The Eleventh Week

Week 11- Lisbon will you marry me?

            There is nothing better than traveling across country lines to visit a friend you haven’t seen in years. I was on a bus for seven hours before I finally made it to Lisbon. The bus driver was very serious about not allowing you to eat on the bus, but this one Asian girl must have missed the 35 signs all over the bus that had a picture of a burger and fries crossed out, because she was munching away on a bocadillo. The bus driver pulled the bus over and stormed back to tell her she couldn’t eat on the bus. Her response, “Oooooh?” I was laughing, because she clearly didn’t understand him and his face was about to explode. Without looking back he points to a sign behind him, thinking that it is the “No food” sign, but really he is pointing to a sticker on the window of a cartoon man in a squat position farting with a line through it. She sees what he is pointing to and starts to giggle with both of her hands covering her mouth, which is full of sandwich that she is still chewing. Like a kid throwing a fit, he runs up to the driver’s seat and sits with his arms crossed for about ten seconds before he pulls the bus back onto the freeway. A grumpy bus driver who doesn’t allow food or farts, I started to doubt his manhood.

            When I got to Sete Rios bus stop, I realized I was an hour earlier than when I said I would be there (time difference, oops). I sent a text that probably cost me seven euros, and soon Fran was at the bus station to pick me up. I was looking at a map of Portugal pretending like I new where I was when she saw me. She said, “I knew it was you. I recognized you from behind.” True friends know each other’s butts. We picked up where we left off three years ago.

            Traveling to a place where you know someone is great, but traveling to a place where you know someone and that someone has a car is even better. I got to see and do things that I wouldn’t have otherwise. One day we spent driving along the coast where I found it necessary to climb on all the rocks I saw. One stop, Boca del Inferno (Hell’s Mouth), was where I tested the limits of my Steve Maddens’. The crinkly old fishermen walking across the tops of the rocks, like little nymphs, carrying buckets of bait and abnormally large fishing poles made it look so easy.

            Sintra, a little village up in the mountains about thirty minutes away from Lisbon city center, is a fairytale place. There is a palace so high in the mountains that the clouds surround it making you feel like you are in a giant swarm of white cotton candy, it also could have just been really cloudy that day. I honestly, do not know how to describe this place, because I can’t do it justice. The outside walls were attacked with the three primary colors and sculptures of mighty mermen. I am making this place sound like a clown university. In the same village is this famous bakery called Piriquita. I looked at the sign and said, “Ohh ok, like pee-ree-key-tah.” I was corrected. “Pee-ree-key-tuh”. Throughout the weekend I was being taught the similarities between Spanish and Portuguese, and even Fran’s grandma tested my abilities (even though I don’t think she knew she was). I was over at her house for lunch and I met her grandma, who only speaks Portugese, for the first time. She kisses me twice and starts rambling off in Portuguese. Then she stops and waits for my response. I didn’t know what to say, because I only understood the word “understand” and looked helplessly at Fran, who told her that I was from California. Her grandma turns back to me and begins in Portuguese again, like saying that I was from California means “Oh right down the street!”

            Food in Portugal rivals Spanish food. Their pastries could fight Spain’s pastries with their eyes closed, win, and then stomp all over them with their conceited pastry feet. Pastéis de Belém sprinkled with cinnamon are like little creamy pieces of heaven in the form of four million delicious calories. 

            One of my favorite things about Sevilla, or Europe in general, is what people have written on their t-shirts. They think that because it is written in English, that it is immediately trendy. These have been my favorite- “Sometimes is always”, “Green and yellow make orange”, “I love things”, and my all time favorite was- “I hate myself”. Excuse me, but either you need psychological help for your mental health issues or you need to learn English. Another favorite was seeing a grandma, probably in her 80s wearing a hot pink shirt with the words “Diva Girl” in rhinestones on the front.

I wish I had roller blades. Everyone here rollerblades as a form of transportation.

            I was walking down the street towards a church on the corner. Once again I see people gathering, but this time they were looking up. There is a massive tree in front of this church and they were trimming it. People stood there for minutes just watching. Two things about this- one, its funny that there is a place in our world where people can spend thirty minutes doing nothing but watch branches being cut from a tree. The second thing was that I am making fun of these people, but I fell into the trap too. I wasted over thirty minutes people watching and waiting for a chunk of tree to fall.

Manoli-isms

“There was this one time I had a girl staying with me, who was so strange, and she always wore her clothes covering her entire body. I told her that she needed to loosen up and give herself some space to breathe. She wore a low cut shirt one day and the next she had a Spanish boyfriend. Spanish men like big tits.” (She shows her palms to the ceiling and shrugs her shoulders)

“Manoli, did you know that experts say you are as tall as your arms are long?” Manoli, “What?! That cannot be true.” “Ok then, do you have a tape measure?” Manoli, “Right now? (She points to the TV ‘God forbid she miss three seconds of the Spanish news that is on repeat throughout the day’). We measure one of us, the numbers are the same, and she still doesn’t believe us. Measure another. Then we measure her and it’s off by one centimeter. “Hmmm…told you.”

“Love has no age.”

“God she has the features of a witch.” I respond, “Yeah because she wears black clothing all the time.” Manoli looks at me straight faced and says, “I wear black everyday.”

“Lin, have you been in love?” No. “Well hurry up. You don’t want to miss this feeling. What happened to your Spanish boyfriend?”

“Lin, come in here and look at this.” The ambiguity of what “this” is often worries me. I walk into the kitchen to see her poking the microwave like a caveman would a computer. “It broke. What am I suppose to do? I pushed one button one time yesterday and…BLOOOOOOOOM!” Apparently the microwave, which is also her oven, had exploded and now she was helpless. She got a new microwave that same day and had it installed immediately. “I don’t know how to work this. I don’t understand a thing. It’s too modern. Even for a modern woman like me.” I spent about 45 minutes explaining it to her, and she seemed to fully understand and actually enjoy the new stainless steel monster in her all white kitchen. The next morning I ask how the oven is working and she says, “I called my daughter to come help me, because I don’t understand it. I’m too nervous.” Manoli! Ughh. You can put metal in the oven! I said that at least 20 times. The time came to put the handmade pizzas in the microwave oven. I said, “Ok Manoli, push start. It’s ready, just push start.” She grips my arm, points out the visible goose bumps on her arms, and says, “No.” So I push the button. She ducks behind me, covering herself completely. The explosion she expected didn’t come, she lets go of my arm, turns away from me, and as she is walking into the living room she says, “Told you.”

The Tenth Week

Week 10-  One giant Manoli-ism (I will add more to this later- off to Portugal now!)

            When I walked into my room the morning I got back from Dublin, I smelled something weird. Our room felt funny and moist, which sadly enough isn’t that out of the ordinary. I was putting all of my stuff away in the 4:30 am dark, trying to avoid waking up my roommate, but this only lasted two minutes. I couldn’t stand the moisture in the air or the moldy smell so I turned on the lights to see what was wrong. First, I open the window, letting in the first fresh air our room had probably seen in a week. Then I flick on the lights, and my eyes quickly adjust to the extremely dim glow our single light bulb puts out. I look over at my roommate who is now fully awake, but I am distracted by the blue wall behind her. The entire wall was covered in water, the ceiling now brown with water stains, and our wall was actually squirting water out of its invisible cracks. This is my nonspanish speaking roommates take on it, “Yeah I noticed that there was water on the wall earlier, but it was only the size of my head so I wasn’t worried.” Oh, good. So it was now about 5 am and I was not about to wake up the fog horn snorer, Manoli, so I went to bed.

            The next morning I told Manoli, “Ehhhh, Manoli…we have a problem in our room. Come here, please.” She replies with the typical, “Sin favor” and walks toward our room. She walks up to the wall and touches it, only showing mild shock on her face. I say, “Look! Its even coming out of the wall! What do we do?” When she saw the water dripping out of the wall she takes in a quick breath of air like a gasp and walks away. I continue getting ready for class, thinking “Hmmm….I wonder where Manoli is going to put us when they have to replace this wall?” I looked out our window to see the what weather we had in store for the rest of the day, and I notice someone leaning out of the kitchen window. It’s Manoli with a broom in one hand and a burning Pall Mall in the other. She is smacking the window above ours yelling, “Marisol!...Marisol!...Ssss Marisol!” Marisol finally responds and I hear Manoli tell her to get down here right away. The two walk into my room as I am changing and rub the wall repeatedly like the water will just dry with one more magical touch. The two are standing about three inches away from each other, hands on hips, and talking at each other in voices that could be considered yelling. The thing about Spanish culture is that you can say something incredibly mean and rude, but if you add “Mi alma” at the end it swipes the slate clean. “Your pipes are ancient and you never take care of your place. You know I have American girls living here and I do all year. What is going on in your house up there? What in God’s name do you want me to do about this, mi alma.” The loud conversation lacking in personal space continued until I asked if I could get out the door, because they were in front of it. They step aside amazed that I was in the room. I see Manoli and Marisol give each other the double beso plus an arm rub as I am leaving. No hard feelings.

            I get back from school and Manoli tells me, “Lin, don’t worry it is being taken care of…her pipes broke and now its on the ceiling of my kitchen too! Horrible. I’m not paying a cent, ok?” I respond, “Ok, what do you want me to do about the room?” Manoli replies as if this response is so obvious, “ffffhu! (hand wave) I will paint the wall in the summer when you leave.” The wall is crumbling away and now has obvious cracks, not to mention black mold spots. I accept that I will have to be breathing in the mold for the next two months and say nothing else about it, until…two days ago. I looked up at the ceiling and notice a crack in the crown molding that looked like it needed inspecting. Obviously, I got up on the bed and poked it. This poke was like poking a baby. It was gentle and I was not trying to hurt it, but I did. With that one little poke, the entire strip of crown molding swung down, hitting the corner of the wall, and knocking off a picture of a boat with Christopher Columbus in it. The corner of the wall breaks off and part of the wallpaper and ceiling tear off too. Once again, “Manoli! We have another problem.” Now she is shocked. She asked me what happened and I decided this was a good time for a white lie. “It just fell.” She thought that it hit my roommate on the head and kept asking her if it hurt (she didn’t understand Manoli and just nodded). I had to explain that it didn’t hit her, but Manoli didn’t believe me.

            The other day I was walking back from the metro stop and I see a crowd of people and hear an ambulance coming from down the street. I don’t really bother with all the commotion, until I walk by the group of people on my side of the street. I glance at the road and keep on walking, but I feel someone grab my arm. It felt like someone was falling and needed to grab onto anything to stay standing. I turn to look at this little old lady with a church ankle length skirt on and obviously fake blonde poofy hair. She smacks my other arm with her free hand while the grip she has on my other arm tightens. She looks at me and says, “Look! You don’t want to miss this! This guy is crazy! Where were you going? Why don’t you care what’s going on! Look at him! Hey, honey, everybody is looking. You need to too!” I look and see a man lying in the middle of the road with paramedics surrounding him. The funny thing is, I couldn’t tell if the guy (who was homeless) had decided that the middle of the road was an excellent sleeping spot or if he actually joined my “I’ve been hit by a car in Sevilla” club. He had a jacket tucked under his head and he looked so content. I turn to look at the blonde haired lady and she is slapping her thighs laughing hysterically at the man in the street. She places her hand on her heart as she is laughing and says, “hmm pobrecito”. Thanks for making me see that, crazy lady.

Manoli-isms

“I used to go get waxes, especially when I was dating Antonio. You know, my armpits… but then I ran out of money and and had to do it myself. I bought the wax and heated it and then put it on my armpits. Then I couldn’t pull it off. I said ‘Mamá! Ouuuuuu!” So I left it on for the rest of the day until she tricked me and told me Antonio was outside asking for me. I went to open the window and she pulled the papers off! Horrible woman. It was horrible. Ahhh my mom (smiles).”

The Ninth Week

Week 9- Ireland. Paddy’s Day. 21^st Birthday.

            People didn’t believe me when I said that my name was Kathleen, half of me is one hundred percent Irish, and that my 21^st birthday was on St. Patrick’s Day. Many head nods accompanied by a Guinness raise were sent my way all weekend

             My trip to Dublin included a six-hour bus ride up to Madrid at 2:30 in the afternoon and then a flight the next morning at 11:30 to Dublin. Before I could leave I had to eat lunch. Usually lunch is at two or 2:30, and asking to eat early is an insult, but not eating at all is even worse. My roommate’s mom was visiting and Manoli made her paella (“The best you will ever have.”- Manoli), but the problem was that neither my roommate nor her mom speak Spanish. I had to try and translate between eating paella that was burning my throat as it traveled to my belly and bites of the giant crouton crunchy toast. Impossible. Then Manoli decides that this is a time to have a deep conversation with me about how she has been hosting American girls for 28 years and she still doesn’t know any English…Manoli, I have 15 minutes to be at the bus station, and it takes 20 to get there. I tell her as gently as I can that I can’t talk anymore, “No puedo hablar nada más”, and put my plate in the sink. Before I get to the door, Manoli wraps me up in a bear hug and plants two big kisses on my cheeks, and I know I am ready for my trip.

            The bus ride up was easy (running to the bus station was the worst part). They even showed a movie in Spanish called “The Garden” with Craig Ferguson in it. Awful movie. We stopped one time, meaning I couldn’t drink anything for the whole second half of the trip and if I did, I would be in trouble. I have a bladder the size of a hamster’s bladder, so this was a bit of a problem. Made it all the way to Madrid, and did so without needing to change my pants. Then I took the metro all the way into the city center to meet my friend from high school studying there. I stayed with her for the night, and came prepared with chocolates for her señora (who eagerly accepted the gift, even without the, “Oh you shouldn’t have”). We were in bed by 4:30 am, after celebrating another friend’s birthday and doing a little nighttime sightseeing. Believe it or not, I made it to the airport on time.

             When I was in line at Gate 31, Ryanair flight 7159 to Dublin, there came an announcement over the intercom. I was in the back of the line (meaning last to board the plane), watching Spaniards around me buying shirts that had the acronym DUBLIN using words in English and Spanish that made no sense (I only remember these ones being included- “Drunk, Besos, Leprechaun, and Irlanda”). I just barely hear the intercom and it says in English (Ryanair is an Irish airline), “The gate for flight 7159 to Dublin has been changed to Gate 25. Gate 25.” I take off, startling and confusing those around me. I am the first one out of the line with my peacoat and Osprey backpack flying everywhere. I turn to look behind me as I hear the announcement in Spanish and see a stampede of wild Spaniards running toward me. Some are running with their arms out like a T to prevent anyone from passing them, others are yelling because they don’t know where the gate is, and the overly prepared ones were trying to keep their Guinness hats on their heads. It was straight out of a movie and I was leading the pack. I had about a 15-step lead when I took a very little wrong left turn. I saw everyone in the front of the pack snake around the corner with me, then I saw the gate the on the other side. It was follow the leader/trample the leader and the gap between me and the Spaniards was significantly less than before. I reached the gate first, holding out my boarding pass and passport. When everyone else got there, I got booed. Then an Irish man came up to me and shook my hand and said, “Good race.”

            I am picked up at the airport by Dan and Aisling and I realize that I haven’t changed my clothes or showered in two days and smell like the cheese sandwich the lady next to me on the plane was eating (how very European of me). We start the unusually sunny day off with a drive all around the Dublin coast into Maldahide and Howth. This is my first time in a car (that isn’t public transportation) in three months, and everything was opposite! Roundabouts are weird to me already, but then add driving on the other side of the road to it and you get a flinching Leen throwing up her hands as protection from an oncoming car. I repeatedly looked for excuses as to why I looked like a total spaz, but once the “Oh, I thought there was a bee in my hair” excuse didn’t work, I had to admit that driving on the left side of the road made me nervous. I stayed the night at Aisling’s family’s house in the suburbs of Dublin, where I had family dinner, which included a cake, candles, and a birthday song for me. I ended up going to one of boy’s high school play that night. My first night in Dublin I went to a musical mash-up (Chicago, West Side Story, Les Miserables, and Mamma Mia) in a high school gym, but I couldn’t make it through more than half. I fell asleep.

            The St. Patrick’s Day parade was not what I expected, but the atmosphere was exactly what I was hoping for. Everyone in green. Faces painted. Guinness and Jameson everywhere. Irish nonsense being shouted in every direction at no one in particular. People were in every crevice of the city including window ledges a couple stories up. The Gaelic Games, hurling and football, were our next stop. I knew as much about these games as I do about shoe making…nothing, but give me a little time to observe and I can probably catch on. Paddy’s Day is the only day of the whole year you can see both games being played on the same day. It was there that I was introduced to the Ireland Chill. My bones were shaking. It’s so deceiving because the sun is out and the sky is clear, but its like you are having ice water poured down your back. The rest of the day was spent trying to get into the overly crowded pubs, eating at Joburger (my first burger in three months), and playing Cranium (not even the Irish know the people in the Irish version of Cranium- the makers of Cranium want to make losers out of all of us).

            One day we made a drive into the country and through a bog, but carsickness was a problem for one person in our group and the windy “are we lost?” journey out to the country was a quiet one. After our drive I was introduced to Irish scones and the proper way to eat them (with raspberry jam and cream). That plus a cup of Irish tea and surrounded by fields of green…I could have died and gone to heaven, but decided against it given that I still had to go souvenir shopping.

            I got to wander around on my own for part of the day Saturday and landed in St. Stephen’s Green, where I hid myself, from every other tourist, on a little bench in the very back of the park. As I’m sitting there, in the Irish rugby jersey I had to buy for a friend, I hear this yelling and cheering that sounded like a bunch of baby rhinos fighting. I decide that was a good enough reason to go see what was going on and cruised on over. I see a huge group of guys wearing rugby jerseys and warm-ups, doing rugby drills. I think, “Wow. People here really do take rugby seriously. I can’t believe that there are guys out here this early in the day getting ready for the game tonight” (Ireland and England were playing in the Six Nations later that night). I decided I would watch for a little bit, but then I realized it wasn’t just a bunch of “guys” making baby rhino sounds. It was the actual Irish National Rugby team. I recognized about 4 of the players (I learned the rules of rugby, by watching the Ireland v. Wales game, just before I got to Ireland so that I could be prepared). This Irish guy comes up to me looking like he is about to wee his ultra saggy pants, “Do you have a pen and paper? Please.” I tore off part of my Carroll’s bag and told him to go get me an autograph too. I don’t know why, but nonetheless this guy surprisingly brings me back the manager’s autograph. Watching the game in a pub next to a bunch of drunken Irish men was ideal. Before the game they were talking to me about what I was doing in Ireland and what I was studying. They went around the table and told me what they studied and one man at least 60 years old tells me, “I’m studying… Studying girls!” Laughing at their own joke they did the shoulder dip nudge with elbow clinks, as if it were a more subtle form of a high five. Their accents got harder and harder to understand with each glass of scotch or shot of Jameson, and at one point this is how I responded to one of them, “I’m sorry sir, but I did not understand one word you just said to me.” That same night I went to go watch Greyhound dog racing, where I won 2 euro and 60 cents one time and then lost every other time, while seven year olds were winning hundreds of euros with the single euro their dad gave them.

            The morning before I left started with a real breakfast- eggs, sausage, thick Irish bacon, hash browns, black pudding, real toast (not my usual breakfast toast) and tea. I felt it necessary to spend the last part of my day taking photos of St. Stephen’s Green, and I am so glad I went back. I have this ability to attract crazies like no one I know. It’s probably because I talk to them. I walk into the park and see this wrinkly old white haired lady feeding a swan. I think, “Oh what a great photo. I have to take it.” She turns around, ruining my photo, with her dog squeezed tight in her arms. I could have easily just walked away and acted like I wasn’t trying to take her picture, but instead I say hello. Why is, “Good morning” code for “Please, ma’am, tell me every personal detail of yours and while you are at it tell me everything you know about this swan here.” This lady was a character. She looked like a naked mole rat with a full head of hair. Her face was something I will never forget. She had crow’s feet in the corners or her eyes, as if she had been smiling constantly for her 79 years, but I never saw here smile once. Her eyebrows only had about three scraggly hairs apiece and always seemed to be raised at the ends but furrowed in the middle. The wrinkles in her forehead wrapped all the way around her eyes creating deep bags. Her eyes were the color of a pale gray blue with some yellow flecks and always seemed to be looking in a direction other than where she wanted to be looking. That’s creates a good mental image of what this lady’s aged face looked like…now throw a handful of dirt on her face. Dirt. Not dirt like, “Oh you have a smudge of dirt on your cheek”, but dirt like she had been buried in the earth for decades. She went on to tell me how the “wife” swan was gone and the “husband” swan was so sad that he couldn't even eat and that he would float from spot to spot around the pond looking for his “wife”. She was so worried that he was going to leave at any moment, that I was worried that this lady was going to faint. I walk around the park with her, and she realizes that she can’t see the swan anymore. “He’s gone. That’s it. He left. He will never come back again. He went to go look for her. Doesn’t he know she is dead? Oh no. I have to talk to the park guards.” I could see him on the other side of the pond making friends with the other ducks, but apparently her daytime eyesight was severely damaged when she spent the last quarter of a century in her home under the earth. She eventually saw him after I literally led her to him. Once she knew he was safe, the topic switched to her dog. Well, it was her sister’s dog but…the story goes on. I ask what his name is. “Well his real name is Teddy, but I can’t call him Teddy. I have a friend who has a dog named Teddy, so I call him Teddy Bear.” This dog was so fancy and clean in comparison to this lady. When she set him down on the ground, he pulled the leash in every direction with all of his might and she says, “He’s mad about where he’s going, but he’s going nowhere!” I leave her with the swan and her bag of sour cream and onion potato chips (her swan food) and head toward my bus stop.

            I took the bus to the airport and got on my flight wearing four layers clothing (you learn how to make your bag small when you fly Ryanair). My flight landed in Madrid at 6 pm, and I still had a six-hour bus ride ahead of me. The problem was that my bus from Madrid to Sevilla didn’t leave until 10 pm. I was back to the apartment at 4:45 and in bed by 5 am. School the next day was brutal.

Manoli-isms

“Lin. How do you say ‘Cómo estás?’ in English?” I respond, “How are you?” Manoli looks shocked and says, “That’s too difficult. Nope.” Then she looks back at the TV, with her arms crossed as if she was pouting, and about two minutes later she looks at me with her eyes wide and uncertain and says, “How do you do?” The way she said this was like there were “d’s” and “b’s” at the end of each word, “Howb dood youb dood?”

I have had a cough ever since I got back from Ireland, and I was at the table coughing really hard and Manoli grabs her chest and says, “Pobrecita.” I think, “Wow there’s nothing else she has to say? Usually she would tell me to finish eating the deep fried tapa she made for us because ‘It’s so good for you.’” I respond with, “No, I am okay.” Her response to this, “Oh Lin. You are as strong as an Oak. The really thick, sturdy trees, you know? It’s because you exercise so much.”

Every time I leave the house to go for a run- “Waow. You are so crazy. You love this sport. Your clothes are so athletic. Why don’t you just walk? Lock the door when you leave.”

My first lunch back at Manoli’s after Ireland- “Lin, they all told me that you guys want a salad once a day. Is that okay with you?” I say that it’s not a problem. Manoli happily claps her hands once and says, “Operación bikini!”


*New photos here http://www.flickr.com/photos/19751197@N06/

Week 8-Written 5 minutes before I left for Dublin

Week – Two months

Midterms. That sums up this last week. For everybody who asks whether we study in Spain, the answer is no, but we still take tests. This last week was taken up by finding ways to avoid looking at your notes about the climate in Spain, written in mainly Spanish with a few illegible scribbles that clearly say you could not decipher the chain of words the professor so Sevillano-ly put together.  I find that sometimes the only words I get out of a sentence about religious ceremonies are “brotherhood” and “crutches”. Comprehension is slipping a bit, and Manoli is letting me know it.

We always watch really awful TV shows while we eat lunch and dinner. One of our favorites is this show that is like a mix between Jerry Springer and Judge Joe Brown, where the audience is hired to give their opinion on the situation between the two arguing. The best part is that this is literally a courtroom, and matters are settled with the help of a bunch of Spanish looneys. A judge comes out at the very end of the show and makes the final decision. You hear everything from women thinking that their children are psychics and don’t need to be in the mental hospital they are in to someone suing their husband for losing her car keys. Yesterday we were watching the show, and Manoli exclaims, “Poor thing! He’s so ugly!” I turn to look at the TV and see a little mousey looking man sitting on stage trying to defend himself. His boss would not let him be a salesman because he was “too ugly” so he took him to “court” or “La Ultima Ley” (the name of the how). One person in the crowd says, “Look, there are jobs for ugly people and jobs for good looking people. Look at him! He can’t have a job meant for a good looking person.” Manoli so strongly agrees with that statement that she actually gets up from her chair, throwing her hands in the air, and pets the TV. Manoli doesn’t beat around the bush. Things are the way they are and there is no arguing that.

Another example of how blunt people are here is when we were talking to Manoli about Carnival days after it happened. We told her that we saw a lot of men dressed as woman at the carnival and it seemed to be the trendy thing to do this year. She listened to all of our words, looking at us, and then once we were finished she turned back to the TV and said, “Well, they are gay.” We tried to defend these guys by saying that it was an attempt at being funny. She said, “No. If a man has any desire to dress up as a women…he’s gay.” The way she says it is like she is reading it out of a book and it’s the truth and there’s nothing more to it. Her face is saying, “Why are you questioning this?” Her upside down smile forms tightly across the lower half of her face with her hands folding across her nightgown and apron. Her delivery of these “facts” was so impeccable we could not stop laughing. She didn’t like that. She is surprised by our response and says, “Listen to me. They. Are. Trannies.” Each word was its own sentence (a rarity in Sevilla).

The market in Triana is really popular and some people visit it everyday. You can always find one of those little packs of old men smoking pipes and rolling cigarettes at the same time at this market. I walked over there to roam and get a cup of one of my loves, café con leche. I walk out observing what people had purchased. I saw this one young guy buy a bunch of jamón (typical) and walk out with me. He walked up to his bike and just looked at it, then looked at all the ham, then back at the bike again as if he couldn’t comprehend how either of them are real. He had no idea what to do with the ham. He mounted his bike, looked at the packaged ham again, then stuck it down the front of his pants and road off.

People here should need a license to walk on the sidewalks with umbrellas. I got poked in the eye twice this week.

A homeless man asked me for money this week, and I almost gave him some until I realized he was listening to an mp3 player.

Manoli-ism

“I love gay men. They are as sweet as the sweetest woman, but they have male parts. What could be better?”

“Lin! Lin! Lin! Come here.” I hurry into the living room, because she was shouting as if her robe is on fire. This is what all the hubbub was about, “I love Paul Newman.” I would have to agree Manoli. Add Paul Newman to that list of Americans she loves.

“If you don’t have butterflies in your stomach then you are not in love.”

“I love you Antonio but sometimes you make me want to leave. Lucky for you, I love our house, OK guapo?”

I was helping Manoli clear the table, which is loaded with fruit, nutella, marmalade, extra crunchy breakfast toast, graham cracker/animal cookies tasting breakfast cookies, coffee, cola cao, tea, and place settings. Usually she tells me not to worry about it, but this time she watched me with her arms folded. I was being tested. I put everything back in their respective places and then was left with the nutella…where to put the nutella. She looks at me and says, “Do you know where that goes?” Then takes a long drag on her cigarette. I just stood there and she says, “Oh Lin you don’t know anything!” I failed. She laughs hard squeezing my shoulder.

The Seventh Week

Week 7- I skipped a week

           

Last weekend I went to Barcelona, because we didn’t have school Thursday or Monday. I was there from Thursday morning to Sunday afternoon, and that’s about all I could last…I was quickly becoming more poor than I already am as the weekend went on. Barcelona cleans your pockets out faster than Christmas shopping the day after Thanksgiving. A lot happened in Barcelona, and I learned more than what I would consider necessary during my time there. Here’s the story.

            My flight was at 8:25 in the morning on Thursday, meaning I had to catch the 6:15 airport shuttle bus that was a half hour walk from the apartment. My alarm was set for 5:05 am, but there was no reason to even set one. Food poisoning came at me like an owl hitting your windshield at night…you don’t even see it coming until its already there and there’s nothing you can do about it, then you just end up feeling awful all night. The bathroom became my temporary best friend and the tile floor, my bed. I didn’t sleep one wink; instead, I cursed those damn left over green beans turned into a Spanish tortilla until it was finally five am. I couldn’t believe that I was still going to Barcelona considering how my head felt detached from my body and my stomach felt like a giant rubber band ball. With my backpack on and breakfast cookies in my pocket, I left the apartment in hopes that I could find the bus stop on time. Getting lost when you are in a hurry is just something that happens. I got lost three times, but I blame the still dark night sky and the lack of street lighting. I asked a group of 15-year-old girls to show me the way and this was their drunken response, “Hahahaha! We live here, girl, and we’ve lived here our whole lives, but I don’t know what bus stop you are talking about. Good luck…Hahahaha!” Their laughter was like stabbing my eardrums with hot pins. I made a risky decision to ask a homeless man, who had a dog that looked like it could double as a feather duster (an obvious homeless must-have). His eager, crooked, toothless smile was not really something I was thinking too much about, but he and his dog duster led me in the right direction. In return, they got my breakfast cookies and a juice box that was labeled “orange juice” but had a picture of strawberries on it. I made it to the airport, after our bus had sideswiped a car on the way, and found that Spanish airport security is a joke. I got through with two water bottles, a pair of scissors I forgot I had in my bag (I would later regret borrowing Manoli’s scissors and not returning them immediately), and a second mystery flavored juice box.

            I was in the middle seat between a snoring behemoth of a man and a child with a plastic toy car (I was the road/mountain that the car had to drive over repeatedly). Sleeping on the plane didn’t happen. I finally get into the city of Barcelona and get my stuff into the hostel, which seemed like a good location and quality place to stay. Immediately, I join up with some kids from my program and we head toward La Sagrada Familia. It’s a tease walking to this place because you can see its towers and think you are just seven minutes away, but that seven minutes turns into 20, then 30, then 45 minutes pass and you are finally there. When you first look at it, you don’t believe that it is really there. These were my first thoughts, “How does it not fall over? Structurally this is unreal and beyond creative.” and then I think, “Oh no…it looks really big. Will I be able to sit down?” Once inside my perspective changed and my questions were answered. Although the outside is made up of odd shapes and angles, the inside is sharp, clean, and has clear structure (and you really shouldn’t sit down- unless you are pretending to take a photo from the floor). The openness of La Sagrada Familia surprises you. The outside is cluttered with monochromatic stone detail, but the inside is open, flooded with vibrant color from the stained glass windows.

            We head back toward the hostel, but our ADD and immaturity kicks in and we are wandering in every little dirty touristy joke shop on the way. At this point, my exhaustion and I find everything hilarious, funnier than a baby kitten wearing a top hat. I watch the street performers in awe with a giant American tourist smile on my face and a trying-to-escape laughter in my belly. I point (don’t do that) and take photos (don’t do that either) and finally stop in front of a “magician”. The build up to the trick is just awful. The guy repeatedly raises his eyebrows like, “Here I go…any second now…ready…you see this magic ball stuck to my hand…here I go…look at my hat…here’s my belt…one more eyebrow raise for good measure…and…” then the guy starts to pop lock and drop it like a gangster magician with Spanish sass and no dancing skills would. I couldn’t help myself anymore. I burst out into rumbling throaty laughter that I could feel coming from my still sore gut. The combination of how awful this “street performer” was and the anticipation among the probably-had-been-pick pocketed audience was too much. They just stood there waiting and wondering if they had missed something. I had to physically remove myself from the scene, doubled over in laughter.

            We eat dinner in the hostel, because it was free, and then everyone convinces me to go out with them. My eyes are hurting and my feet feel like I have giant twenty-pound rocks in their place, not to mention that I could have probably convinced someone I was European with how I smelled. The hostel got you into discotecas for free nightly and this night was Catwalk night. Yes, just what I need…to head to a super trendy club at 1:45 am looking as if I had just barely won a fight. I manage to get inside and dance the night away, impressing everyone with my natural ability to move across a dance floor in graceful, nerd “stir the beans” and “sprinkler” moves. Once we left the discoteca, I realized that my eyesight was beginning to fail me. I would blink and when I would open my eyes there would be black and yellow splotches in my vision. Quickly my exhaustion changed into the “anything will make me angry or cry” mood. I wanted to sleep and no one was going to talk me out of it. We got back to the hostel and I could not wait to get into my bed in the ten-bunk mixed room. Now brace yourselves for this…

            I open the door to my room, where all the lights are off and everyone else is already asleep. I didn’t want to turn on the lights and wake everyone up, but I could see that something was wrong. My top bunk was in the very corner of the room next to the window, which was letting in the slightest bit of light. My bed wasn’t empty. The girl in the bunk below me says, “Yeah, Kathleen. I saw that but didn’t know what to do about it.” Someone was in my bed, but I couldn’t make out a face. Not only was this person sleeping in my bed, but they were also buried in my covers, literally their head was completely under the blankets. I poked the sleeping giant and waited for the natural response…movement. Nothing. Not even a stir. No evidence of life. Everyone else in the room is awake and the lights are on now. I poke again. People are shouting profanities at this mysterious being beneath my blanket, and I am just standing at my bed patiently waiting (mildly excited that this is happening to me). Finally after a third poke or knuckle punch, there is movement. The blankets are removed and identity is revealed. There is one word to describe this man…homeless. I found a homeless man sleeping in my bed. He was clearly over the age of 45, balding (with little hairs sprouting out of his head resembling a new born Chia Pet), and surprisingly fully clothed…more or less. I say to him in English, “Hi you’re in my bed. What room are you supposed to be in?” I was giving him the benefit of the doubt. This was his chance to come up with a brilliant excuse, or any excuse, and I would have taken it. Instead, the guy just looks at me, so I try in Spanish. Just big round drunk eyes look up at me, still no verbal response. Everyone else was losing it shouting their well-rehearsed Spanish commands, “Levántate!” I tell him that it’s time he get out of my bed, and this time I meant it. This is how he responds- He rolls over to face me, still under the blankets, looks at his watch (yes, he had a watch. Surprising? Definitely. Functioning? Probably not) and says, “OkOkOkOK Ok Ok Ok”, then rolls back over and snuggles back into my sheets and blankets. The other nine people were ready to fight, but still keeping their distance, and were not hesitating to express how they felt in sentences that included all three languages: Spanish, English, and Drunk. He finally tells me that he was supposed to be on the first floor. I take that answer and actually help him out of my bed to the door. Its not until he is out the door that I realize I really shouldn’t sleep in my bed. This is hour 45 without sleep. I gather my belongings, trying to put everything back into my backpack, and the “I’m crying because I’m tired” wave crashes into me. I start crying because my zipper on my pack won’t work, then I realize I have to find a new bed and I cry more, then I remember I didn’t pack pajama pants and I cry more.

            I had a bed for the night, and I had never slept better. I wake up in the morning and my first thought is, “There aren’t rooms on the first floor!” Minus points for a bad excuse. I eat my first bowl of cereal in almost two months and all bad feelings toward the homeless man disappear into the corn flakey goodness. My trip to Barcelona was a success, and I visited all of the touristy things I wanted to like Park Guell, the Picasso Museum, Gaudi’s house and apartments, Plaza Espanya fountain show, the cathedral, and La Sagrada Familia. I met up with some old friends from high school, reacquainted myself with the beach, and spent every cent I brought with me. I start my Barcelona story like this…”Well, one night I found a homeless man in my bed…but don’t worry. I’m not that easy. (I feel it necessary to clarify)”

            Yesterday I saw another gypsy with a grocery cart and inside was…a hot water heater! I have finally figured it out. They are building a house. So far, from what I can tell, they have got the sink and the hot water heater (but no running water), a decent collection of coat hangers (but no closet), umbrellas, rolly backpacks, and apparently a plethora of grocery carts.

            We all went to a Carnival in Cadiz where everyone dresses up in costumes and stays out in the streets until the wee hours of the night. I went as a dancing monkey outfitted with the hat, vest, baggy pants, a tail, and even cymbals (I won a costume contest). We got on the bus in Sevilla at eight pm and left Cadiz at four am. I will never ever do that again. People try to steal everything from you. Spaniards are ultra affectionate and in this setting you have no defense. Your arms are literally pinned to your sides and you are being pushed in every direction unable to make a single step toward anything. Once in a more open area I got sneak attacked by someone dressed up like an Indian, and they planted a kiss right on my mouth. Before I could register what was happening, my arm was already in motion for his stomach. I think I punched him maybe a little too hard, or just right. He looked at me with shock, confusion, and an insulted eyebrow grimace. Never in a million years would I have thought that I would be a desirable subject with my face painted like a monkey, but you learn something new everyday. I would like to thank my older brothers for teaching me to live in constant ready to fight fear. It’s refreshing and terrifying to know that I react that way to affection. So if any of you feel the need to smooch me, just give me some warning. 

Manoli-isms

When Manoli cooks she always wants to show me how fresh her vegetables are so she calls me into the kitchen and this is what she says, “Lin! Come here! Come here! You coming? (As if the vegetables are going to take off out the window with her Pall Malls) Look at how bright these are? So fresh. They are so delicious. And the recipe I use with these is magnificent.” I start to formulate my response and I only get a word and a half in before she says, “Ok, go. Leave now.”

Manoli: “These are so expensive. You should know that I pay so much money for these. They are very hard to find and expensive.”

Me: “Oh, well you don’t have to buy them for us. We are ok without them.”

Manoli: “Yes I do! Fine, you are ok without them? Then why do I bother? Child, its my obligation.”

Me: “Waow Manoli! Jamón tonight? Why?” You can buy the cured leg of a pig and cut the meat yourself, but it’s really expensive to do this in your own home.

Manoli: “Because I want to. Do you not want it?”

Me: “Of course I want it! But is there a special occasion?”

Manoli: “Does there have to be a special occasion for jamón? No! Jamón is Spain. We are Spain. You are a little bit Spain. Jamón for dinner.” (She was saying ‘Spain’ instead of ‘Spanish’)

I asked Manoli to iron my vest for Carnival, if she had time. “I have time now. Give it here.” Two minutes later- “Lin! Lin! Lin? Lin? Lin!” I responded every time, “Yes?” Manoli, “Come with me. Look! Look! Your costume is so cheap. It’s the cheapest material. It’s so inexpensive. It probably didn’t cost you a thing!” She had tried to iron it, but burned through the inside layer. So there was a giant hot iron print on the vest. She said all this to me like she had just destroyed my most prized possession. The bottom half of her face was sagging with sadness, but from the eyeballs up her face was tight with disbelief. “Why would you buy this? I like it a lot though. What a great costume.” I apologized for ruining her iron and then I was excused and allowed to go back to my room.

Manoli gave Antonio a grocery list and wrote “Tabasco” but Antonio came back with three new packs of Pall Malls. He thought she wrote Tobacco. Manoli says to me, “Antonio, que cariñoso, pero qué huevos!” (You can translate that yourselves). She says this making a cupping gesture with her hands. She has no filter.

We were discussing hairy chests. Manoli thinks a man is feminine if he doesn’t have hair on his chest, and even more feminine if he shaves it. We discuss this at the lunch table while we watch a dating show on TV. I have the bowl of fruit in my hand and I am grabbing an orange, but my unusually weak wrists fail me and I drop the bowl, spilling the appropriate fruit for the conversation…bananas. Manoli looks at me and says, “Oh you poor thing. You are nervous because we are talking about men.” Then she sounds her loud smoker’s cackle laugh that rings through the apartment.

 More Photos*  http://www.flickr.com/photos/19751197@N06/

The Fifth Week

Week 5- Two slices of Granada with a little piece of Sevilla in the middle

            You have to go to school sometime…but the rest of the time you just go to Granada. I went on the 11^th to see the Alhambra and also on the 19^th to backpack in the Sierra Nevadas. The first trip was a good “learning experience” to say the least, and I will give you all the tips you need so that you never face the problems that I did.

We bought a bus ticket to Granada, for which we were overcharged, and planned to stay only one night in our hostel, Hotel Niza. Thirty minutes before we are suppose to be at the bus station, we find out we needed to have reservations to visit the Alhambra. I tried to buy tickets, but they were sold out for the morning of the 12^th. We left for Granada with no plans. Problem two arises when we get to the hostel. In Spain, you must travel with your passport at all times. My roommates told me, “Nah, you won’t need it! It’s dangerous to travel with your passport anyway. “ First thing we are asked for- passports. Don’t have them. The lady who ran the hostel was from Paris and generally a really unhappy person. “Ef you don’t have passport…you don’t exist.” Waow. What did we do? We pulled out a lot of cash, pleaded, shed a few fake tears and that eventually did the trick. That night we went to experience tapas Granada style…free with the purchase of a drink. This is both dangerous and delicious. For some reason your ability to measure how much you have eaten is taking a siesta while you are enjoying tapa after tapa until you realize that you are literally painfully full. We did discover a Chinese tapas bar and mini burgers (that tasted like America) at a pub! The following morning I got up at 6:15 am after having returned at 4:00 am, and trekked up to the Alhambra. This is not an exaggeration…the Alhambra is high on the slopes of Granada and not an easy walk. I was terrified walking up there in the morning, because there was still no light and it was a forested area with spooky creatures. I was first in line, able to buy tickets (very lucky), and then entered the grounds at 8:30. I walked through the Nasrid Palaces during my time slot after having run there out of fear that I was going to miss my chance at seeing it, because of two roommates who overslept. Long story short, you need your entrance ticket for everything in the Alhambra. The lady who scanned mine, kept it. I was stuck in the Alhambra. They wouldn’t even let me out. I had to go back and explain this in Spanish to the woman, and it actually worked out! She had my ticket and I made it out of the Alhambra. The Alhambra was mind blowing. I still don't believe that it's real. Here was our other issue…we had already changed our bus tickets to go back to Sevilla on Sunday, because we thought we were going to have to go to the Alhambra on Sunday. We walk back to the bus station and change the tickets one more time and headed back to Sevilla in time for Manoli’s homemade zucchini (calabacin) soup and turkey sandwich on a fresh croissant roll. (Tonight for our primer plato we had…French fries).

The second time I went to Granada it was to hike the snowy Trevenque Mountain. I went with a club from Triana (my neighborhood), which provided transportation and equipment for 17 euro! I met so many Spaniards that wanted to spoil my mind with new slang or saw me as an opportunity to practice their English, especially Pedro. “Hi. You can call me Peter.” I responded with the logical question, “What? No. What is your real name?” “Ok, its Pedro. Ok?” To explain Pedro to someone not actually in his presence is like explaining a mythical creature. After Pedro introduced himself to me, he disappeared from my side and I had no idea where he went. It wasn’t until the very end of our hike up that I found him eating snow. I asked him how far he thought we had gone, and his response was “Eh one moment” and he took off toward the front of the pack. He comes back to me five minutes later and says, “There are half an hours minutes left to go.” Great, but where in the world did you get that number from? We were chatting for four minutes when all of a sudden he says, “There are fifteens minutes here now.” Shouldn’t it be twenty-six? Pedro kept giving me updates and every time I thought it best not to question him and just agree. He was just making up nonsense, and then wandering off making his own footprints in the perfect snow. I remember thinking “Gosh, this guy is confusing me. He basically has a woman’s body, his English is both good and really awful, and he reminds me of an elf the way he runs and giggles.” By the time we reached our stopping point I realized that Pedro had been dead on with the timing, even though there was no way that could have been mathematically possible. Coming back down the mountain I was asked this tough question by Pedro, “Erm, whaat es da different betwin ‘Oh mi Got’ and ‘Oh mi Gosh’?” I thought I was in the clear after explaining when he nodded and then he said, “And whaat is ‘Geez’ and ‘Geezass’?” Well Pedro, someone told you the wrong pronunciation for “Jesus”.

One morning this past week I was rushing to get on the metro- running down two giant escalators, squeezing by Spaniards who never seem to care if you are in a hurry, and finally pushing myself into the already packed metro with a hopeful leap.  Leaning against the sliding doors that had just closed behind me, I said to myself “Phew, I made it!” (Thank goodness, otherwise I would have had to wait a whole six more minutes for the next one.) The metro started its slow roll when I noticed that my hair felt pretty tight at the roots which was strange given that I had left it down that day. Then I realized that hungry metros love long hair. I leaned forward in a panic trying to pull my hair out, but those doors would not let go. I gave the people standing next to me a one of those “help me” looks where your mouth turns into an open frown and your eyes get three times the size that they normally are. Panic. The metro was picking up speed and I was worried that I was going to have a new hair cut before we got to the next stop. The people around me just looked at me with their unconcerned eyes and kept holding tight. Out of nowhere this old man, who was wearing sunglasses (I thought he was blind), parted the people and stepped up to my side, waited a few seconds, and then karate chopped my hair with his tweed-jacketed arm. I felt the back of my head surprised to find all of my hair still there, then looked up to say thank you and he was already at the other end of the tram. My magical silent possibly blind wrinkly old hero.

            These have been my two favorite gypsy observations of the week. Number one is titled “Life is a giant treasure hunt”. I was on my way back to the apartment when I saw this gypsy lady digging through a huge dumpster across the street. In one grab she snagged a blue baby shoe lined with fur and a toothless comb! She added them to her other findings in her normal sized grocery cart (where she got this I don’t know- all the grocery carts I’ve seen are no bigger than what I imagine Umpa Lumpa’s would use if they had a need to go grocery shopping). In addition to what she had just found, she also had these things in her cart- two broken umbrellas, a stroller, one of those hats that has fake dreadlocks hanging from the beanie part, and a sink. The things you find valuable when you have nothing…really shouldn’t be these things.

The second story involves an older man with a bigote (mustache) that could rival Dad’s and a gypsy with a dirty mouth. This lady strategically sits outside the church doors, but that also means she not so wisely sits next to three older corduroy wearing gray haired smokers with attitudes. These three guys smoke all day every day and have something to say about everyone as if having the ability to hear  is a human trait that only they posess. The gypsy asks for money, but you can never actually understand what she is saying, so one of the three men had something to say about it- “What language are you speaking?....What? See that, I don’t understand you. Do you understand me? Probably not. You need to earn your money. Earn your cigarettes.” The gypsy hardly pays attention to him, but spits out a string of hardly audible swear words. “You think calling me a ---- is going to make money appear in your little coke can?” At this point I could no longer linger without getting a mouthful from either so I walked on. By the time I reached the end of the street I couldn’t hear them anymore, but saw the old man give her 5 euro and a pack of cigarettes. Then they gave each other the friendly cheek-to-cheek double beso and went their separate ways.
I learned a new word this week in class. We were talking about the scadal in Italy involving the Prime Minister and the seventeen year old, and luckily I was well educated on the topic. Manoli watches the news on the subject everyday, in horror, often calling him names and sprinkling the end of her sentences with "Por Dios". She doesn't let the seventeen year old off the hook either, "Hija, you are not seventeen. Look at your body. Put on some clothes. Eat something, you poor crazy girl."So, I saw this discussion as an opportunity to get my participation points. I don't understand some of the names that Manoli calls the Prime Minister, so I asked my professor. "What do you call a man who has a relationship with many women at one time?" That was the best phrasing I could come up with for the word "cheater". She responded before I was even done asking my question, but I didn't hear her right so I asked her to write it on the board. She looked the tinsiest bit embarrassed and walked over to the chalkboard. This is what she wrote- "la orgía"(orgy). Oh gosh, nope. Miscommunication. Everyone was laughing at me and all of a sudden the room got really hot. I asked a professor to write the word "orgy" on a chalkboard! The best part was that the word stayed up there in beautiful bold cursive letters staring at me through most of the class.

            Laundry day this week was a little tense. We each have a bag that we put our weeks worth of laundry in, but this bag is the size of a plastic grocery bag. Apparently we all had too many clothes and Manoli said “Oh God! Less clothing. A lot less clothing. Please.” She turns her back to us as she walks down the hall, letting out a breathy “humph”, and she swats her hand in the air as if to get rid of a giant bug hovering by her ear. When Manoli says “please” it’s not because she is trying to be polite, she’s being derogatory. All of that body language coming from Manoli was a bit terrifying and I felt awful for even having her do our laundry in the first place. When I got all of my laundry back I realized I had no reason to feel as bad as I did. I had given her two pairs of pants, three shirts, and some underwear. How did I only wear that much in one week?

            Everyone here has dogs. That means a lot of dog business in the streets and you have to be very careful where you step. You see dogs doing what they do best right in the middle of the sidewalk, and their owners do nothing about it. The dogs are so weird here too. Literally I saw this with my own two eyes…I saw a dog do a handstand on its front two legs, and then poop. Even if I could do that, I wouldn't. It was both disastrous and hilarious at the same time.

            I got a box from Mom and it was like a box of happiness. I had told myself that I really didn’t miss peanut butter as much as I thought I would, then I opened up that jar of Skippy and I realized I had been wrong. I knew it was something I had to share with Manoli. “Manoli do you like peanut butter? Because my mom sent me some and it’s my favorite kind. I want you to try it.” Manoli, “Yes, yes, yes…but I can only have one little spoonful because it is right before dinner. Open it and let me try some.” With her mouth full of sticky crunchy peanut butter she says, ”Oh my God. I love it. I can have two spoonfuls before dinner. That’s what I told you before. Open the jar again. Mmmmm.”

Manoli-isms

“Lin? When I was doing your laundry, I dropped one of your socks out the window and two others fell off the clothing line. I will get them someday.”

Me: “Manoli, how was your Valentine’s Day?” Manoli: “Lin. Like every other day. Everyday is Valentine’s Day to me.”

Here you really shouldn’t say please and thank you as often as you do in the U.S. and if you do this is how it will transpire-

“Por favor, Manoli.”

 “Sin favor. Es mi obligación.“ (This is basically saying she isn’t doing it as a favor, but instead she has no choice and she is obligated to do what she does for us)

Manoli’s take on the store Lefties- “I went shopping in there once and all the clothing is for the younger people. They don’t sell clothes for cows.” She grabs her belly laughing at her own joke. I stand there not knowing if I am allowed to laugh.

I scoot my chair in for her to pass by me- “Hija, look how skinny I am today. My pants are too big now. What is happening?”

Me: "Manoli, you gave me two forks. Can I have a knife?" Manoli: "Oh my God! Oh my God! Where has my mind gone. Have you seen it? Lin, waow. Why would I give you two forks! I'm just a crazy old woman, right?" (I've learned that the last part is a rhetorical question that does not allow even the slightest giggle as a response.) She says this with her Pall Mall menthol in her hand hanging out the kitchen window and the other grabbing her forehead like she has never seen or heard of anything worse...

I’m on my way out of the house and run into a chair in the process- “There is a chair there. You know that. So why did you run into it? It hasn’t moved since you’ve been here…well now it has. Put it back. Have a good day, hija.”

Manoli looking at photos from my hike- “Oh ok. So now you finally have a Spanish boyfriend. That’s good. Now, you know its ok to have a Spanish boyfriend and one in the U.S. too, right? Good for you. Ahhh to be young.” (I hope she wasn’t referring to Pedro!)

“A house in Triana burned down today because someone left the heater on. No more heaters. You can’t burn don’t my house! Do you understand? I don’t want you to wake up to your blanket on fire. What would I do? I can’t spend money on the water to put out the fire. We would have to let it burn! You know water is so expensive.  Take shorter showers.”

Manoli knows only a handful of words in English- "Trabajo eberydeiy, Lin. Eberydeiy está la palabra correcta?" I tell her yes, 'everyday' is the right word. "Lin my English is as bad as Caitlin's Spanish. Right, Caitlin (one of my roommates)? You don't even know what I just said, hija. Pobrecita."

“My house is not a discoteca!”

*More Photos  http://www.flickr.com/photos/19751197@N06/

Three and a half

Week Three and a half- “Estoy satisfecha”

I have now completed three weeks of school maintaining a 100% average in all four of my classes. That’s saying a lot…I’ve turned in one assignment and got a 10 out of 10 on it. My professor handed my assignment back to me yesterday, and it looked like he ran over it with tires made out of shards of glass (hardly practical tires). All four pages were no longer connected via the handy staple I had to hunt down, but all separate and in pieces. He hands it back to me and says, “Eh, sorry.” I didn’t bother to ask what happened, so that will remain a mystery.

Even with siestas as an option, I don’t get enough sleep. Some people say you can sleep when you’re dead…well I say if you don’t sleep, you will die or at least feel like you’re dying.

This last Friday my school took an optional field trip to Italica, which was only about 16 km away by bus. About 100 students actually got up at eight am on their day off to go see ancient ruins. Seems unlikely, but this did happen. We roamed the grounds for three hours trying to understand the mix of Spanish, English, and French that our tour guide was using to explain what was what. She had little patience with us often saying, “Gawt, you all heve hay dee dee or huwhatever it is you call that in Emedica.” Sadly, many people responded to that by listening to only the first three words before they were somewhere else posing like one of the statues. Italica has an amphitheatre that is totally open for anyone to wander around in, but it’s still preserved so well. Once again our tour guide couldn’t stand us, “And here is huwhere dey would- hey! Do you listening to me? You heve to listen to me.” The best is that she would excuse every rude thing she said to us with a giggle at the end, like that would lessen the sting when she called us idiots. The second we walked through the opening in the amphitheatre where “eberybody, eben da luchadores and kings would enter” we immediately dispersed like a bunch of jellybeans falling to the floor. Eventually you find them all, but some get lost and forgotten in the dark corners and you have no idea how they ever got there. Needless to say, our tour guide gave up on us. Seeing the amphitheatre, mosaics (the flooring of the ancient ‘houses’), statues, ingenious irrigation systems, was all mind boggling, but what was the best was seeing the Sevilla from above. If you stand at the highest point in Italica, you can see down into the amphitheatre with the Sevilla cityscape in the background. Italica was a quick trip close enough to town that we were back in time for some of Manoli’s homemade “Mcnuggets” and tortilla con patatas. 

The following morning we were at the Renfe station by 8:30 am to catch our train to Cordoba. I got on that train with my first bocadillo (packed lunch) from Manoli, 20 euro in my wallet, and my camera. I had no idea what to expect. We got to Cordoba an hour and a half after boarding our train, and the second I stepped out of the station I knew I loved it. Cordoba was like a breath of fresh air, literally. I could actually walk down the street with my arms stretched out wide, which you can’t do in Sevilla (remember the streets are miniature- made for both skinny people and skinny cars- two things I am not). Cordoba reminded me so much of home. The mountains looked just like the rolling hills you would see in Southern California. I say how much I loved Cordoba, but we were there from 10:00 am to 8:30 pm and I could not have stayed there any longer. One day was plenty. In that stretch of time we visited one of the most visually appealing works of architecture I have ever seen…the Mesquita. I was told that it is better to close your eyes as you walk in and then open them just as you enter. I love the feeling of feeling small because of being surrounded by something bigger than you, and this was one of those times. It stops your breath. The simplicity of the red and white arches combined with the ornate high ceilings, is like putting chocolate with peanut butter. Two things you like a lot separately, but when joined its just works perfectly and you don’t know why. The floors were all white marble (some day I want to have the Mesquita to myself so I can put on an extra poofy pair of socks and slide across the floors for hours) and made the space seem huge. I was inside for over two hours, and could have easily been in there longer but my bladder had different ideas. The rest of our time in Cordoba was spent either inside touristy shops, that advertise their ceramics with a blue and white plate with the name “Karen” on it, or by the river. By the end of the trip all I needed was to meet up with my boyfriend, Café con leche, and get back in time for our 10:30 dinner appointment with Manoli. I ordered my coffee and the bartender replied “uno con veinte”. I could not, for the life of me, remember what veinte meant, and I had been paying a euro twenty for coffee for three weeks now. I was so tired. Don’t worry, I remembered…only after pretending like I cared about what was on the TV screen.

The other time I felt that “small” feeling in the pit of my stomach was when we climbed up the tower of Sevilla’s cathedral. At the top you could see all of Sevilla’s rooftops, and all three of its swimming pools (two of which were drained). Just as I was taking in the view and noticing how white everything looks from high up, the bell in the tower went off. Everyone up there responded with a “Uuughhhh! Waowwww” and hurried down the tower. The ceilings inside that cathedral are so high, that I wonder how they get the cobwebs down. Impossible.

The day after Cordoba was Super Bowl Sunday, and yes I watched it. This is where my sleep comment comes into play. Not only did I walk for about ten hours the day before, but also the Super Bowl didn’t start here until 12:30 pm. I watched the whole thing. I told myself that this was my “American” day and I could be as “American” as I wanted, whatever that means. According to Spaniards that means having long hair and white skin, always chewing gum, wearing jeans, and wearing socks with sandals. I did all of that, minus the socks with sandals because I could only find one sock, and the white skin was not happening either because I am “La chica morena”, according to Manoli. I wore my TCU sweatshirt in the bar (which was packed with study abroad students), and when I got up to use the bathroom I got heckled! They threw eff-bombs my way, one guy even put up a longhorns sign, but before I could even respond, all the other kids (not from TCU) had my back. It was magical. “You a little bitter Wisconsin? If TCU sucks, then you suck more because you lost…remember?” There were about ten kids from Wisconsin who must have missed the Rose Bowl or something. Instead of the Coke, Dorito, and Budweiser commercials, every commercial we saw was about substance abuse…it was like they were trying to say something. The game didn’t get done here until almost 5 in the morning. I had to be up at 8:15…the following school day was a blur. I described my exhaustion as feeling like “my head was two watermelons stacked on top of each other with a 7 pound weight glued to the middle of my forehead (strong glue)”. This is literally what I wrote in my journal after my classes were all done at 8 pm, but I was so tired that I don’t remember writing it. Is there such thing as a 7-pound weight?

Finally, I get to tell you good stories. Here is the best and worst one of the week. This is going to have to count as one Manoli-ism…I walked into the apartment at 8:30 in time for 9:00 dinner and I didn’t get my usual “Hola guapa”, I got this instead…“It’s my birthday today”. There it was.  Like a double punch in the face and gut at the same time. She said this with one eyebrow raised and a frowny smile that was hard to read. I felt awful for not knowing. She had asked me earlier in the day when my birthday was, and I didn’t bother to ask her. She was giving me a hint, but I was too busy eating my extra crunchy breakfast toast to notice. Instead of saying what would be the appropriate thing to say like, “Happy Birthday, Manoli!” I couldn’t find words and I let out a helpless, “I’m sorry.” Let me tell you something. That is not at all close to what you should say to a Spanish woman who is well into her sixties, and there is no fixing it once it’s done. “Sorry?! Why? Tell me. Why would you be sorry? What’s wrong?”(She says all this so fast that all of her words sound like one big lisp, and there is no break in the sentences.) I was digging myself deeper and deeper, “Why didn’t you tell us it was your birthday?” Oh God, here it comes, “Why. So you could go buy me something you can’t afford? No.” She then turned back to her TV and watched with her eyebrows full of tension. I hurried into my room (literally doing the middle school backpack run), but I got the message. Just after dinner all of us gave Manoli chocolate and Pall Mall menthol cigarettes. How quickly her face changed.  Her response to the other girls, “Who told you! Thank you.” She turned to me and gave me a quick eyebrow raise and that was it. I woke up the next day and it wasn’t her birthday. I took the worst of it for not asking, but she either forgot about it the next day or decided to forgive us/me for not knowing why the day was so special.

There are gypsies and homeless people everywhere here and a lot of the time you just can’t avoid them. The other day I think this gypsy hid behind a corner with her baby and waited for me to walk by them. As I rounded the corner she turned into me, and acted like she was about to drop her baby. I freaked out thinking that the poor kid was going to fall to the floor, but nothing happened and the lady started to yell at me (with her hand out asking for money). “Look what you did you my baby! You almost killed my baby. Now help us. Give us your money.” Definitely not, but I will give your kid a smile and a hug with my eyes.

            Every morning Manoli comes and knocks on our door and says, “Desayuno? (Breakfast?)” I have trained myself to listen for the knock, because it sounds like she is tapping the door with a baby fist made of cotton balls. It is so quiet, and her “desayuno” is like she is testing the strength of our hearing. I’ve gotten to the point where when I hear a knock on the door, my body just responds by getting up, taking out my retainers, and walking to the door. Here is the problem. My roommate eats breakfast an hour and a half earlier than I do, so when Manoli comes knocking at 7:15 this is my response- “Caitlin. You have to wake up. It’s time for your breakfast.” As I say this I am getting out of bed, with my eyes closed, not awake at all. Caitlin then says to me, “Leen. You can go back to bed. It’s time for my breakfast.” This dialogue happens every morning, and neither of us are really awake.

            I know you all love Manoli stories so here is another one. The other night I was studying and needed a cup of coffee, so I walked the one and a half steps into the living room to ask Manoli if that was allowed. I turn to Manoli, and she has her legs harmlessly resting on Antonio’s lap. Immediately she tries to pull them off of his lap, like I had just seen them naked or something, but when she does this she almost falls off the couch. This wasn’t one of those things where you would say, “It all happened so fast, but I remember every moment like it was happening in slow motion.” No, it took awhile for this whole event to happen. When she tried to stop herself from falling off the couch she kicked her feet straight down onto Antonio’s lap. Disaster. “Oooho! Por Dios! Antonio. Guapo!” (As if calling him handsome at this moment would help). Antonio’s face went red, and he held his breath. Then Manoli did the worst thing she could have. She laughed…holding her stomach as if she had never seen anything funnier. Antonio slowly turned his head toward her, like a cowboy in an old western, and let out his breath like bull. I then noticed that I was still standing there watching, my ears burning red and my hands over my mouth. I wish I didn’t notice because that’s just about when you realize you are trying not to laugh, but you do it anyway. Manoli later came into my room and tried to explain herself, but instead she told me how much she likes me. I think she was trying to keep me from telling anyone this story. Ooops.

             

           

Manoli-ism

Me: “Manoli are you Catholic?” Manoli: “Yes, but I am not a practicing Catholic. You know I hate the streets. I pray to God in my own house. Why would I have to go outside my space to be with him? I don’t want to have to walk somewhere to pray. It’s so hot in there and there are so many old people. I am a liberal woman! Am I wrong? (No time for me to answer) No!” Keep this in mind…Manoli’s apartment is around the corner from a church, maybe only 20 steps.

As we watch the news- “It’s a crazy world.” She says this at least four times a day. That’s probably because all you see on the Spanish news are stories about people falling from twenty story buildings and cracking their head open, which they show. I always wonder how they get footage of the inside of a bus just at the moment that it decides to get T-boned by a semi.

When we are done eating or are really full we say “Estoy satisfecha”, and Manoli responds with, “I can’t get no…satisfecha! Na na na nanana”. She is singing a Spanglish version of the Rolling Stones song “Satisfaction”.

Here are Manoli’s favorite American celebrities- Clint Eastwood, Pierce Brosnan (“Guapisimo”), Yack Nicholson (Jack Nicholson- “Me encanta”), Chakira (Shakira), Youlia Robertos (Julia Roberts).

Two days ago Manoli gave me a book to read. She gave it to me at 10:15 at night and at 8:45 the next morning she asked me if I had finished it yet.

This is how Manoli sings the alphabet in English- “A, B, C, D, Eeee, No o o  se nada mas, Okay?!”

 *Check out more photos here-

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