Giving thanks

Puerta Alcala

When some delightful new Spanish friends (A&A) asked me recently (after reading my blog) whether or not I liked Spain, I realized that my love for Madrid and my appreciation of all things Spanish weren't exactly translating in the blogosphere. Sometimes my dry sense of humor is, cough, too dry; Sometimes, it's just not funny. So, here it is straight-up:

Even with the electrical issues, the phone working intermittently, not being able to use the iron and the oven at the same time and with the cable working when the moon is in the 7th house and Jupiter aligns with Mars;  even though I've been stuck in the elevator several times and lost my son for half a night in a soccer scrum and can't remember how to work the TV, I couldn't be happier to be here in Madrid.

Despite having eaten a couple of mouthfuls of god knows what, and maybe having eaten spiced bunny, and definitely having eaten rooster, I've enjoyed some of the most delicious food in Spain that can be found on the planet.  And tomorrow is another day when I will possibly try another of the tastiest treats I'll ever eat.

In spite of the fact that I have no ear for language whatsoever and have to repeat where I'm going to every cab driver; even though I look like Rainman watching people's lips forming their words so that I can approximate Spanish pronunciation, I know that someday soon, I'll utter a passable Spanish sentence.

Even though my children sometimes love us for introducing them to this new home and often hate us for pulling them away from their friends; and even with the longing for our dearly-loved friends and family back home, I cherish every day here with my babies, and am thankful to my language-impaired husband who's allowing us to live this dream, in this gorgeous country, with my new and fascinating "speed-friended" friends.

Regardless of the fact that I'm still trying to figure out where I'm going and how to get there, I have the biggest thrill every time I walk out the door and see the plazas and the fountains, the new and the different...

Thanks for listening; thanks for reading (and for, um, commenting...) I hope you have many things to be thankful for this week!

Hello Tick-y

During Spanish class today I felt a bug crawling between my eye and my brow. I tried to brush it away, but there was nothing there.  The creepy-crawly facial sensation got worse when my classmate, Tex, wondered aloud if I didn't remember seeing some advanced tense of the verb Olvidar (to forget) in a text we'd read two weeks ago.  Hello Kitty, a new student from Korea decked in apparel by the same name, was humming a soft melody as I was was trying to remember the verb, "to forget".  No, I told Tex, I have absolutely no memory of that verb.  I forget! With that, Hello Kitty, humming her ancient tune, widened her eyes and rifled through her Hello Kitty stuffed animal pencil bag.  It was then that the facial tickle turned into a full-fledged tick.


I rushed home to explore exactly what my medical issues are.  Here's the Google definition:

The causes of facial tics are still poorly understood,but some things are thought to trigger or worsen the symptoms. Tics ... can also very often be symptoms of other conditions such as Tourette syndrome, whose causes are most likely neurological... Stress and anxiety have also been shown to provoke and significantly increase the frequency of facial tics.


I have the following symptoms:

1. The urge to lunge at Hello Kitty when she hums incessantly from 9:30 am to 1:30 PM
2. The urge to lunge at Tex for showing off her photo brain every chance she has.
3. The Urge to swear uncontrollably (when learning Spanish).
4. Uncontrollable facial tics (while in class).

Symptoms disappear after 1:30 PM when class is over.

Finca Fantasy

Recently, Chip and I were invited to a finca, a Spanish farm that is roughly the equivalent of a horse farm. In truth, we weren't fully invited, but there was promise of a future invitation, as in, some day you'll have to join us at our finca.   A nice Spanish couple -- FOFOF's (friends of friends of friends) -- described how, every fall, they spend weekends on their 4,000 hectares of land with a distant view of Madrid, enjoying the countryside while the autumn leaves change color.  At the time, I didn't speak hectare and didn't know whether it was half an acre or a cajillion acres. Later, I whip out my iphone iconvert application and find that 4,000 hectares actually equals 9,884.215 acres!!!  Now THAT is a finca, amigos!

The next morning we discuss our potential invitation with the kids, imagining hunting in the rugged plains surrounding Madrid.  They agree it sounds exotic.  We ladies wonder what we'll wear and decide on an imaginary tweed ensemble with custom leather riding boots.  But, as a person who once took up golf to justify buying a fetching pair of navy Ralph Lauren golf shoes, only to experience the agony of hacking a ball around a course for four plus hours while wearing them, I decide to dig deeper into my finca fantasy.  Will we walk to the hunt or ride vast distances on horseback? Will we dine at an antique oak table that seats 50 and enjoy trays of food delivered by Chicas?  Or, will we recline in the open air, fireside, with an exceptional Ribera del Duero and the finest pata negra, wrapped in monogrammed cashmere blankets while our wild boar crackles on the spit?

Maybe it'll look like this.

We're deeply excited, merry even!  While we're salivating and making little clapping sounds and practically packing, someone (and by someone, I mean one of our children) decides to put a damper on things. Here's the conversation:

"Does this mean we'll have to shoot an animal?"

"Man up!" another one says, "this is a weekend at a finca, bro!"

"Tio (Spanish for "Dude"), the three of us watched Bambi together."

The B word brings silence to the table as we try to forget the orphaned baby deer.  Slowly, we realize that although we love our fantasy finca, and as much as we think we like guns, we like animals even more.  There's no way we can shoot one and watch it die.  We're still gonna play paintball, eat meat, wear leather shoes, and one of us may even wear fur (but only when it's really cold or when we attend a dressy occasion -- sorry Alison), but we can't harm the animals.

I'm mentally unpacking when, luckily, someone has another great idea.

"What if we shoot our guns into the air and miss everything?"  And with that it's settled. We will, if ever invited, simply pretend to shoot things and miss, perhaps even scaring the animals away from the hunt, while we stay warm in our tweeds and leathers in the European countryside and let rip our cries of Bwaahaahaahaa!

Our doorman is very LOUD!

In three months we've had three doormen.  The permanent doorman was having a lung removed when we arrived in Madrid.   Marco, the temporary one, busied himself with all kinds of physical labor showing management that no man, one lung or two, could possibly compare to him.  With unemployment in Spain hovering somewhere around 24%, Marco had no problem mopping the steps, opening the door and watering the grass on our rooftop everyday.  Nonetheless, labor laws prevailed and the sweet, permanent doorman and his good lung returned in September. He tried, but bless him, he didn't have enough stamina to walk, let alone mop and open doors.  Now we have a new guy, Sever!

He looks exactly like Mr. Bean with a 2000 kilowatt smile and the enthusiasm of Ed McMahon telling you that that you've just won the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes.  His voice starts out blaring and obtrusive, then cresendos into a thunderous clamor at the end of every banal sentence.  If you aren't prepared, when you walk into our building, he will scare you and you will wet yourself:
Senora! HOLA!!!  I saw... your HUSBAND!!!

Oh...really?  Great.
He just went into... THE ELEVATOR!!!

Um. Ok.

Sometimes, he's so enthusiastic that he answers his own questions before you have a chance to answer yourself.

Que tal? Bien? Bien,  Bien!!!

And you can forget about whatever pressing engagement you have if you're unlucky enough to be caught by Sever. No amount of non-verbal communication, such as looking at your watch, positioning your feet and body towards the elevator, tapping your foot and looking bored -- nope, none of that, will dim Sever's smile and enthusiasm. Verbally communicating your time restraints won't do much either.  He will acknowledge that you have something going on -- oh, SI, SI, SI!!!!! -- but he will still position himself between you and the elevator and will happily regale you with stories of the time he lived in America.

Lately, I've been walking into my building with my dead cellphone to my ear.  I put a finger to my lips in the briefest of shushes, and wave lightly while pointing to the phone indicating that someone important is on the line.  I try to convey that I am in the midst of a huge business deal and that grave issues are at stake.  He nods knowingly and brushes his fingers across his own lips, suggesting compliance.  Then, right as I'm about to make it to the elevator, he can't help himself:

Senora!  I saw your CHILDREN!!!!

School Daze

 (chimp brain)

When, on a Saturday night, you can't adequately tell the Spanish police that your son is missing -- yo busco mi hijo! I look for my son! -- the first thing you do on Monday is re-enroll in the intensive Spanish program at International House.

You sit yourself down next to two twenty-somethings, one German and one Texan, and you hope for the best.

La Profesora speaks no English, but hey you're in Spain! You get it! You're supposed to be speaking Spanish by now. You're ready to engage.  Your new metal pencils from the cool Japanese store at the airport are leaded and ready to escritor.  But you're like the animal in a Far Side comic.  You see the teacher's lips moving, but nothing makes any sense... just a word here, a word there.

Did she just say Quesadilla? I'm pret-ty sure. What, we're talking Tex-mex?  No wait, she isn't talking food ...  maybe she said, "que es dia" or  "que sa dia?" but that doesn't make any sense. What is day??? Maybe if I listen.  Huh?  Something about preterito perfecto... 


... What's that Texan doing in this class anyway? Gimme a break. Every Texan I've ever met is secretly fluent in Spanish.  She practically lives in Mexico. No she did-INT just say she has a photographic memory! HATE her. Why not stay home and read the Spanish dictionary? Why don't I have a photographic memory?  What if I have a brain disease? What if my brain is shriveling with age and it's too late to learn another language... 


... Wonder if that laser hair removal appointment is tomorrow or Friday.  Better check.  Either way, I'm outta here at 1:30, home by 2, then I apply the cream.  I'll just have an hour to numb.  Hope it doesn't hurt... Yikes. She's looking at me... God, I hope she doesn't call on me... her lips are moving.  Do I say, "I'm sorry I wasn't listening", or "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you", or "No se?"


Luckily, the Texan answers for me.

A Gift To My Commenters

Thank you for restoring my faith in the blogosphere people!

Here are some visual cyber-gifts for expressing concern over our lost child AND for taking a step on the wild side with your witty comments.

Muchos gracias!

 I gift you pictures of CINDY in Spanish Vogue this month!!!

GO girl!

Sultry...

Pant-astic

She doesn't act like this in the states, does she?

If you happened to see the pics of Sharon Stone topless in Spanish Vogue a few months ago, you know that one thing they do really well here in Spain is Photoshop.  Unfortunately, they photoshopped Cindy's lips right off...

Have a great weekend!

An Incredible Soccer Night...Turned Nightmare

Last night we attended our first futbol game in our adopted city of Madrid. New Yorkers, you got nothin' on the rivalry between Real Madrid and Atletico fans.  Jets vs. Giants, Mets vs. Yankees: add vast amounts of alcohol, latin tempers, cigarette smoking in the stadium seats, celebratory red and white smoke bombs to start the game (red and white for the Atletico stadium) and world class group swearing (in song) and you have just a taste of what we experienced.  Here's a recap of the game:


The sound track in this video is so very misleading.  Instead, imagine inserting the song the mob crowd sang when Real Madrid's number 4, got a red card and was tossed out of the game: Adios hijo de Puta, Adios, hijo de Puta, Adios  ... well you get the idea.  Translation?  Goodbye, son of bitch!  That's the only one I can actually print on a family blog...


So how did this festive night turn nightmare?  Leaving the stadium, the five of us had to grab 2 cabs.  The crowd surged (did I just say, "the crowd surged"?) and there were distractions: One fan, so drunk he literally couldn't walk, fell off a motorcycle and was crawling around the street.  There was a mad dash for cabs, so we hopped into our two, drove the 15 minutes home and arrived realizing that neither Chip, nor I, had Clark. Clark was still in the mob somewhere on the other side of town with no phone, no money and no keys. Frantic, Chip and Lucia grabbed another cab back to the stadium. Sam stationed himself at the door to our building with 20 euros in case Clark had taken a cab and couldn't pay and I waited upstairs by the phone.  No words can describe the amount of despair we felt when 2 hours later, neither we, nor the police, could find Clark.  During that time, Chip, Lucia and some riot police (who spoke no English) had been driving around the stadium.  An hour later, when there was still no sign of him, the police took a description of Clark, dropped Chip and Lucia back where they'd last seen him, and drove off, wishing them buen suerte (good luck)!  We've never been more terrified.

Just as I was getting through to the emergency person at the US Embassy in the wee hours of the morning, I heard the elevator ascending.  There was Clark with two police officers, looking pale, but no worse for wear.  He'd had a crazy adventure involving being pushed over a barrier, waiting for us on a pole in the middle of the mob, panicking after time went by, trying to run home and realizing he didn't know where he was, and finally finding two policemen in the streets who put him in the back of the heavily plasticized police car.  What took so long to get home?  Twice, the police stopped the car, turned to Clark and said, "Lo siento, un momento, por favor." Then they took out their guns and proceeded to break up big street brawls. They were "bros" as Clark calls them, great guys who cracked jokes all night and entertained him by driving on the center medians with their sirens on and cracking themselves up.  Twice they went down one way streets the wrong way. "Wow, just like in the police car scene in Superbad!" Sam said with admiration.


The fallout: Sam and Lucia have vowed to tatoo "Clark" onto their forearms.  I suggest that, instead, we tattoo Clark with: "Reward offered for safe return", along with his address and phone number.

Blogging 101- a rant

YO, it's called BLOGGING people!!! Sooooo, by definition, you're supposed to put your thoughts under the comment section!  

What usually happens is, someone EMAILS me to tell me that they liked one thing or another.  Ok, I'll admit, Delora likes (no, loves) that more than a total freakin' comment shut out, but how about going for the real thing? Just a little "LOL" in the comment box or a "ZZZZZzzzzz" -- I'll take anything.  Give my big three commenters, Tay, Chip and Mental P, a break.  How about it?  No one will judge you!

You don't have to spend hours thinking up the wittiest thing you'll ever say.  No need to manufacture Faulkner type comments or David Sedaris caliber humor (well maybe a few comments like this would be good.)  Quick -- first thing that pops into your mind -- bang!  Type it in!  It's that easy folks.

What? Afraid someone's going to seek out your cyber-identity and your off-color comment will be a blight on your important career or your admission to Harvard Divinity School? Go anonymous!

Throw me a bone people...it's lonely in cyberspace!

What is this?

I've been slathering this on my skin for a week...

An Oddity.

This is odd.  This is my (grown) friend KK chasing the stately blue peacock on the grounds of the Alcazar in Seville -- but she's not the oddity I refer to above.

This is odd (for Spain, but not for NYC).  This is my friend Jamie, who can never be too far from his Blackberry, even when on vacation with close friends, even when taking a private tour with a private tour guide. He is not the oddity I refer to above.

This is really, really odd.  Behold La Muher Barbuda (1631).  KK and I spied this painting on a tour of a private home, now open to the public, in Sevilla.  The subject, Magdalena Venture, is 52 years old here. At age 37, she began to grow a thick beard, a surprise, no doubt, to Felici de Amici, her husband.  If you look closely, you'll see that Magdalena is breast feeding a child (at 52?).  She looks exactly like her husband standing in the background -- minus the breast.

Imagine what laser hair removal could have done for her.

Courtyards of Cordoba, Spain

How beautiful are these Courtyard patios?  The Romans built the original city of Cordoba in 206 BC on the Guadalquivir River.  These designs are made with river rocks from the Guadalquivir.  I was lucky enough to see these ancient beauties with two of my favorite people, KK and Jamie on their recent visit with us. Thinking that Cordoba would be merely a good place to stay for a night on our way to Sevilla, I wasn't prepared for how beautiful and unspoiled the small city is.   I would tell you more, but our guide had a very quiet voice and Jamie was on a conference call with his head set during our tour...