ANDALUCíA: Part 4- Corked and Screwed

Following the slowest check-in of my life, I went out and walked around the city.  Unlike Córdoba, which is really more of a town, Sevilla is a city swarming with people.  The street where the hostel lies was  full of tapas bars and cafés that were overflowing with people.  It seemed like everywhere I turned were a group of jovial young people have a great time together. 

At this point, I reached total despondence.  I can't explain the dynamics of it, but I had hit an emotional low and forlorn point.  In reality, I believe it was a combination of having two horrible days, already feeling lonely, being in a city where everyone seemed to be with their 5 best friends, hormonal influences, and convinced that everyone could sense my loneliness and self-consciousness.  I was feeling dreadful about myself and wished that I could just float away or be invisible.  (At that highly emotional time, I remember seeing a leaf falling from a tree, and with dramatic and poetic flare, I claimed I wanted to be a leaf, that just floated off its branch and the wind took it far away, where it lay in a open meadow for it's final days before it became part of the earth again... sadly, I was that emo at the moment.)

I walked around like someone had killed my pet guinea pig.  Somber and dragging my feet, I finally came across a grocery store to get some wine, cheese, bread and fruit.  The hostel in which I was staying had a large, rooftop terrace.  I reckoned that if I was traveling alone, a hostel with a rooftop terrace would be the place to meet people.  Preparing to make a friend or two, I bought two bottles of wine, and figured like in kindergarten when you shared a Little Debbie Cake, sharing wine is like a token to 

frienshipland! 

Not far from my mind, was the half-nude, possibly German, stud from the hostel.  I was motivated to go back to the hostel, put on a happy face, and of course, meet him if I possibly could.  I suppose it is rather ironic in some ways.  Here, I was moping around at bottom level self-confidence, and yet all I could imagine doing was meeting this guy who was, let's face it, he is eons out of my league. Plus, there was a significant chance he had already left or would be out all night, but I was hopeful not matter how slim the odds.  Anyone that could catch subtle facial humor and be such a patient sport about a rather embarrassing and frustrating situation was definitely worth meeting. 

Upon returning to my room in the hostel, I met a French-Canadian girl named Ellen.  She had a super toothy smile and was somewhat of a hippie.  Ellen was incredibly friendly and told me how she was going to work on a farm in Spain for a month.  I was elated to speak with someone, anyone, especially such a sweet girl. She asked me what I was doing that night, and I told her I had bought some wine and planned on opening it and sharing it, if she had any interest.

What came next I was not prepared for.  "Oh yes! Sure that sounds great!" she replied.  "I was just on the terrace talking to a German guy, and he speaks perfect English."  My heart stopped, then, commenced at racehorse speed. "You should come up and hang out with us.  I want to write in my journal, " she said taking the book from under her arm and giving it a bit of a wave, "but I will be up there shortly." 

As casual as I possibly could, "Really?! A GERMAN!?" clearly the nonchalant thing didn't work out for me.  I drilled her with questions.  Was she there with him? No, shew relief.  What did he look like? Tall, light eyes.. uh huh, uh huh perfect! I more or less grabbed my things and sprinted to the kitchen.  I searched for a bottle opener, but to no avail.  I NEEDED this wine! How else was I going to win friends?!  

Nonetheless, I rapidly climbed the spiral staircase leading to the terrace, the whole time saying a little chant, "PLEASE be the same guy, PLEASE be the same guy..." Holding my breath, I stepped onto the broad terrace and ** cue Angelic choir once again** Sitting off alone on the dark terrace, legs crossed guy-style, and overlooking the street sat the half-naked gent from earlier!! He was sipping a beer and relaxing. Elation!

I clambered over to a table and heaved my bag of fruit, wine and bread onto it.  I tried to collect my thoughts.  How on earth could I approach him without Ellen being there?  I mean, that couldn't be further from a typical thing I would do.  Randomly striking up conversations with fantastically attractive men on darkened terraces, shockingly, is not my forte. I needed a grand excuse, and I needed one now!

Then, it came to me! What did I need? A corkscrew.  What do German guys always seem to have? Swiss Army knives. Bam! That was it.  I would ask if he had anything to open the wine.  With a inexplicable bolt of confidence, origins unknown, I sauntered over to him. I knew my exact opening line.

"Excuse me," I began, "Do you have a---" I purposefully stopped myself and acted as if I just realized who I was speaking to. "Oh! You do wear clothes!?" I jested.  With a smile he joked right back with a witty comment.  Incredulity, he didn't have anything to open the wine and kind of looked at me suspiciously, as if thinking, "Why would I have a corkscrew on me?"  I couldn't help but think, Bad German, Bad German! How could he not be prepared?  He suggested I try the front desk. 

"Yeah, good idea.  Would you care to watch my stuff?" I asked.  "I mean, technically, you owe me, since, I did practically see you naked earlier." What the hell was wrong with me? Who was this girl? I don't make suave, overly flirtatious comments like this.  He shrugged in agreement and claimed that he would guard it with his life.  "Fine, If it's gone when I come back I get to push you over the balcony.  It's only fair. I mean, there's fruit in there!"  

"Oh yeah, absolutely. It's only fair," he retorted without skipping a beat.  I flew down the stairs and sure enough, the front desk kept the corkscrew safely tucked away.  

With the bottle opened, I rushed back upstairs and grabbed two cups from the

 kitchen on the way for Ellen and I, whenever she decided to join us.  I sat beside him, made some comments about he got to keep his life since my things were waiting for me, and then, placed the two cups on the table.  He looked skeptically at the two cups.  "Oh crap! OHH crap!" I thought.  He thinks I am putting the moves on him, which in some ways I was. He thinks these two glasses were for him and I. In panic, I quickly glanced around the terrace searching for Ellen, who I knew was still downstairs. 

"So, where's Ellen?" I inquired anxiously.  With slightly squinted eyes full of bemusement, he asked, "Who?" .......! What? What did he mean "who"?  I exclaimed, "You know, the girl you were just talking to?"  His expression began to look more dubious. "Ellen, the French-Canadian girl.  She told me I should come up and hang out... with you... guys ..." my voice trailed off, and my confidence started to wane as I looked at his puzzled countenance. 

After a few seconds of silence, he asked, "Have you been stood up?" A joke, thank goodness.  I snickered and felt at ease again.  He and I began chatting and I discovered that he was from Norway not Germany.  A natural banter and witty repartee formed and we were joking around, and I was shamelessly flirting to the point where I couldn't stop myself.  It was like some uncontrollable force had entered my body.  No matter how I tried, I couldn't stop making waggish retorts and I could feel myself going over the top.  It was like trying to pull a horse out of quick sand.  Good luck. 

I was still in shock and amazement at my stroke of good fortune.  Scarcely could I fathom that I would actually get to talk to him.  As you have seen, things generally don't work out for me with men.  I felt a strong connection to him.  I would go into more detail, but there is still the rather scary, although miniscule chance he could read this blog.  I am certain this entry already contains enough damaging confessions. 

We had been talking for about ten minutes, when I finally got around to asking him why he was in Sevilla.  Then, reality came a knockin'. He casually explained, "I'm here with my girlfriend for a few days.  She's studying in Valencia, and I just came to visit her, and we arrived earlier this morning here in Sevilla."  NOOOOO!!! Oh wait, yes, actually, that makes much more sense.  Of course, he would have a girlfriend.  Things do notwork out for me and men.  Just when I thought my luck was changing. Really it was like someone sucker punching me. 

After this revelation, I began to get a bit shifty.  I didn't know how to stop flirting without making it super obvious that I had just been throwing myself at him the entire time.  Plus, I was super let down by the reality. My mind raced.  His girlfriend was bound to join him at any moment.  I pictured her coming out with long flowing blonde hair, standing 5'10 with a perfectly toned body,  probably a player for the Women's National Norwegian soccer team, who studies neurology on the side, just to make me unutterably intimidated.  

Sure enough, minutes later a petite girl emerged from the the illuminated doorway.  She walked towards us, eyeing me with a cynical smile.  She wasn't at all what I expected.  She was a Swiss girl studying law in Valencia.  They had met while he studied physics in her hometown of Geneva.  They had been dating about a year, and she seemed to be a fantastic girl, but quite skeptical of me at the same time. I dubbed the Norwegian Naked Physicist.  Clearly, he was the true Nordic God I had been searching for (Chai;-) but that nickname was already taken.  

 The three of us chatted for around 30 minutes.  Naked Physicist and I were cracking stupid jokes, and I could tell I was becoming too much.  I needed to reel it back, but I couldn't.  It was true verbal diarrhea.  When I get nervous, I go to either extreme.  I am silent or I talk non-stop. However, he politely indulged me. 

Eventually, they headed off for dinner and I was kicking myself for being so annoying and chatty.  I was certain they both saying, "What was that about?" I finished my glass of wine, and later Ellen along with a group of French guys and the 'actual' German came up.  I went out with them that evening.  They spoke in French a large portion of the time, and I can't say that I enjoyed myself too much.

The next morning, I ventured into the kitchen for the "free" breakfast, and I ran into Naked Physicist's girlfriend.  Surprisingly, she offered that I go and have breakfast with them on the terrace.  A lovely, sunny breakfast turned into a full day of sight seeing with them.  The girlfriend, who I will call Ms. Pris, was brilliant.  Very laid back and interesting.  It's almost a bummer considering it's always more fun to loathe the girlfriend of a fantastic guy, but I really liked her. 

I will say, I don't think this is a mental fabrication of mine, but Naked Physicist and I really seemed to have a chemistry.  I don't mean in any romantic sense, but purely friendship and humor.  He is well-versed in American humor.  At one point, Ms. Pris and I were discussing yoga and I said, "Yeah, I think it's just a great way to free your mind."  Immediately after I said it, I thought back to the 90s En Vogue song, "Free Your Mind".  As if he read my mind, Naked Physicist sang out, "Free Yo' Mind and the rest will follow," then I joined in, "be colorblind, don't be shallow." We were laughing and smiling with each other, and  Ms. Pris looked at us like we were crazy. 

 He and I looked at each other like naughty school children with an "Oops" expression.  Then, she said for a second time that day, "I really don't get your guys humor." We both stared at the ground for a second and felt a bit guilty for continually excluding her by using very specific humor.  The whole day went like that.  He and I just seemed to have a connection, and were always doing something amusing.

 He was so patient and accommodating, and the two of them were really sweet together, holding hands the whole day and sneaking kisses when I wasn't looking. I liked them both so much! I was so thankful to them for letting me bum around with them all day.  I can't imagine how miserable I would have been if I had to go at it alone.  

By about 4 in the afternoon, their sneak kisses became more frequent and as soon as shopping was mentioned, I had to jump ship.  I felt they probably needed and wanted some time alone, and I was more than satisfied to go back and rest at the hostel.  Also, there was a secret part of me that hoped he would get sick of shopping and come back early and we could joke and chat freely. 

I managed to squeeze in a bit of a siesta, and then with little idea of what else to do, I went back to enjoy the lovely terrace.  I sat in a small alcove because Sevillana lessons, a type of flamenco dance, were underway and taking up most of the terrace.  I sat dazing out into the distance as the flamenco music blared.  As I was sitting there, Naked Physicist walked in, and startled each other a little.  "Do you mind if I sit with you?" he politely asked.  "So, you've been stood up again, huh?" he teased.  

I laughed and then told him that this time, there was no one to stand me up.  Then, I went on to explain the whole reason I had spoken to him in the first place.  I thought he was German and clearly, would have a Swiss Army knife.  This seemed to clarify some things for him.  I mentioned that since he was drinking, I should probably go get my second bottle of wine... peer pressure and all.  

I raced downstairs to get it and then to the lobby to open it.  To my disgust, there was no receptionist, only a German hosteler at a nearby computer.  I glanced around the desk seeing if the bottle opener was in sight, and I could just briefly use it.  I craned my neck around and moved a few papers to see where it could be hiding. The German guy, who also happened to be the actual German boy Ellen had spoken of, asked me, "What do you need?" Still searching for the blasted thing, I held up the wine without turning to him and said, "Something to open this."  He casually said in his thick German accent, "I have something." 

I turned to him as he was pulling none other than a red Swiss Army knife from his pocket. I was astonished and roaring with laughter inside.  He opened the bottle lickety-split. Giggling I hustled back up the two giant flights of stairs bubbling over with excitement and eager to tell Naked Physicist. 

I told him, slightly out of breath, the wild account.  We both had a laugh! I wanted to go over all the minute details with him, so he truly grasped how fortuitous our meeting was: the old men disasters leading me to write a desperate plea in my journal, then, him coming down half dressed, mistaken identity, etc. I couldn't help but think how insanely coincidental it had all been. Too coincidental to be only a coincident.  

Maybe I overanalyzed each detail. (nooo, not me, never!) I mean, the whole reason I had the nerve to speak to him was because I thought he was a German guy with a Swiss Army knife.  If I had run into the actual German before him, he would have provided me a Swiss Army knife.  I never would have had the gaul nor the motive to speak to Naked Physicist.  Some people ;-) might even see the irony about me thinking he was German, and in reality he is Nordic. Finally, a true and worthy NG!

Later on, Ms. Pris joined us on the terrace.  The three of us ended up going on a pub crawl organized by the hostel.  Despite the pub crawl, we had a fun night, and forged more inside jokes.  After only 1,5 days of being around them, I came away with a ton of inside jokes. 

They are both such good people.  I know my time around them was brief, but sometimes you just know you're in the presence of a quality person.  I think Ms. Pris is ridiculously lucky to have him, and what can I say, vice versa as well.  I suppose that if my dream guy must have a girlfriend, I am glad it's with such a cool girl! 

I am also happy to say that I have stayed in contact with both of them and received several sweet messages from her, and some long hilarious ones from him.  I hope I can stay in touch for a long time.

ANDALUCíA: Part 3- Is a German too Much to Ask For?

After getting off the train in Sevilla, things didn't seem like they were going to get much better. The directions the hostel gave were shoddy. I couldn't find the two alleged buses that went near the hostel. I asked close to ten people, and no one knew where these supposed buses were. Then, when I called the hostel to ask them what was up with their directions, overwhelming static impeded our communication. Eventually, I threw in the towel and took an 8 euro taxi to the hostel. No, 8 euros isn't going to break the bank, but I was annoyed to spend an unnecessary 8 euros on what I felt was the hostel's mistake.

Eventually, when I reached the hostel, I was carrying major baggage. I had severely over-packed my backpack; plus, I was still carrying around my resentment and anger about the entire past two days. I was in a mood!

There were no signs of my luck turning around. The hostel was in total disarray. Nothing seemed to be working efficiently and in an organized fashion. It took the girl forever to check me in. I handed her my money, and then, someone else came and asked for something and she helped them. Then, told me some more things about the hostel. Moments later, a group arrived at the hostel and she had to show them in. All I wanted was to put my self-inflicted, ridiculously heavy bag in a locker, and sleep or explore, but definitely not just stand there while she tried to check-in myself and four French people at the same time. I was at absolute boiling point, jaw locked, fists clinched.

As I faced the desk, probably staring a hole through the receptionist, out of the corner of my left eye, I noticed someone walking down the stairs. I looked over and saw bare feet. I continued scanning upwards. Bare muscular legs, hawaiian print underwear, t-shirt, HOLY GOD, beautiful German looking, half-nude guy. I can't be certain, but I definitely think he was backlit, while a church choir sang that angelic "AHH" note, and for those 5 seconds life slowed down. He had a fantastic, broad smile. I started to become internally giddy, thinking, "No way! NOOO WAY! Yes, yes, thanks Higher Beings!"

I couldn't help but gape at him. He stood on the bottom stair and kind of leaned towards the desk, and said in perfect English with no audible non-native accent, "Excuse me. I've managed to lock myself out of my room while I was taking a shower. Do you have a spare key?" Unfortunately for him, but definitely not for me, the woman didn't speak much English at all, prolonging the process. It took forever for her to even grasp what his problem was. But where was he key? Well, why was it in his room? Why can't he just get the key? An extra key???

No matter how hard I tried I couldn't stop gawking at him and what's worse, I couldn't erase the huge smile across my face. He looked at me several times, smiling his amazing smile and nodded, as if to say, "Yeeeppp.... this is awkward." The receptionist had to call her boss and more time passed. He turned to me and said, "Sorry to interrupt." I wanted to say something like, "They've sent you to me! *crazy person laugh* You are meant for me!! HAHAHA *twitch, twitch* You're... MINE!"

Finally, the girl brought a box to the desk, and scooped up, no joke, about 14 keys and ungainly dropped them into his cupped hands. He stared at them in disbelief, as did I. The girl said, "One of those might work." I let out an audible burst of laughter, and still smiling like an angel, he glanced at me, and we understood each other.  He found that as utterly absurd as I did.  How could things be so disorganized?

He retreated up the large staircase, and I happily watched his blue and green Hawaiian undies climb the stairs. Uhhhh, I mean... pshh, I don't know what color his underwear were... that's weird, right?... I also noticed he wore a gold necklace... I know, >head hung<>

For a bit, this definitely increased my mood.  I still had to wait ten more minutes before she would finally finish the check-in process.  In the meantime, the tall, gorgeous half-nude guy descended once again, but this time wearing jeans to accompany his t-shirt.  I looked at him, then at his pants and did this joking, shocked expression, head tilted, mouth open number, like I was saying, "Oh!!?? You wear clothes!???" The insane part was that he seemed to understand exactly.  He smiled and looked down and did a shoulder shrug that said, "I know, crazy!?!" 

He returned the keys, explained that two of the keys had worked, thanked her, and vanished back up the stairs again.  I couldn't place his accent.  American? No.. please God no! (that would ruin all the fantasies I had just concocted during his departure) Australian, English, ermm, Dutch, German? He looked northern European for sure, and I was convinced he was German, mainly because I wanted him to be.

From that moment and for the following hours, all I could think about was this half-nude mystery guy.  It was all so coincidental. Too coincidental.  I was hoped with all of my might that this wasn't his last night and that somehow I would manage to see him again.  I just had to.  I just had to!

ANDALUCíA: Part 2- "¡No Me Tocas, Por Favor!"

After I, along with all the other hundreds of tourists, had been ushered out quite inexplicably from the Mezquita, I sought shelter from the blazing sun under an orange tree in the charming courtyard.  As I began to write my rather unlucky and awkward old man encounter from the day before, at the same moment another old man approached me.  It seems as if existing, simply being, sitting alone and minding one's own business is code in Córdoba for "People! Come harass and molest me please!!"

As I was scribbling away, this old fart greeted me with a standard "Hola guapa" and then, sat beside me.  You know, because I clearly was not busy and involved with anything. Oh, no, no! Nose poked in a book, furrowed brow of concentration, pen moving wildly across the page are a clear "come hither" signal.  At first, it seemed like a harmless situation, sitting in the large terrace outside the Mezquita with fellow tourists buzzing about.  He asked me where I was from, what I was doing in Spain, and if I liked Spain.  He went on to tell me how pretty I was, how soft and pale my skin was, and how I was "gordita".... **tires screeching** Translation: "gorda" means fat, and adding -ita to a word in Spanish is just to make it cuter.  I don't think fat can really have a cute spin.

Now, perhaps back in this old fellow's courting days (circa- turn of the century), being "gordita" was some sort of compliment.   As if being fat and pasty white meant I was an upper-class, refined, and rich lady.  Clearly, fortunate enough to be spared a life of staring down the back side of a donkey with callused fingers gripped around a plow, whilst the sun beat down and toasted my skin. Not to mention how fertile I must be with them birthin' hips! I suppose I see how hundreds of years ago, that might be flattering.

Hi, Hello, sir. Bienvenido. Welcome to 2009, where fat= bad, skeletal= good. Chubby cheeks=detrimental, sunken-in cheeks= fabulous. Understand? No, he did not. 

He simply smiled his deceptive, grandfatherly-looking smile, and then asked if I was married.  Why I didn't say "yes" is really beyond me.  I have this unfortunate and natural response to tell the truth. I often regret that I am not more capable of lying willy-nilly.  After "no" blurted out of my mouth, I had to think quick.  Yes, in that exact moment, I began a relationship with a very intelligent, tall, funny, handsome, and very fictitious man.  Intrigued, he grilled me about his whereabouts? How could I travel alone? Who was tending to my horse and carriage? 

When I couldn't produce my "boyfriend" and said he was back in Madrid, he more or less proposed to me on the spot, saying I could just stay in Córdoba and be his wife.  He then chuckled a deep old-man chuckle, the type where it sounds like a lung is being detached, and claimed with a slightly heavy heart and hand resting on my knee, 

" I'm very old." 

 

Mind you, he was nearly as old as the Mezquita itself.  With a slight grin, I said "Yes, yes," feeling absolutely no need to sugarcoat it after the fat comment.  At some point in the conversation, his hands began to go on a little sight-seeing tour of my body, and apparently, no tour guide needed.  His old, rough, pedophiliac hands roamed over my arm and on my knee, then up to my cheek, back to my leg.  I politely said, "Hombre! No tocar!" (Man, don't touch!) Then, explained this was very strange for me and I that I didn't like it. 

The problem with these ancient scoundrels is that their true pervy, lecherous intentions  are cleverly concealed behind wrinkly, weathered skin, grandfatherly- like mannerisms, a smile that suggests they have a butterscotch hard candy resting in their chest pocket just waiting for you, all of this deception is compounded by a feeble gait that requires a walking cane.  All of a sudden, they become these slightly pitiful, completely innocent creatures in my mind, barely capable of gumming down some applesauce.  I guess I just assume that since by all outward appearances they have reverted back to a childlike state that their libido would have disappeared around the time I Love Lucy went off the air. 

 

My rebuffs and chastising did not seem to affect him. What I initially mistook to be a pleasant, old man smile, had suddenly turned into cheeky and impertinent smirk with all of his creepy thoughts pouring out the corners of his mouth.  He continued stroking my leg and this gave way into rather aggressive attempts to get a kiss from me... on the mouth.  He tried to grab my face and I wiggled free of his arthritic grasp. "Un beso, Un beso!" he pleaded. (one kiss)  Again, this time more sternly I bellowed, "Señor!! No me tocas! No me gusta. Este es muy extraño para mí!" (Mister! Don't touch me! I don't like it.  This is very weird for me.) He tried all attempts to convince me it was normal in Spain, and I immediately reminded him that I was NOT Spanish. 

I didn't feel any major sense of threat or danger, but just extreme annoyance that after a few minutes in the hot Andalucian sun, fermented into 100% proof anger.  Not only was I plain pissed off that he ruined a perfectly pleasant moment for me, but that I seem to lack the boldness to be rude to people, especially if they, not to sound like a 2nd grader, started it!  I mean, why the hell did I tolerate that as long as I did?  Has my polite, southern, ladylike upbringing made me incapable of defending myself in some ways?  

What's worse, was that the previous day's experience hadn't been enough to teach me! I suppose I should back up, and explain that this was not my first creepy man clash in Spain.    

The first, was when I met a Dominican guy on the metro and agreed to have an intercambio, a language exchange, at the library.  We met and he acted like we were long lost lovers.  He was thrilled when they told us we had to whisper, and he looked at me and said "Good, it's more romantic this way."

 Then, before I knew what was happening, he was holding my hand, looking deeply into my eyes, lacking an ounce of sincerity of course, he told me he wanted to take me to the beaches of the Dominican Republic.  I was still trying to figure out how meeting at the library for an intercambio had turned into what seemed like a guy trying to seduce his way into a Green card.

I can't forget my old bus driver fiasco, where I accidently agreed to private Spanish, night lessons at the old man's house, before my friend translated.  Subsequently, I learned when I don't understand, it's not a brilliant plan to smile, nod my head, while saying "Sí sí" just to be polite.  Still to this day, he happily swings open the bus doors and greets me with a "Bonita!" The other day, I was walking home from my class and he shouted out his window, "Buenos días Guapa!!" and honked the horn.

But back to the Córdoba incident... I was only in Córdoba for two days.  The second was when I visited the stunning Mezquita and was harassed by the elderly weasel.  The day before when I arrived, I had hopped off the bus in Córdoba and headed straight for my hostel.  Since, I was alone, and the five hour bus ride hadn't exhausted me, I decided to not waste time, and venture into the city and see the sights. 

With a tourist map from the hostel folded and tucked into my bag, I set out for the Roman Bridge, where at one end housed a museum about the city.  The hostel people had told me it hadn't gotten rave reviews, but I didn't have too much else to do.  

In the middle of the bridge stood a lovely statue.  I stopped and took some photos and noticed an older man seemingly staring at me.  He asked me, oddly, if the statue was by Raphael, as if I would know?!?  I was suspicious instantly, but answered him politely, and continued taking photos.  He walked slowly on and eventually I did too.  I am not sure it is possible to be followed by someone who is technically in front of you, but that's what it felt like.  It felt as if he was waiting for me, hovering about, and I wasn't sure what to do, or if maybe I was just being paranoid.

I headed towards the museum, and it appeared he was as well.  It's the same story throughout the museum.  Although, he was in front of me, he seemed to be following me, waiting for me. When I reached the roof, where you could overlook the river and a bit of the city, he took the opportunity to strike.  Asking me the typical, where you from, why are you here, are you married... yep.  It should be noted that if matrimony is a person's third or fourth question, just walk away... simply, walk away.  Now, I know. 

In short, this resorted in a very awkward, one-hour walk around Córdoba not knowing how to ditch him and not understanding a WORD he said with his thick Andalucian accent.  There were a few moments of sick pleasure for me.  I asked him to repeat everything, and he was getting so frustrated that I couldn't understand, and I enjoyed it.  Again, I didn't feel threatened, but it ruined my entire day.  I had to meander around the city not able to really see what I wanted, and again, I had no clue how to get ride of him without seeming "rude".  He destroyed any hopes of a schedule I had for myself. 

Later that night in the hostel, I did meet a super sweet Brazilian guy named Leonardo.  He helped me open an extremely stubborn bottle of wine and we chatted.  After a disappointing first day and a bottle of wine, I decided I must go to bed, so I could start a new day as soon as possible.  

As I headed for the stairs, a guy from Niger, who had been staring and smiling at me all evening from his seat in front of the computer, stopped me.  He asked me to stay and talk with him and that he had been wanting to talk to me all night.  He seemed like a genuinely kind-hearted individual, but I wasn't about to risk losing precious sleep over another man, who could very well turn out to be a creep.  

I left Córdoba the next day feeling completely deflated, exhausted from fending off all those unwanted advances, and lonelier than I could remember feeling in a long time.  I was regretting my decision to go alone and irritated that I don't know how to deal with those situations. Beyond all of those things, I felt exceedingly insulted.  How dare those old bastards?  Did they honestly think they stood a chance with me?!  Would they have pulled a move like that on some skinny, 5'8 blonde? I took it as a real insult!

On the train to Sevilla, I couldn't shake my bad experience in Córdoba. Truly, I don't often say, "I want a boyfriend!" That exact statement doesn't often escape my lips, at least not since high school.  Although I am interested in a few guys, I always enjoy the challenge of it, wanting what I can't have (which would explain my affinity for guys with girlfriends). Yet that was all I wanted after Córdoba.  A boyfriend.  A man who would keep me company, travel with me, protect me from sleazy old men, make me laugh, help me open stubborn bottles of wine, let me sleep on his shoulder during five-hour bus rides, and be mine.  Tears welled up in my eyes, and I was so supremely unhappy in those moments.

I wrote in my journal,

 "For the love of God, why do these things always happen to me?  Why can't a normal guy, who is my type harass and molest me? Why can't a 26-year-old German,  Nordic God type, who's tall, has nice hair and a good smile, intelligent- maybe even an engineer, but one who still knows how to have fun, with a great sense of humor approach me and follow me around for hours and try to force me to kiss him? Really!! I plead to the Higher Beings that I have better luck in Sevilla!!! sigh..."

 

ANDALUCíA: Part 1- Córdoba

A few weeks ago, Africa, the lady I work for, informed me that her and the family were going skiing for five days, and I would be free to travel or do as I please.  She didn't have to tell me twice.  I dashed off and started making plans.  It seemed the best decision was to go south, while I could evade the bulk of the tourists and the heat.

 Unfortunately, all of my friends were unable to join me, whether they had their boyfriend in town or their family, couldn't get the time off, or simply had other plans, no one could manage it.  I was only slightly deterred by this fact.  I have traveled quite a bit on my own, and I am aware that it's never as fun, but I can't miss these opportunities to travel either. Therefore, it was decided. I would go take those five days and travel to Córdoba for a day and Sevilla for four days. 

 The main attractions of Córdoba are the Roman Bridge, the Alcazar and the Mezquita Cathedral.  The latter being the biggest drawn.   A briefing on the cathedral's history: Originally, the site housed a Roman temple and then, a Visigothic cathedral.  In the 8th century, after the Moors had conquered much of Spain, the demolition of the cathedral occurred, in order to construct a mosque.  The construction began in 784 AD and lasted over two centuries.  It was one of the most important and grand mosques of its time.  In 1236, King Ferdinand III vanquished the Moors in Córdoba and returned the city to Christendom.   The mosque was then consecrated, dedicated to the Virgin Mary and used as a Christian place of worship.  

In later centuries, they added several chapels and a nave.  Architects continued to add Christian elements to the already existing structure until the late 18th century.  Clearly, the dichotomy of Islamic and Christian architecture creates a peculiar and beguiling sight.  It became a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1984.

The interior of the cathedral was a stark, cool contrast to the hot, tree-lined courtyard.  My eyes were met with hundred of Arabic arches. I stared down the length of the columns and arches, imaging thousands of Muslim men kneeling on their mats, all chanting their prayer, bowing down and kissing the floor in unison. 

The oddity of Islam architecture melting with Christian architecture, stained glasses of Christ facing arches decorated with Arabic writing, was something to behold.  There were so many small chapels radiating off from the main area and each filled with incalculable ornaments. 

From my journal:

I sit now in the rather magnificent Mezquita trying to find a bit of quiet from the construction and faint, but ever-audible, German tourists.  I arrived when the cathedral first opened and only a few people were here.  After a brief mosey around the temple turned cathedral turned mosque turned cathedral, which seemingly spans the area of five football fields, (I feel Americans easily relate to size in the measure of football fields...) I made fruitless attempts to wrap my mind around the concept that this structure's foundation dated over 2,000 years old.

I full-heartedly tried to be impressed with such an ancient monument, but my simple, human brain cannot seem to grasp the grandeur of it.  The same way we look at the night sky and try to conceptualize that the stars are  The mind just can't fully comprehend it and as a result, can never be wholly impressed, or at least mine can't. 

I wondered into one of the alcoves that house some of the many relics.  Scepters, statues, vases, crowns, plates, jewelry boxes, and other intensely ornamented gadgets.  Most dating from over 500 to 600 years ago.  Once again, I tried to convince myself of the incredible feat these objects have endured.  

It wasn't until I really began to examine one of the pieces that I discovered a link helping me to truly appreciate what I was seeing.  It was a gold contraption, perhaps a jewelry box, in the shape of a woman's head.  Around the crown of her head, laid a jewel-encrusted tiara and a small latch where it could be opened.  Attenuated lines were carved to give the appearance of hair.   I began to imagine how the artist created it with his rudimentary tools, possibly working into the wee hours by candlelight.  How many days, hours, weeks went into creating this one object?  And not only this piece, but ALL of the intricate details of the columns, statues and other paintings. 

Because I have lived only a mere 24 years, to grasp the concept of dozens of centuries might as well be like trying to understand infinity.  However, to gaze upon these ancient and marvelous pieces of artwork and craftsmanship, I discovered a link to help me better fathom and value this experience.  

I started thinking of things I have created or talents I possess.  I reflected back to my scrap-booking days in high school.  Oh, the painstaking hours I dedicated to this hobby! Sitting in my bedroom floor, engulfed in eighteen different types of squiggly scissors, 26 various paper colors, textures, and finishes, mounds of sorted stickers, and heaps of little pieces of scrap paper and torn stickers.  

Each photo and sticker placement was deeply contemplated.  It was completely normal that I would spend hours on end engulfed in this pursuit.  Not to mention all the buckets of money I poured into the activity.  Proudly, I would present it to a friend or family member, and be immediately horrified as they flipped through the pages at sonic speed.  Finally, they would retort with a "It's so nice!"

I would want to bellow, "NICE?! NIIICE? That's all you have to say?! Do you realize how much time and effort and BLOOD went into this!? Hmm!!? HMM!?" Then, thrusting my paper-cut fingers to their face as evidence to my strenuous labor.  Next, I would dump the wastebasket of all the stubborn, torn stickers and hundreds of paper slivers onto the floor.  Afterwards, indignantly snatching the offended scrapbook and stomping off.  Of course, in reality, I would simply give a curt "Thanks" through partially gritted teeth. 

Or what about my photography? What is the depression of a button, often haphazardly, in comparison with these artworks? 

So, just imagine these sculptors, artists, architects, designers, builders, who dedicated their life to their craft or maybe only one piece, screaming from the grave. "You daft, unappreciative, spoiled, ignorant, modern human! SEE my work! Don't just look at it! Do you know the years I spent creating this!?"  They would perhaps show us the scars, burns, missing fingers, cataracts or arthritic hands. "And you pass by with little more than a glance and nod of approval."  As a dramatic finish, the artist's ghost would hurl the large, precious object at the tourist's head.... Yeah...

As a result of my mental confrontation with artists past, I found my own path to appreciation.  I have been an awful tourist most of the time.  Being that unaware tourist who breezes through and is already contemplating what sight or activity I will do next.  Cafe or Museum? 

Now, I would like to make a conscious effort to try and appreciate these awe-inspiring monuments that I am so immensely fortunate to witness. 

Aranjuez and the Sisterhood

This past weekend was delightful.  On Saturday, a friend and I had decided to go to a little town about 50 minutes from Madrid for the day called Aranjuez.  My friend, Raeann of Seattle, and I instantly found an outdoor cafe, where we could soak up the sun's surprisingly intense (for March) rays.  I had no idea what there was to see or do in Aranjuez, and didn't care because I knew it would beat a self-loathing, cooped-up day in my bedroom as previous weekends. 

To our luck, there was already a group of au pair girls there.  They came to meet up with us at the cafe.  I stared up at the six new arrivals, five of which I had never met.  My stomach kind of lurched and I found myself wishing I hadn't come at all.  At that moment I questioned whether I had some slight social anxiety. 

 This has happened to me often though during forced meetings.  Not to sound as if meeting all the girls was against my will, but rather not on my own accord and in a natural or coincidental way.  I think that I am just so insecure and concerned with how people perceive me that seeing five new faces peering down at me, overwhelmed me with the task of having to entertain, befriend, and impressive these people.  Clearly with that kind of mentality, everyone would have wished to be alone in their room hiding behind a computer screen.

After the initial introductions, rearranging of chairs, and most of us ordering an ice cream cone, I began to relax a little.  I really began to feel at ease once this easy-going, sweet British girl and I began to chat.  The conversation went as smoothly as the ice cream that slid down our throats.  I think for people who know me well, this might come as a surprise, to know that internally, I freak out a bit when having to meet new people, in particular, large groups.

  The fellow au pairs

  

There we all sat licking away at the fast melting ice cream, two Canadians, two Americans, three British and one Swedish girl.  Each of us are au pairs.  Although, coming from all parts of the world, a sisterhood seems to be forming in Madrid... crazy enough, the majority of us met online first. 

After enjoying our chilly treats, the sisterhood traveled down the road to the Palace.  The sisterhood was quickly divided when we discovered the tickets cost 5 euros.  Many seemed to have the opinion "if you've seen one palace, then you've seen them all..."  I would have to disagree, and therefore, I along with three other gals, entered the palace. 

The unsightly scaffolding and first two dull rooms with no furniture and only a few carpets hanging from the walls made me reconsider my decision.  Yet the rooms got better and better, and more and more ornate.  The four of us had a grand time walking around observing what it would be like to live in a lush, ornamented palace, and occasionally making fun of a few portraits portraying rather unsightly and masculine Spanish women of centuries before.   I am super satisfied with my decision, it was a gorgeous palace.

An Arabic style smoking room

The entire room was covered in porcelain 

After the palace tour ended, we reconvened with the rest of our party.  As a loud, chatty group we slowly made our way back towards the bus station.  The sun had worn us all down and we all groggily went home. 

My night didn't end there though.  I went to Raeann's flat and we had a old school sleep-over.  One which included the usual: talking, overeating, movie watching, and staying up until we could barely keep our eyes open. 

The following day yielded yet another treat.  Originally, we had agreed to meet the girls from Aranjuez in a park on the complete opposite side of Madrid, around an hour metro ride.  Feeling lazy, having gorged ourselves the night before and stayed up too late, we were reluctant to go, and decided to go to one of the parks near us.  One friend decided to join us as well.  We were rather thrilled when we unexpectedly saw five of the girls come out of the metro.

El Capricho

We went to El Capricho Garden/Park.  We were a bit put off by the fact that they wouldn't allow us to have a ball in the park and confiscated our friend's.  Luckily, we had brought a pack of cards and had a good time playing the game "Spoons".  Considering we didn't have spoons on us, we had to make-do with using water bottles. 

I went home Sunday evening feeling completely satisfied (and a bit sun-drunk, which resulted in a sun-hangover, something painfully similar to a migraine.)  I enjoyed meeting these new girls immensely.  We had a brilliant time, and I am just so incredibly thankful to have friends and a social life here in Spain.  Now, if only I could meet some boys.......

Spanish Class, Nearly a Diaster...

My feelings and thoughts on my Spanish class waiver.  For instance, this week I felt I had really digressed. I couldn't understand anything anyone said to me.  All of this came to a head today when I had to give a presentation about the United States.  Obviously, I had written out my dialogue before and prepared some fun facts.  

However, I couldn't exactly prepare for the classes' questions.  I couldn't understand a single questions someone asked me or at least not in its entirety.  The teacher told me that all Spanish people think Americans don't even know all 50 states, which I said was probably true.  Then, she asked me to see if I could list all 50 on the board.  Unfortunately, I don't know that damn states song that most kids learn in elementary school.  Curses Miller Perry, curses!

It was a daunting task, but I enjoy geography and really wanted to prove them wrong.  In the end, I only had 41 states.  Without a map, it is super difficult to think of them all... I am confident that if I had a blank map I could name them without a problem.  What was worse was that one student, an Indian guy, listed at least two I hadn't thought of.  Many people kept yelling out cities convinced that "Los Angeles" or "Chicago" or"Boston" were all states.  We couldn't figure out the last state, and I just now realized it was Rhode Island... little bugger. 

There is one super obnoxious, old Brazilian lady in my class.  She is the type that talks to herself aloud, talks to her neighbor when the teacher is talking, talks to her desk, talks to talk, and has no regard if anyone else is talking.  She speaks something more like Spainguese than actual Spanish.  Today she went on some tyrant about racism in Brazil and was comparing it to the racism in the U.S.  Not sure at exactly what she was driving at, simply that she was on that road for about 10 minutes straight.

The teacher, who was behind her, sat with the most nettled expression, which seemed to mimicked by the entire class. I think everyone had the same idea, "Quick, immobilize her tongue!!!"  We all sat through her incomprehensible blabber.  Then, since she was REALLY stuck on the race issue, asked me to give my thoughts and opinions on the current president, who is black like her mind you.  I can barely say where I am from and what I want to eat in Spanish much less go into some political debate.  She truly is a pest. 

Overall, I believe my presentation was painful for all those involved.  I really need to buckle down and start studying every day.... 

Marbella and Familiar Faces

It has been a wonderful last week.  In the previous weeks, I had found myself in a bit of a gloomy slump.   It wasn't from any singular thing, but more a collaborative effort by all entities in my life.  Needless to say, I am ecstatic to be over that spell.  I suppose happiness and contentment are really a choice. 

 Sometimes, I think I subconsciously allow myself to succumb to melancholy.   My only logic is that I have this inexplicable desire to "suffer", to have hardships.  When they don't exist in my life, I apparently create them in my head.  Why? Well, my theory is it could be a tool or method I use to continue to "feel".  Happiness is like a drug in some aspects.  If everything in life seems to be going super smoothly and enjoyable most of the time, nearly stagnant, it takes more and more excitement or stimulation to maintain that feeling of happiness.  So, if one allows themself to capitulate to spells of unexplainable depression and somberness, then, it breaks up the monotony.  Even if that monotony is happiness. I suppose it all goes back to that human struggle of balance and

 contentment. 

I tend to enjoy drama, and I think it all stems from my incomprehension of how to truly be content.  This is where the idea that happiness is something like a drug.  Also, those of us who are more fortunate in life with relatively minor tribulations, can never truly understand contentment because we can't grasp how truly blessed we are.   All of this rambling to say, I decided to be happy even if it isn't as dramatic and exhilarating as the alternative.

That was severely off topic and I didn't intend for this entry to become some existential dissertation.  Nonetheless, I had the great fortune to travel to Marbella, a small resort city in the south of Spain, and stay with some friends from Kingsport.  Phil and Melissa, some friends of the family, had a 3 bedroom condo timeshare at the Marriott.  With all of the extra room, they invited me down for a weekend getaway.

Marriott Marbella

The property and condo were lovely!  A few years ago, I didn't consider myself to be the resort type.  I insisted that I preferred to "slum" it in a hostel, and that somehow it made the experience.  Only pompous, posh, aristocrats would fork over the ample amount of money for unnecessary space, luxuries and comforts.  Clearly, I am past this silly mentality.  Although, I do enjoy hostels and it is a unique experience, there ain't no shame in diving into plush duvets with piles of pillows and large oversized jacuzzi tubs.

Costa Del Sol

On Friday, Melissa, Phil, and I went to the city of Ronda about an hour from Marbella.  It is a sweet little town with plenty of nice cafes and restaurants and picturesque streets.  Although, the main attraction is the 390 ft. deep gorge and bridge that stretches across it.  It also is home to one of the first bullfighting rings in Spain. 

This photo gives a better sense of the depth and scale than the actual bridge itself.

Phil and Melissa left on Saturday morning.  Although I really only saw them for a day and a half, it was great and I enjoyed it greatly.  We shared some good stories, laughs, wine and plenty of cheese.  They also let me take advantage of their last night reservations, which they couldn't stay to use.  So, Saturday night, I was able to enjoy the entire suite to myself.  

During the day Saturday, I moseyed down to the beach, bummed around, read, wrote in my journal, but kept finding myself... well, bored.  This goes back to the idea that often times, it's not about where you go, it's about who you go with.  Granted, this is not entirely valid, but in this scenario it applies.  When it's too chilly to swim, and only other resorts are near, it is much more diverting to be with a friend.  I was really curious how I would entertain myself that night.  

I managed it by accidently overflowing the bathtub and subsequently the entire bathroom with bubbles and suds from my attempt to take a leisurely bubble bath.  I was literally engulfed in bubbles, and if I laid my head back, I created a long, bubble tunnel leaving on a bit of my face visible.  

Although it was a hoot, I couldn't help but desperately wish I had a 'novio' with me.  It would have been hilariously fun and romantic at the same time.   Other forms of entertainment I discovered were a few Arabic t.v. channels that had movies in English and subtitles in Arabic.  God forbid the German or Spanish channels use the original language! Oh no! They insist on dubbing everything.  The Germans have made an art of it, finding voice-over artists who actually sound like the originals.  Spanish dubbing on the other hand is basically one guy and one girl for each character. LAAAAME!

OOPS!!!

 

Sunday, I made the 7-hour bus journey back to Madrid.  I can't say that this was enjoyable in the least.  In fact, I would say it was quite uncomfortable.  To me there is something obnoxiously unnatural about sitting in such close quarters with a stranger.  There also seems to be no universal manner of behavior, leaving both parties rather awkward.  Do you talk, do you sleep, do you simply pretend the other doesn't exist, and if you do decide to strike-up a conversation, how do you politely shut them up when you want to do something else? Regardless, it was a terrific pleasure to see the Clemons and also visit Marbella and Ronda.

Yesterday, I got the opportunity to see another Kingsportarian...  This time here in Madrid.  Sam, ironically my sole blog "follower", was with his university chorus group doing a singing tour in some cathedrals in Spain and France.  We met at the Botanical Gardens, which quite frankly, was not so impressive.  

After seeing the few rows of flowers that have been planted this early in the season, we went and had delicious Indian food.  I have been wanting to go to an Indian restaurant for a few months now.  So, it was perfection that I got to share it with Sam and two of his mates from ETSU.  Then, we went to a cervezaria for a beer and glass of wine, before I sadly had to part with him. 

Not only was it fantastic to see Sam, a person I have always liked but somehow managed to not keep in very good contact with after high school, but just to have that slice of home.  Here I have plenty of American friends, but it's so different to be with someone who can make me laugh like no other and who has that common history and knows the same people, who understands and perhaps surpasses my odd sense of humor.  I feel like this particular group of people I grew up with are so unique and interesting that really there is no one else like them in the world.  So, those moments when our universes merge with each others once again, it is priceless. Truly priceless. 

"Being in a foreign country means walking a tightrope high above the ground without the net afforded a person by the country where he has his family, colleagues, and friends, and where he can easily say what he has to say in a language he has known from childhood."

Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

MADRID

I have been in Madrid for 51 days, and I am ready to give my synopsis on  the matter.  There was no way around it, but to say at first I was absolutely disappointed and crestfallen with Madrid.  I have wanted to come to Spain for years now and all my hopes and expectations had grown to perhaps an unreasonable amount. 

All the Spanish people I had met to this point were laid-back, creative, fun, wild, smooth and totally cool, warm, friendly people and the type who really knew how to enjoy life.  I imagined Madrid to be a sunny city filled with such people.  However, this is not what I got.

Where was this laid-back, carefree, lively, passionate Spanish spirit and way of life I had heard so much about? Where was the beautiful Arabic influenced architecture like in Barcelona? Furthermore, where were the gorgeous 6-foot, salsa dancing, football playing, sexy, witty, relaxed, alternative, athletic Spanish men??

Instead, what I got, was a fast paced city that looked like any big city filled with short, not-so-handsome men, who were all apart of the hustle and bustle.  What was going on? Was this some conspiracy against me? Was this some sort of life lesson the universe was teaching me, "You can't have everything you want."  Or was it simply that I didn't research things enough, and came with a pocket of unrealistic expectations.  Probably more the latter. It seems above everything, Madrid is just a big city.  However, it does have really gorgeous parts, especially when the sun is beaming down.

Retiro Parque

Rastro Market on Sundays 

I am very fortunate to have made a bunch of friends already.  It was my 3rd birthday abroad, and for sure the best of the 3.  It really made me feel ''loved'' even if the type of ''love'' that is very surface and new, like that when you really admire a new friend.  I went to a friend's house where all my friends were waiting. I would say there were about 14 people or so.  They made me a cake. 

 

On it, it said, ''Take Care..'' because this has become a running joke of mine.  The mom I live with always tells me to ''take care'' with everything.  For example, I told her I wanted to lose weight and start eating better... big mistake... because now, she is always saying, '' Cynthia, take care with the cheese....'' or '' "Cynthia, take care with the yogurts.  They have high of cholesterol''  Yet, it is not limited to food, anything and everything she worries about, turning the lights off for example, I must ''take care'' and turn them off.  It amused me, and clearly, amused my friends enough for them to start using it as a joke!

 

I stayed out waaay too late, which actually because too early seeing as I arrived home at 8:30 in the morning.  I was a bit worried the mom would be upset, but she was so excited when I told her.  She said this was for sure the Spanish way! I told her I didn´t plan to make a habit of it considering it completely destroyed my Sundays, wasting the day sleeping.

The family is nice, they are. It has been a bit of a challenge adjusting to the Spanish way of doing things and culture.  People are not so polite... and sometimes I feel the Mom orders me around like a 14 year old or a trainee into boot camp or something. I have learned to not take it personal that's just how she rolls. They are extremely knowledgeable about Madrid and how to get what I need.

Another challenge for me has been accepting the job I do and these people's way of life.  I am still not certain if it is the norm or the exception, but the family I work for have a housekeeping lady who comes 6 days a week.  Unlike most of the neighbors' housekeepers, she doesn't live in the house. She is from Paraguay and she is in charge of the cleaning, cooking, laundry and other household tasks.  

The children are in school from 9 A.M. and arrive home around 5:00 P.M.  The mother picks them up from school, and after that, they are with me, and I am taking care of them, helping with homework and studying, playing, showers, and helping with dinner.  

 I am waking up with the kids on Saturday morning, even though they have strict instructions to stay in bed until 9 AM.  My job really is quite easy and I enjoy it.  The kids are well-behaved for the most part and I like the routine.  It's just adhering to this lifestyle.  A lifestyle of dependency and being catered to.  I can't help but find it somewhat ridiculous and spoiled. By working a job like this, I am just condoning, perpetuating this lifestyle, which I don't really respect.

I showed the mother a photo of my parents' house recently.  She asked if growing up we had a housekeeper, and I replied, "Yes, her name was Mommy."  With all sincerity she asked me, "How did your mother manage this house  by herself??"  Almost a sense of envy trickled from her voice, and total confusion.  I had to stop myself from bursting into laughter.  I thought, "What do you mean, 'HOW?" She just... did. Look around, nearly the whole world does it with little help from others!" 

I don't see how Spanish mothers could resent their kids too much because after they pop them out, there is always someone taking care of 75% of the kids needs.  This leaves the mother to do what she wants and not forfeiting her life.  She can still afford time to shop, go to the gym, lunch with friends, etc. She's not really doing much of the childcare nor the cleaning.  On the weekends, the kids are also spending time with their grandmother. 

Yet, I can totally see how Spanish women would resent their husbands.  According to my au pair friends, and what I witness in this house, men are worthless domestically.  They exude their machismo by sitting on their throne (aka the sofa) and refuse to lend a hand because they are the kings of the house.  There is no dirty diaper changing nor bathes given by the average Papí.. oh no, that would cut into their T.V. time.  All that stuff is the women's job or the housekeeper or the grandma... or the au pair. 

Not that I am changing soiled nappies nor does the father here seem quite as useless as some others I hear about.  It still amazes me at how very dependent and helpless they are.  I find it so ironic... being served seems like such an emasculating thing to me, as if one isn't capable of doing such simple tasks on their own, and yet clearly here it portrays their status of alpha male, household tsar, sultan, king!

In some ways I feel like all my disappointment and confusion about Spain and its people is my fault and my fault alone.  Have you ever been interested in someone and you really don't know them, at least nothing worth knowing.  You simply go off the first impression, first conversations, the look of the person.  Then, you sit on your own and you begin to piece their life together, as you see fit.  Creating all of these characterisitics you want them to possess, and eventually you can't recall what you developed and what actually exists.  When that person turns out to not be like the person you concocted them to be, you can't help but be a little bit brokenhearted, even if it was your own silly fault.  That is how I feel about Madrid.  I projected what I wanted it to be, and didn't even try to see the reality of how it really is.

So, overall, I am content here and after I accepted that it's not what I expected, I have enjoyed myself.    I go to Spanish class occasionally, but will start going everyday.  I can't wait for the weather to be fantastic again, and go out with my friends and have picnics in the park.  I would also like to meet some new friends, in particular, Spanish ones!  Hopefully, this is a sufficient update for now. 

To My Secret Eros

I miss you.  I think of you everyday.  

Perhaps it's all senseless, for it must be

with such a great distance between us.

For even if I knew your heart felt the same,

what could possibly come of it now.

 

Lucky am I to know such a unique, strong, compelling, askew, caring person.

You are my flint, my sharpener, my muse, my friend.  

You conjure a desire inside me like no other. 

The desire to be a better and smarter person.

I wish I was more comely and svelte for you.

If only you could fancy me as I do you. 

I can improve this veneer for you. 

If this corpulence disappeared, would you have me?

I envy the girls who get to see you, speak with you.

I despise the idea that another girl's lips could meet yours 

or even her fingers intertwined with yours.

I dream of you by day and hope to dream of you at night. 

If only your fingers could glide across the back of my neck and into my hair.

If only I could hug you without reserve and caress your face.

To look deep into your eyes and transfer my thoughts to you, my desires.

To kiss you, to hold your hand, to rest my head on your chest. 

It seems lately, I want nothing more but to fast forward time,

 so I can see you again.

I seem so willing to forfeit all the fascinating experiences I could have this year,

if that would mean I could be with you sooner.

Would it all be in vain? Would it be a gamble I surely regretted?

Perhaps this is your cruelest transgression.  

The fact that you don't surrender to sentimentality, nor write pathetic blogs whilst listening to kitschy late 90s Celine Dion love songs.  

You don't begrudge the past, obsess about the future, you solely live in the present.

Don't you like to suffer, even just a little to remind yourself you are alive?

Are you capable of becoming impassioned, infatuated, saccharine? 

Do you miss me? Do you think and dream of me? Do you want me?

I fear these answers... and yet, I still wholly covet you.