My brain is not convinced.  Whenever I catch a few minutes of Spanish TV, it seems hard to believe that the words are actually coming out of the person who is speaking’s mouth.  I stare and stare like I am at an art museum to see if the movements align with the words cascading out of the person’s mouth.  I am one of those people who gets slightly annoyed with the screen and the sound get out of sync.  It’s not that I can read lips very well, but my brain somehow knows something is off and won’t let it be.

From Spanish classes in high school the only contact we had with “real” Spanish was through watching DVDs with the Spanish dubbing, so I naturally associate the TV and movies here with those experiences.   My host family here is always watching American movies that are dubbed over, so that doesn’t help to alleviate the habit.  It doesn’t matter if it’s the news or a sitcom or even a commercial that was obviously originally made in Spain.  It all just seems fake like part of the story is being censored (and that’s disregarding any translation problems I have), but it is quite an amusing mind game nonetheless.

At 7:45 yesterday I was watching a rehearsal for an opera in the plaza in front of Palacio Real (Royal Palace). We were all smushed together against those metal people barriers to get a good view of an empty stage and an interesting sounding band. I knew that they were practicing for a free show later that night at 10pm and apparently so did they (despite my assumptions that they were a bunch of tourists oggling at a spectacle) because all of a sudden there was a signal and the crowd pushed through the metal fences to get to the seats on the other side. I was slightly confused and stood my ground as an observer of the stampede.

Most of the people were crotchety old ladies who ran in and claimed seats with as many items as they could and then began flailing their arms to indicate their location to someone else on the either side of the seating section. They were yelling into their cellphones “Do you see me? I’m the one with the red jacket in the air. Are your seats better than mine?” and then there would be some shuffling around as they realize that they’ve each saved each other seats and can’t possibly occupy both sets. I walked up to one woman whose hand was firmly placed on the two seats next to her to ask to see the show’s pamphlet and she snapped at me “This seat’s taken. It’s taken.” I was just trying to check to see if my facts were right regarding the start time of the opera. Sheesh.

Because we normally have dinner around 10, I knew I wouldn’t be able to see the show so I waited around for a bit, hoping to catch more rehearsing and people watch. I was thinking that most of the people there had just stumbled upon the scene without realizing how early they were, but a woman I started chatting with told me otherwise. “They’re all here for the show. It’s free and outdoors, so of course we’re going to wait. We do it all the time.” Whoa. Who could possibly have 2 hours to sit here doing nothing before a show? I have enough trouble entertaining myself the 10 minutes before previews start at the movies, let alone for hours.

With the nice weather, I accidentally spent three more hours strolling around the plaza and its side streets. The Palace is on my running path, so I always see the stages go up and down for performances and hear the same accordion players. The past few days, though, I caught a snippet of a man playing crystal glasses and have always been bummed that I couldn’t stop myself to listen or have my camera to take pictures. Today I had both time and my camera so I marveled as he played Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy and another famous song that I could hum to you but can’t remember the name. While people came and went, I stood in the middle of the sidewalk and stared, a result of which was a gathering of more people wondering what could be so interesting to me. The neatest part was how he could play chords with the glasses and I was impressed how quickly he could roll the notes out, especially without cutting his fingers. My gawking surely earned him a few euros.

I have a few more pictures here.

For my introduction to music class, we have to attend four concerts and turn in reflections on the performance as a part of our grade. It just dawned on me that I could just as well share them here. Why not, right? Keep in mind that they are a bit academic sounding because I didn’t feel like re-writing them for my devout blog audience. Forgive me. I have them posted on a separate page because they are out of their chronological location.

My fourth concert is at the end of this month with my favorite violinist, Nigel Kennedy. There was quite an ordeal purchasing the ticket, but that’s all solved. Watch for my post on the performance later! And, I might add, he’s known for being a bit radical with his interpretations and approach to classical music. Note the mohawk, frumpy suit, and if you’re really good you can catch the subtleties in his style of playing the classics in, for example, this performance.

I am sure most of you don’t want to hear it, but I have been pleasantly surprised to find that I am not always cold here like I am at home.  (In Spanish there’s a term for this, ‘frilajera,’ but there isn’t really a good English translation for the word. ) Even in summer or buildings where the rest of the room is sweating the pounds off, I have managed to be cool or just comfortable.  I just assumed it was something with how my body distributed heat or a biological defect that will forever be a part of my sweater-filled life, but Madrid has proven me wrong.

In the last week alone, I can think of at least three times where I was stripping layers off or changing from long sleeves into one of the few t-shirts I actually brought with me.  This really is remarkable, considering I am frequently chastised for not taking my coat off when I come inside simply because I need the extra warmth.

I am a firm believer in the spirit-lifting qualities of sunshine and blue skies.  They make pictures more beautiful and travel in all forms easier.  (I know this way too well from my adventures these past months.)  The parks are full of people looking for a place to enjoy the weather and the restaurants get more business with their street side tables.  Of course, energy costs are less and less harmful.  The windows are open so houses and buildings have fresh air circulating and at night the cool air is perfect for sleeping without waking-up stuffy.  It may come as a surprise to some, but there was a study about how the air was actually cleaner in a hospital with the windows open than all the fancy technological systems trying to do the same thing.  Nature trumps all again.

Despite my pale skin and greasy, smelly sunscreen filled childhood, I am a self-declared sun lover.  I do realize that my argument is a bit pointless, though, because we can’t all go out and buy some sunshine from our local hardware store to get all these benefits, but I can rave about it and sing John Denver, can’t I?

Maybe it’s because Madrid’s heat is a different kind of heat than Philly, Michigan, Minnesota, Chicago (all the places I have lived)?  A rational thought might be that I am a bit closer to the equator (by about 1 degree) or the heat is drier (drought is a huge problem here).  Or perhaps because my temperature is more constant throughout the day from being in rooms with the windows open all the time instead of going into freezing air-conditioned buildings and back outside.  I do not know, but I appreciate the warm sunshine (I haven’t seen snow in a long time; all the storms came after I left for Spain) and I am glad to know that one less should-be-normal function of my body works.

Last Wednesday I submitted some photos into our school-sponsored contest. I spent more time than I liked to admit choosing the 5 we were allowed to submit and writing their corresponding captions, but my fingers are crossed. There are cash prizes, but I would be more than happy with just having the honor of someone else appreciating my photos as more than memories of a semester abroad, especially because I am so new at this whole photo-capturing business. I have included the descriptions I submitted in the caption section for each photo (you have to click on the link to get to the photo). In a similar vein, I also submitted to the school’s glossy-paged literary magazine and I think the editor confirmed that I will have some photos in the Spring edition.

Bocadillo Break

Garlic Merchant

Wooden Staircase in Torre degli Asinelli

Flag Bearer

Semana Santa de Cuenca

Update: Second Prize for Garlic Merchant!

I was home for a few hours, recovering from the inevitable backlog of things to think about from traveling when the son of my hosts popped his head in my room to ask how my trip was. Before I could even respond with my broken Spanish about the fine treatment I had in Brussels, a little fuzzy, chirpping duckling jumped out from behind the slightly ajar door. You got it, a duckling.

He was kayaking somewhere on Saturday and saw it alone, so he and his grandfather decided to take it home with the intention of bringing it to their farm in the pueblo after it got a bit bigger. Oswaldo (or was it Waldo? their accents sometimes get me) jumped all around the house and followed the son everywhere he went like Mary and her lambs or the movie Fly Away Home. Despite the family’s initial misgivings and the jealousy of the dog, he was so adorable they couldn’t turn him away.

Sadly, when I came back from school yesterday to get a good picture of the new family member, we found out that Oswaldo didn’t make it through the afternoon. Three days of bouncing off beds and sofas to follow the son, stealing the attention of every camera and cellphone in the house, and living in a cardboard box that he could nearly jump through the handle of–all on a diet of bread crumbs soaked in water–I think he probably had a bit too much excitement in his life. What a cutie, but some things just aren’t supposed to be inside.

D.E.P. (R.I.P. in Spanish)
All who wish may visit his grave sight in the park near our house.

Believe it or not, 5 euro flights really exist. To get to Belgium to visit the family of my friends (their siblings) I took a .01 cent flight with 4.99 in taxes. Granted, I did land in an airport an hour outside the city and did online check-in with carry-on luggage only and had to pay 50 euros to get back to Madrid, it was still a cheap flight for the weekend. Not that I am complaining, but the family really spoiled me with everything from the homemade meals and luxurious guest room to their willingness to show me around Brugge and Brussels. I didn’t have to think for even a second and my nose was far from being buried in a map.

As a result of such royal treatment, I of course love the city even more, but even without it I would have still liked the buildings and atmosphere in the Grand Place, the canals and Medieval architecture in Brugge, and most certainly the waffles, mussels, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, and did I say chocolate? I also visited Waterloo, where there’s this hill with a lion on top symbolizing peace in Europe and a rotunda with a circular mural and sound effects to re-create the battlefield.

I came in on Thursday and left on Monday morning (landed at noon and got to class with my luggage and such by 2, no problem), so I got a real feel of what it’s like to live in Belgium. Of note are the mix/clash of languages in French, Flemmish, and even a bit of German, its small size (think Maryland), and that there is a countryside with very narrow roads (so much so that people often have to back-up for another Smart car to get past). Since I was not nearly as productive as I hoped to be over Easter Break, I did have a paper. presentation, and an exam to do while I was there , so I did not do as much as I would have liked (for example, visit Amsterdam or Germany), but I am happy to report that I at least received excellent grades on those projects, so my regret is not killing me.

Since I was in the company of the family or their friends the entire time, I did not seek the companionship I normally have in my camera, so I do not have as many pictures as normal. That, and the weather was kind of dreary–always seems to happen to me when I leave the warmth and sunshine we have in Madrid.

Semana Santa (Holy Week) is a big holiday in Spain and they celebrate quite uniquely with these processions of cone-hooded men carrying pasos (floats) that retell the story of Christ’s last week. Since Madrid is a working city, not a lot of madridleños are actually from the city, but from the small pueblos outside it. I saw a statistic that some 50% of the city leaves for the week; I can’t think of any holiday or city where that’s the case in the US. There’s even a name for the whole process, Operación Salida (Exit Operation). Back in the States, you may even have heard some celebrity gossip from Antonio Banderas returning to his native Spain to participate in the processions.

I was fortunate that a professor of mine is from a small pueblo, Cuenca, that has beautiful processions during the day (for better pictures) and not too many people, unlike Madrid. He drove a few of us down to see them and hear a Gregorian chant performance (it was for a Music of Spain class) that we ended up not being able to find.

Though we had 4.5 days off and I was planning on getting a lot of work done (including writing a couple of posts I’ve been trying to find some time to do), my dad jinxed me and laugh when I rattled off the list of things I had to do. I didn’t even start to work until Sunday afternoon. Instead, I hung-out with my housemate from Philly and we enjoyed the freedom and quiet of the house without our host-family around (they, too, went back to a pueblo).

Thursday we people watched in a park nearby our house, where we saw a woman wrestle with her bull dog because it kept stealing little kids’ balls and a couple get approached by undercover policeman and (we think) searched for drugs. I guess it’s legal to grow and possess a certain amount of marijuana, but you just can’t smoke it in public without getting fined. In the evening we went to a flamenco concert (no dancing) because she’s a flamenco singer and knew this guy would be good.

Friday was the trip to Cuenca that I already alluded to and I had a bit of an adventure asking for directions to the bus station. I swear I am good with maps, but when there are no street signs and I am not simply un-doing my steps, it’s a bit harder.

Saturday hopped on a bus for half and hour to visit El Escorial, the former monastery built to show Spain’s devotion to Catholicism but is now a mix of art museum and architectural monument. The weekend started to turn really cold and we had to face some snow-ish winds. No, the snow-stuff didn’t stick but it was certainly a shock for much of the country. Since there was snow and hail in southern Spain, too, even the most famous processions had to partly cancel or delay and disappoint quite a few people.

You would think with all the pomp and celebrations during the week that Easter Sunday would be even more amazing, but in fact it’s not that big of a deal. Thursday and Friday are the most important days. My friend and I walked past the cathedral in Madrid where you can find the biggest form of celebration via the loud clanging of the bells. (I think it’s a special occasion thing.) We were actually heading to the Plaza Mayor to hear this traditional drum performance (Tamborrada) and thanks to my excellent map-reading skills we arrived just as they were coming up the street. We listened for a while among a large crowd and it made me all the more thankful that I avoided this in Cuenca for the processions. Bumping around with people to simply see something is not something I look forward to.

Though Sundays are considered holidays in Spain and nearly every business closes, the region we were in stays open for the tourists so we did some shopping. We found this gourmet international food market that carries items like hummus, smoothies, and tortilla shells, as well as PopTarts and Cheerios. I only mention this because while we were there a group of British women were chatting and eating lunch when a man dropped some biscuits. He apologized and in the process of picking up the food, he grabbed one of the women’s unattended handbags and took off. It took them a few seconds to realize it, but by that time he was gone. Since they were going to the airport right after lunch, he took all of her money and her passport. Yikes. We did our best to help them out since they didn’t speak any Spanish, but the woman was pretty much stuck. Kind of freaked us out, but it just shows how we need to be on our guard all the time. Plus, we both now know the emergency numbers of the city and the embassy (which we didn’t have noted before). I have never felt unsafe here, but gentle reminders here and there always come up.

It was a nice weekend and I took some awesome pictures in Cuenca that I am about to submit to a photo contest. It was kind of sad without the Easter bunny hiding eggs and munching on jellybeans (and our family loved hearing about our Easter traditions), but it will be even sadder not being able to buy the leftover candy at 50%-off.

I also have a few pictures from the Tamborrada.

My professor pointed out in class the other day that the US is practically one of the only–if not the only–nation with the right of happiness written in its official governing documents.  I hadn’t ever really thought about that.  Of course, she was kind of mocking our country, but also envious and trying to get us to understand how lucky we are.

It’s not like our depression rates are lower than other countries’ or that the rest of the world sulks their entire life.  My experience abroad assures me that non-Americans do not have trouble enjoying themselves.  Since people feel entitled to being happy they get angry or think something is wrong with them when that’s not the case, perhaps ironically leading them down a path to unhappiness and depression.  Just something to think about.

I am a self-declared traveler. Ignore my big camera for I am just trying to share and remember your world in mine. Please do not stare at my red hair or pale skin. Don’t fool yourself into thinking I don’t see you turning your head after you pass me on the street. I promise I am not here to check something off a must-see list in some big book I worship in my free time. What’s that you say about your number of stars? I know nothing. Your signs of authentic this or traditional that don’t blind me into believing these are the real things in your world. No, I know better. I look into your face and listen to your stories when our paths cross. I am not afraid to wander away from the English or get lost in your world and ask (or perhaps gesture) for directions. That’s right, I am a traveler not a tourist.