Beans and Rice

I recall having a conversation a few days before departing for Spain with my good Colombian friend Juan. “Beans and rice,” he told me. This was his advice for how to save money. I asked him for money saving tips since he’s been close to broke every day for the five years I’ve known him, yet always seemed to get by. This frugal lifestyle combined with his three-year tenure at the Kroger grocery store from which he has advanced from minority bagger to minority produce manager has made him a bit of an expert on the subject. “Beans and rice.” I couldn’t help but laugh a bit. I couldn’t picture myself eating Mexican food every meal, as I imagined Juan did. Juan is an immigrant, paying off his debt of entry. Better, Juan is a Mexican. While he may be from Colombia, he’s still a Mexican. Everyone south of the United States is a Mexican whether they know it or not. It’s surprising how few people know that. So with that advice, I set out for Spain, where spending is more fun than ever.

Within the first few weeks of multiplying prices by 1.3 and dying a little bit inside with each purchase, reality set in: I needed money. Notice I didn’t say “I needed a job.” You see the way my brain works is that I would rather spend weeks concocting an insurance fraud or racketeering scheme before actually getting paid by the hour. Soon enough, though, it dawned on me that I didn’t even know the laws in which I was trying to break. Finally, I bit the bullet, printed up some resumes and set out to pound the pavement. After my first inquiry at a local pub I was given the proverbial slap in the face. I needed a workers visa. This meant I needed to acquire a job offer, go back home, and apply for a worker’s visa, and await approval. This obviously was not going to fly. Therefore the only jobs I qualified for were those paid in cash illegitimately. In other words, I’m a Mexican. Now I know how it feels. Beans and rice it is.

Speaking of rice, a friend and I were in El Escorial grabbing lunch at a Chinese food place, five-dollar entrees, classic cheap Chinese scenario. The food was sub-par, as was to be expected, but when the bill came my distaste came to light in a whole new manner. Apparently the Chinese in Spain are unfamiliar with the concept of free rice and had the gull to charge us 4 dollars each for a lousy plate of rice. I almost grabbed my chop sticks and went Bruce Lee on their asses, but the I remembered that they invented gunpowder and backed off. They were lucky. This time. Damn Chinese. But I digress.

So, in the end, I have chosen to accept unemployment, with a side of beans and rice. Through my powers of self-persuasion I’ve convinced myself that this is a great decision, through and through. Culturing yourself is hard work and requires focus. There’s no time for employment. Besides, I’m no Mexican.

Videos

See some videos I've posted including "Southern Spain is Insane"
featuring the first month in spain at:

http://video.google.com/videosearch?q=digipimp

The Big Stink

Let me bring you back to day one in Madrid. We arrived from Granada knowing nothing about where we would live, nor with whom. I was handed an envelope with my name on it, which contain two keys and a map to my apartment. Kind of like a treasure hunt. I read that my roommates were Jordan Katz from Wash U, two girls from Vermont and one girl from Ireland. And I was off. A few minutes later I arrived in taxi at Estrella Polar 8, apartment 6 D. We were greeted with Spanish cheek kisses by the girls and we were given the grand tour. Huge living room, nice kitchen, nice bedrooms and a big closet connected to the kitchen with a bed in it. Why a bed in a closet you ask? I was asking the same thing, until I saw my name on the door. This room was about 10 times smaller than all the other ones.

“Oh well,” I though to myself, “maybe this will encourage me to go out more.” Quite a stretch of optimism, I know, but you know what they say: When is Spain…you have a small room. However, I would soon find out, this was far from the worst aspect of this room. The room smelled like shit. I don’t just mean smelled bad, I mean reeked of feces, or maybe dead animals, or maybe post mortem animal feces. Either way, it stank. When I left the house, my clothes and I smelled like decaying flesh. This, I am quite certain, is why I have been having trouble landing dates with Spanish women.

So, of course, I complained about this inconvenience to my program coordinator. The first correspondence was mostly informative, sort of an FYI my room smells like the pits of hell. After two weeks of no action, as tends to be common here in Spain, I wrote a more pointed e-mail with such key words as “quality of life” and “putrid stench.” Imagine every time you invite someone over you have to explain, “really, it’s not me.” It gets old. And nobody believes me.

A week later, I get an e-mail on a Thursday that says, congrats, we found a solution, you’re moving on Sunday. So instead of even attempting to fix the problem, they just move me. I’m a little frustrated with the apparent lack of effort, but when I find out it’s in a poppin neighborhood my mood brightens. After a bittersweet goodbye with the old roommates Jordan and I moved to Moncloa, a neighborhood full of Spanish college students and fun night life. Little did we know, we were really entering Satin’s Lair…

We moved in to the apartment, and immediately it was apparent that it wasn’t nearly as good as the old accommodations. The apartment consists of a tiny room with two love seats, an endless hallway with three rooms, a tiny kitchen with another room attached to it. The kitchen is barely big enough to stand in. The appliances look like toys that a 12-year-old girl would return on Christmas opting for an Easy Bake Oven. The apartment looked uninhabited, although we were told that a German girl and an American guy were living there. That couldn’t be any farther from the truth. Only one person would live with Jordan and I…Zora, 57 year old senile Russian maid who mixes V8 juice with the blood of human babies for breakfast. I’ve been living here for two days and she’s already told me she hates me 7 times, in three different languages. She says she doesn’t speak English, but I think it’s a cover. I’ve been thinking of ways to test her, such as discuss plans to kill her in her sleep and watch to see if she’ll flinch. Oh, she’ll flinch.

So I have a feeling that many of my coming correspondences will predominantly feature Zora and my struggle against her evil death grip on all things I hold sacred. Until next time, sleep with one eye open, because you never know if Zora is watching…

Strike three at the cafeteria

What's the deal with the cafes in Spain? I mean come on people!

First of all, they don't have menus. They expect you to know what they have and be ok with the price that they tell you after you eat their mystery food. And when you order something as common as a hamburger in America, they look at you like you just ordered a pair of toe nail clippers. Bewildered is the standard response. Ask for water--"What's that?"

The cafeteria here in school is another story entirely. Here, you don't talk to a confused Spaniard; you talk to a confused machine. This machine looks like an old world war two computer with flashing light bulbs and dot matrix paper spouting out. Ordering is about as
nerve racking as navigating your circuit breaker when the lights are out. You have to cross you fingers you don't accidentally press the toe nail clipper button when trying to order a cafe con leche (coffee).

The first time I ordered from this contraption I ordered a napolitana: a delicious, chocolate-covered Spanish pastry. The machine prints out a receipt which you hand to the man behind the counter who then consults his Roseta stone to decipher the computer's code. He looks up at me and says "[we don't have napolitanas]." WTF? I just paid for it. It's not like I can stick the receipt back in the machine and get my coins back, so I ask "[Well what do you have?]" He gives me a chocolate covered twinky. Super.

The next time I came, I ordered a lomo sandwich with cheese, dropped my Euros, printed my ticket, and brought to the rocket scientist behind the counter. He looks at me like I'm crazy, like I asked him if he knew where I could find 1.21 Gigawatts to power my flux capacitor. He told me "[we don't have lomo sandwiches with cheese]." Before I could say anything, he turned around and left into the back. A minute later he emerged with a small bag of potato chips. Luckily for him, I don't know the Spanish translation for "Are you fucking kidding me?" so I smiled and took my bag of chips and left, swearing to never return...until this morning.

This morning I came in and wanted a cafe con leche (coffee). I put in the money, which the machine had no problem accepting, and when I pushed to print the ticket, nothing happened. Money gone. No ticket. I go to my friend, the quantum physicist behind the counter, and tell
him my story. "[I put money. No print. I want coffee]." He says "[Sorry buddy, no ticket, no coffee]." This was strike three. This meant war. How I will wage this war has yet to be determined. And all because of this stupid machine. The only reason for this machine is to eliminate the task of accepting payment and giving change. I hope their payback period is a slow and painful one.

Class finally starts

So I'm sitting in my international business class and for the second time the professor hasn't shown up. It could be a man, it could be a woman, but either way he/she is my favorite professor and this is my favorite class so far. I'm only taking three classes and I have four day weekends. Life is good.

In other news, I went to Valencia last weekend, on the east coast of Spain. There we ate delicious sea food, went to the beach and frolicked through a "modern city," a group of futuristic buildings--very cool. See pictures at link section on the right.

Skiing above the clouds

So I went skiing in the Sierra Nevedas (I thought they were in Nevada) last weekend. I went with this six foot tall red-head Swedish girl named Joanna. What I didn’t know before I left was that this Scandinavian baby has been skiing since she was five—probably skis to the grocery store for all I know. Anyway, she thinks it would be a good idea to start of on the friggin American Gladiator slope—you know the one where Blazer and Lazer shoot tennis balls while you try to learn how to stop. So, needless to say, I kept on falling like Alicia Keys. Have you ever thought about how to get up after falling with two plastic death sticks still on your feet? Well I certainly hadn’t, and that much was evident.

Eventually I got the hang of it, despite the fact that five year olds were passing me, throwing me off course in their jet stream, and people kept on asking me why I was skiing in jeans.

Profesor Ramón: frisky old man or sex offender?

So the nine of us American’s have class four hours a day learning business Spanish taught by a jolly old man, probably in his late fifties, who looks like a cross between Anthony Hopkins and a kosher rabbi. Ramón Serrano Beteta seems normal at first, all smiles, and as curious as a kid in a cancer ward. He doesn’t speak English, so every time we don’t know a word in Spanish and resort to English, he repeats it in his adorable accent, and we all get a good giggle. This makes up most of our class period.

However, the first time I thought things may not be quite what they seem was when we went on Ramón’s “enchanted tour of Granada.” We set out to sight see some of Ramón’s favorite spots in Granada to become acquainted with the city. Much to our surprise, however, this was no stroll through the town. This was a hike—nay, a trek. We climbed, for what seemed like miles, up hills and through narrow passages, stopping only to ask the man who always lies and the man who always tells the truth which way back to was the right way back to town—not knowing who was who, mind you. We were all winded, some of us fell along the trail, and Ramón hadn’t broken a sweat. This I had to question. How old is this man really? Is he a horribly aged 30 year old? Is he 112 and found the secret to eternal youth? Does he drink from the lazerenth pit? Did he sell his soul to the devil in exchange for nimble climbing skills? These are questions that would soon be superseded by much more important ones.

The next week in class, we found a whole new side of Ramón. As he has become more comfortable with us he has crossed the line of what I know as the student-teacher relationship. It started first with certain insinuations, which may have been a poor translation on my part, but my instincts were always confirmed by those mischievously darting eyebrows. Next, he began his habit of tickling us. First the girls, then the came the boys. Sometimes in the middle of class…sometimes privately. Finally, he has asked one of the girls to “estriptease,” on multiple occasions. Why, I ask? Is Ramón a lonely old man in very good shape who innocently fondles his students? Or is he really one thousand years old with access to an immortality elixir and knows that he won’t be sued by these ripe, naïve young foreigners? You decide.