nervous and paranoid, Woody Allen-in-his-movies-style, before I'd even opened the door. Luckily, it was quite casual; I waited around with a few other folks in the space between the entrance and the seating areas, as the show hadn't yet started. Paid the 7,-EUR to get in, stuffed my ticket in my pocket, and ordered a caña at the bar, slapping some coins on the counter.

Now here's where my stupidity lies. First of all, I don't drink; mostly because I shouldn't, but also because I just don't like the taste. I suppose I'm in the wrong city to have such an attitude, but that's a whole 'nother story. I also suppose that I could've ordered a Coke or a Fanta (my standby), though something in the advert about the consumición mínima made me think that this only applied to alcoholic beverages.

No points for me here.

Cleaning my pockets out when I arrived home, I read the--by now--crumpled ticket, to discover that podía canjearlo, that I just spent 2,50,-EUR on a drink that I didn't even want. In the end, I guess that it's not such a big deal (will my wallet really miss 2,50?) and that, at the very least, I'll never forget this word.

Happy Halloween!

Everyone--well, most everyone--at school today was hyped for two major reasons: one, the holiday (and the accompanying coloring, games, and CANDY), and two, the firefighters' visit.

O, the director of studies, passed around a notice during lunch yesterday. The team would be coming by around 11:30AM to do a presentation with the 3rd graders, but all were welcome to see their "exhibit" afterwards. You only had to be aware that there were going to be men in uniform and you could be assured that the female staff we're going to be on hand...to bring the kids 'round of course.

They got started a bit late, but no one minded. My three fellow female assistants (the other is male) on the opposite side of the fire engine, watching the men get everything ready, and motioning for me to come over. I grinned and shook my head, opting to stay with the masses of children that had gathered, and everyone glinting at the bright sky as the ladder zoomed up and up, past the roof. The kids went especially crazy as one firefighter, then another, hoisted himself down using the rope, doing flips on the way.

Afterwards there were many photo ops to be had, and again, I was invited to join, but again, I declined. From the sidelines, I took a photograph of my three fellow assistants posing with one of the cuter (or so one mentioned) firefighters, who would apparently later text one of my coworkers commenting on her bonita sonrisa. Needless to say, it was a pretty exciting event, albeit too cortito, as a student would later comment.

For the rest of the afternoon, my class worked on Halloween riddles and their masks. I had traced out two faces: a pumpkin and a black cat, the former of which was more popular, but the latter turning out to be much cuter. We ended the day by me doling out candy--some gummi, some creamy stuff, some gum, and M&Ms--wearing a witch hat I bought only yesterday at a 1-EUR-store (dreadfully called a chino, because they majority of its proprietors are presumably of Chinese descent). I tried to get them to say "trick or treat," but to no avail. Oh well.

Let me just say that I never knew exactly how lethal the "kids with candy" combination can get. Well, perhaps I'm exaggerating, but they kept wanting to switch, or asking for more, like ravenous baby chicks. "Let's save some for the other class!" I told my first. Seeing as how my ghost bucket is still 1/4 full, I could've easily given them more chuches, but I really worried about sugaring them up too much. I did, however, encounter a few students outside of the main entrance, waiting for their parents, so I took liberties and gave them some more. An adult called out one of them, and I was at first scared, but then she thanked me. What a relief.

Now I'm just killing time before I take tonight's overnight train to San Sebastián, where A and I barely booked a room. Our plans for Granada had fallen through, so we thought this would be a good alternative. Too bad we hadn't planned much earlier (better), because ALL of the places we looked at within our budget--from

the branch of the national youth hostel association to the 2* pension--were booked. Luckily, one place from among the many that I frantically emailed last night responded that they still had a double room available, so I sent them our info straight away. We'll see how that goes in the next post. Until then, have a great weekend, eat lots of huesos de santo and buñuelos de viento!

Fan girl

There were no more cheap tickets for Don Quixote, so A and I decided to take in a movie. 2 Days in Paris was (is) playing at Golem, and though I'd already seen it, I agreed on a second time because I respect Julie Delpy as an artist and this, her first feature-length, was funny enough.

Even with the two buses from Barrio del Pilar to Plaza de España, A and I still had time to kill at 8½, where I thumbed through photographs of Berlin, and spotted Isabel Coixet's La vida es un guión, an autobiography of sorts. A future purchase, I told myself.

I checked the time on my cellphone. The movie would be starting in 15 minutes. Stepping out across Martin de los Heros in the brisk evening air, we noticed stylish fellow movie-lovers queuing to enter their respective salas. I glanced around, a bit nervous, and what should catch my eye but a familiar nose belonging to very familiar--and beautiful, I might add--face. A black cap and very light makeup, a bomber jacket, and jeans tucked in boots, like so many a Madrileña on a casual night out with friends. A didn't understand why I was tapping her so frantically on the arm, attempting to direct her attention to the woman a mere foot away from us.

La Penélope +.

Accompanied by El Pedro.

The couple behind had noticed, too, as the woman coyly smiled to the man and referred to them as los famosos. I had an impulse to ask them if they wanted to get closer, but as A would later affirm, we were in a privileged position. Starstruck, we were as silent as lambs as the host tore our tickets and directed us to the screening room for 2 Days...downstairs. We watched the Ps head into Padre Nuestro, though A jokingly wondered whether or not we should join them, whether or not to ask where Javi and Mónica were.

Later, Pedro came down with an employee to get a drink from the vending machine--on the house, claro. I fidgeted with the copy of the movie guide I'd picked up in the lobby, A and I pretending to be as nonchalant as possible. Yes, of course, we were quite tempted to get autographs or "say 'hello'." In the end, we didn't, partially because we were too shy and partially because they were just there to chill out.

(So that's why I'm writing a blog entry.)

I recounted the sighting of my roommates upon arriving home. Apparently, it's no big deal to see Pedro, at least, on the town. My roommate went on to give me a short bio of the director, about how they are both from Ciudad Real, and how he used to see Pedro, also out and about before he was "super famous." He found it impressive that a boy from a small Spanish pueblo could rise to such great heights (i.e. Hollywood) and also remarked on Pedro's intelligence, marked by such diverse experiences. "He's seen the best...and the worst," my roommate remarked with a wistful air.

Well, no matter. However uncommon such a celebrity sighting is, suffice it to say that it was a very pleasurable moment, making for a soon-to-be oft-repeated anecdote. Or maybe, just maybe, I'll forget it almost as fast as I experienced it, just another memory.


EDIT, October 28, 8:39AM
I'm that much of a fan girl that I am actually considering buying this shirt:

Imagined geographies

On our way to the Teleférico, a friend, A, and I stopped off at a café on Pintor Rosales. We had just hiked all the way from Zoe (C/Santa María 28, Huertas) and needed a little break, deciding on some batidos, or juice, at least. At a small table off to the side, my friend and I spent about a half an hour watching the other clients being waited upon.

Yes, I'm aware that the pace here is--shall we say--more leisurely. Usually, I don't mind. On the way back from the restroom, A politely inquired at bar if we could order, and was told that we had to wait for our server. After much eye contact-making, subtle hand-beckoning and -waving, and Oigas and Por favors--this, when the server was collecting payment from the table next to us--we became a bit aggravated and left.

It's an annoyance that one must get over, but even a day later, I'm still trying to conjure reasons why we were never served. Part of me always thinks it's because we didn't look like we belonged, more specifically, "foreigners"/"strangers" (to whatever that means nowadays. Sitting there under the eggshell-colored umbrella, I happened to think of the ads I've seen in the metro stations, part of the state's campaign about the benefits of immigration, the video of which is available here.

I can't say that I know too much about contemporary Spanish immigration, but having spent most of my life in the U.S. (where I take the politics of multiculturalism for granted), it's rather curious to see such ads. It's just "common sense" to embrace a common humanity while celebrating differences and individuality at the same time, though that's not to say that folks in the U.S. aren't grappling with such concepts, either. And I suppose also that the campaign is aimed more at respecting the immigrant laborers--the child-/elderly-minders, the cooks and servers, the construction workers, and the like--rather than those of higher socio-economic aspirations/standing, though I would hate to sound like I'm supporting a monolithic vision of exactly what an "immigrant laborer" is supposed to be.

Where do A and I fit into this scheme? We are very visibly, to use a U.S.-specific term, women "of color." So visibly un-Spanish, and constantly performing our foreign-ness. We're educated, upwardly-mobile, first-generation, hyphenated-American multilingual girls working as English assistants to ward off another year of adult life. Our privilege is encapsulated the previous sentence, but no one would know lest we spelled it out. Otherwise, a lot of people might just glance at a brown and yellow girl, waiting for chocolate shakes, on a lazy Sunday afternoon at the park.

Yo, la aguafiestas

Sitting at a table in La Mordida (C/Las Fuentes, 3 - M: Ópera) with some other assistants, I'm asked if I go "clubbing." At the tender age of 24, this should be a simple and obvious answer, but having been asked this question so many times, and never knowing how to respond properly, I get a little taxed. Looking at the brightly decorated walls, I explain that I used to be "really involved" in the local music community back in the States, doing zines and organizing shows, but that, too, became a hassle when my personal experience with the community was just, after Benedict Anderson's notion, imagined and imaginary, more a scene where the politics may be "progressive," but where what counts is who you know and how many obscure records you have.

I could've just said no. Instead, I sarcastically half-apologized for "being lame and boring," but pointed out that ir de juerga (go out on the town) can be a pain for an assistants's budget. My ranting was met with silence. None, even my friend, were expecting me to say this, especially in a rather aggressive manner. I could've just given a simple answer.

Let's just put it this way: I don't do very well in groups, preferring the company of one or two people who I assume reciprocate interest, or, if all else fails wandering about, "discovering" places that are new to me, and slowly fitting streets in my mind like the pieces of a puzzle.

Back to school and intercambios

For first term, I´m assisting the school´s program coordinator with two different groups of 6-7 years old. I´ve mostly been observing so far, and helping out with the odd pronunciation here and there, as well as working with small groups of 4-5 kids in the afternoon, reviewing prepositions and the like.

The staff and the kids with whom I work are, for the most part friendly. Some (of the kids) have had difficulties pronouncing my name, calling me anything from Carmen to Carpeta (!), I tell them that I´m also trying to learn their names. The kids also take the time to say hi and chat with me a little bit before class. On my second day there, I was confused about where I was supposed to enter and wound up in the recreational area. One of my students spotted me, ran up and gave me a hug. Another went so far as to inform me that her santo was coming up, which made me wonder if it was a hint of sorts to bring her some candy.

Half of the time I´m not really sure about what I´m doing, but the teacher is very communicative, not only guiding me in the different projects, but also asking for input on how to best implement such and such a lesson plan, or looking for suggestions for activities. Next week, I believe that we´ll get some Halloween stuff in motion, as well as (hopefully), some crafts related to Día de los Muertos.

Other than school, I´ve been too pooped to really do much of anything, although I posted an ad on Loquo for intercambios, and I´ve had one every day since Friday, until next. I thought I´d give private lessons, but to meet different sorts of people, perhaps those with whom I can go to the movies or the museum, this is really great way to do it. And of course, I´m ameliorating my Spanish-language skills as well. I´ll write more about my impressions later, whenever I get on the internet again.

Thanks for reading.