A Poison Tree

I have a new enemy.  Her name is Sallie Mae.  Or maybe it’s not Sallie Mae. Maybe it’s the IE administration.  In the past few months, Sallie Mae and IE have come together in my life and given birth to my loan.  And for the money, I am grateful. Seriously and truly.  But, the road to get it resembled the traffic jam scene in WEEKEND (Godard) and the road to pay it off will surely be arduous.

How deceiving can a name be? Sallie Mae is possibly one of the friendlier names.  For me, just thinking of the name triggers images of southern belles and sipping delicious iced tea on a hot summer day sitting on the porch of their mansion, looking out onto their Terra-esque estate...as they grip the leather handle on their whips while monitoring the slaves toiling away on their property. So, I guess a name is not deceiving so much as our associations are ever-changing if, in this case, Sallie Mae is starting to make me think of the confederate south, white supremacists, and the kkk as they force me to pay back my loan while I'm in school at a whopping rate of 10% which, in my eyes, resembles extortion.

It’s not hard to believe that an organization to whom I would be in debt would be an enemy. It’s also not fair to abhor an organization who lends me money as they are, on the surface, helping me.  Loans are a common evil so it’s not the loan that makes me angry and it’s not the loan itself that is my enemy. So, I guess I should clarify and say that Sallie Mae is an enemy in my life only when seen in relation to IE.  

Which brings us to IE.  Along the same lines, it’s not hard to believe that a student would be frustrated with their school’s administration. I mean, has anyone attended a school where all their administrative deals have gone smoothly? In this case, I am mad at the school for the type of loan they have assigned to American students and on how difficult they make it to get a clear and descriptive answer from anyone in the administrative offices. 

I just spent the past week in Launch classes which have forced us to evaluate ourselves and the world around us, and have given us a small peek into worlds to which we may never have been introduced in the past. One major point that was stressed in our commencement and then hammered home during launch is the idea that we cannot change the world but we can change ourselves and, in doing so, can effect the world (in the long run). So, what they basically said was get over seeing yourself as the person who knows everything and is doing everything the optimal way. Change yourself, adapt, make yourself malleable in a way in which you are yourself and confident in your knowledge but open to expanding your cultural IQ and receiving thoughts and ideas from the world around us, thinking outside the box and implementing your multi-fasceted skills in global business. Even seeing how the classes themselves related to business was, at times, tricky but clearly the point wasn't how does A relate to B.  You would think that the school would at least try to be a reflection of the message they are disseminating or maybe even try to serve as an example of how a good business is run (it is an mba program, after all, and within the top 10 in the world).  I think you see where I'm going with this (n.b. - just imagine the aforementioned traffic jam scene). The professors have been amazing thus far, the executive administrative staff has been nothing but supportive and unbelievably catering to the students.  A few of the other people with whom I've dealt (outside of the student office, b/c they are superb) have left more than just some things to be desired.

So, I’m not going to sit here and complain anymore about this. Instead, I’m going to share a poem I read in high school that slightly resembles how I feel (only the end bit is a bit extreme…just remember this is William Blake and this is poetry so let go a bit as you read):

A Poison Tree

by William Blake

I was angry with my friend;

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,

Night & morning with my tears:

And I sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright.

And my foe beheld it shine,

And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole.

When the night had veiled the pole;

In the morning glad I see,

My foe outstretchd beneath the tree

On another note, I went to the German supermarket yesterday and found walnuts from Trader Joe's!  This seriously turned my day around yesterday.  For those of you who don't know, Trader Joe's is actually owned by a German company (sorry to burst your bubbles; I liked the idea of their being a trader named Joe somewhere in California too).  Also, classes officially start this week.  Eek!

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Police Station

I encountered the most interesting array of musicians in and on the metro today. 

It’s 7 AM and I’m on my way to the police station to get my ID card.  Although I tried to make an appointment ahead of time to get the card, I was told you need an ID card issued by the state in order to get an ID card, even if you’ve never had an ID card before.  How this makes sense is a mystery.  I don’t think anyone actually sees the logic in this. Instead, I think it’s the Spaniards’ way of forcing an inordinate amount of people to go to the police station and help keep the people at the station employed by giving them a constant flow of too much work to do.  Anyway, back to the metro…

The metro ride started off as all my metro rides start, with my metro card being rejected.  Turns out that everything with a magnetic strip in this country is demagnetized when exposed to a magnet.  So, my Spanish ATM card, my health insurance card and my metro card can no longer be placed in my wallet because they immediately become defunct thanks to the magnets on the flap. So, after reciting my normal seemingly scripted lines to the attendant, I finally am granted a new metro card.  Without further delay, I am back en route through the maze that is the metro station by my flat.  As I go down the first set of escalators, the first few notes of a song I think I recognize start to trickle into my ears.  Very melodic and with quite the orchestral back up, I initially think this performer is about to break out into the Avatar song by Leona Lewis. But then, it takes a sudden turn and I realize that, no no, wrong James Cameron movie.  It’s actually the Celine Dion song from Titanic sung by a raspy and more pastel voice that sounds almost like it belongs in a hotel lounge at 3 AM.  As the escalator approaches the ground, I look up from my book (yes, I walk and read…what?) only to see that it’s a 5’5, north African dude with dreads, in jeans and a tee shirt whose heart is about to go on as he loses all his fear because we’re here.  Hmm, fascinating.  And he has 2 speakers, a cd player and is belting his smoker’s whispers into a microphone.  But, I keep walking because there are still 2 more escalator rides to go and a few more hallways to plow through.

The next downward journey is a bit different.  This time, it’s The Streets of Philadelphia by Bruce Springstein. Ugh, what a tear jerker.  And this guys sounds just like Boss.  Every time I hear the song, I think of Tom Hanks and that amazing loft in which he lived with Antonio Banderas and I want to cry.  Not because of the loft. Obviously. It’s possible they didn’t even live in a loft but I do remember a scene in the film that involves a party at a loft/apartment.  Anyway, reading, at this point, is not happening.  I put away my book and look forward to reaching the bottom so I can see this brilliant vocalist who should be doing Springstein covers all the time.  First I see two greyed sneakers, followed by light blue jeans bunched at the ankles.  His legs are bent. Clearly this dude is sitting…and he’s sitting in what now appears to be a beach chair.  And, we’re getting close to his face and…oh.  What? Hold on.  Yes.  This is happening.  It’s just a white dude sitting in a chair playing a Bruce Springstein cd with a guitar case in front of him and no visible guitar around.  He is making absolutely no effort to pretend to be performing. Apart from highlighting his talent in plugging in his cd player to speakers and being capable of picking a good cd, this guy has brilliantly marketed himself as the most amazing sitter in the subway station with an exceptional ability to resist performing at all costs and still making a few coins here and there.  Why are people giving him money?  I really, truly, have no idea.   I mean, he’s funnier than a lot of stand up comedians I’ve seen and he’s doing nothing so even I would give him money if only for a good inside laugh he provided as I marched deeper into the dungeons of the metro station.

The rest of my journey to the train itself was uninterrupted.  It was a short wait until my train arrived and, at this hour, there are plenty of seats.  I pull out my book, get through another page when suddenly more music pours out of a speaker just like Mr. Dion’s.  Seriously? It’s 7:13.  Is this the magic music hour I had never heard of? This speaker, unlike the last few, is strapped to a luggage pulley thing and is being pulled by a real gem of a woman who is a cross between Olive (Popeye’s girl) and Kristen Schaal (Flight of the Conchords). She is wearing flowery tapered khakis, red sailor shoes and a flower embroidered top with poufy sleeves.  Unlike our first two “musicians,” she is truly belting into her microphone.  And, she is belting Edith Piaf, with no regrets whatsoever.  And, she doesn’t appear to be asking for any money. Because she didn’t stop once and she didn’t have a change cup anywhere.  So, either she actually fancied herself as the reincarnation of Edith Piaf or she was on the search for a record deal in the country with the 2^nd largest pirating problem in the world at 7:15 in the morning.

And you might be asking how this happened all in one day.  That’s a very very good question to which I don’t have an answer.  I just hope I haven’t exhausted the number of interesting encounters allotted to me in my genesis.

Also, I got rejected from the police station so now I have to go back tomorrow. Super.

As Promised...

Alexandra and Karina do Bratislava...

I mean, the photos are nearly identical to the one in the canyons in LA.  Please tell me you see the resemblance...

McDonald's: A Source of Comfort

Wait, what? Did I just write that?

Yes.  Yes, I did.  The last time McDonald’s saved the day was on a rainy day in April 2006 when Alexandra and I ventured from Vienna to Bratislava.  It was actually the perfect day to be in the Slovak Republic visiting a castle.  The clouds were hovering over us, low enough to mar the view of the top of the castle and dark enough to inhibit our ability to see more than 50 meters (is that a lot or a little? I’m trying to learn the metric system) ahead.  The air was cold and moist (ahhh, sorry).  The castle was nearly empty, with a handful of paintings and armor on display and the rest of the rooms under construction.  The women employees had mastered the art of dumb staring every time we asked questions.  They followed us into each exhibition (the 2) quietly shuffling their feet, ensuring they could be heard and seen and serving as absolutely no source of communication or information. The dust whispered warnings to us every time our feet allowed for movement and brought it to life.  It pushed us to leave, reminding us of the impending doom should the organ mysteriously start playing itself and initiate a reenactment of Dracula.  Smart girls, we heeded its warning and went to McDonald’s for lunch.

I have a photo of us there that my Kodak Gallery swallowed.  Instead, here is a similar photo of the two of us in LA that is nearly identical to the one we took in Bratislava.  Instead of sunny canyons, just imagine a castle on a rainy day.  I promise you, they are super similar. And if I find the Bratislava photo (Alexandra, will you send it to me?) I will post it!

So, back to my story.  Since April 2006 McDonald’s has served as nothing more than a constant reminder of capitalism, franchise, obesity, mcflurry’s, and artificial food and flavoring.  This story has nothing to do with eating at McDonald’s so much as just being so excited to see that creepy, charitable clown smiling down at my panic stricken face.

It’s Saturday night and probably somewhere in the high 30’s or low 40’s.  I went out with Niels and the harem of women he was entertaining like a champ.  Not in the mood for tapas or drinking, I joined the dinner party for the company.  We have a long conversation about the benefits of getting an MBA and the fact that IE has just been named the #6 best business school in the world (woohoo!).  The 5 of us decide to go to an IE party at some Irish Pub.  We pile into 2 taxis and head towards Sol, where said bar is located.  Taxis in Madrid aren’t actually that expensive. They do, however, love just to chill behind garbage trucks and watch the meter go up.  So, 15 minutes later, we arrive in this major plaza characterized by tourists and Spaniards pullulating from one bar to another as they wait for the clubs to open. ‘Irish pub’ should have been the first tip that led us towards finding a different plan for the evening.  Like any typical Irish pub, this place is filled with swaying 20/30 some-odds holding pints of beer, wasted, and watching some form of game.  It isn’t long before I realize that we have just walked into an American frat party.  Every guy is wearing loosely fitted jeans, sneakers and their college t-shirt while every girl is kind of loud, aggressive and wearing far too much make up for a night out in their juicy velour pants and bedazzled wife beaters.  It becomes clear that, outside of the states, all Americans seem like the Jersey Shore crew.  Before I know it, someone is actually crouching down and starting to beat the floor and a girl is flashing her Britney as she does back flips.  Ha, just kidding. But can you imagine?

Thank god we were notified via text within 5 minutes of our arrival that the correct location for the bar was in Barrio Salamanca and not Sol. 

Another taxi ride later, we arrive at a similarly dingy Irish pub by the same name and populated by fellow masters students.  The first person I see is this guy who I happen to see everywhere around IE whom I’ve never officially met.  At least I know we’re at the right place. I proceed to not introduce myself (that would be too logical and friendly and why not maintain the awkward visual acknowledgement that we recognize each other but don’t know each other?!) and, instead, locate our friends only to find out that they are leaving and heading to the next place before going clubbing.  This is my cue to leave.  It’s 1:15 AM and I have to be up at 8:30 the following morning to go to the airport.  BUT, these people already think I’m the most anti-social individual so how will I break it to them that I have no faith this night will be more than a goose-chase for a good time and I’d rather quit while I’m ahead? The beauty of people thinking that you’re lame is that they expect nothing more from you. So, when you’re lame it’s expected and when you’re not it’s shocking and welcomed! As we stand outside waiting for the rest of the group, I say my goodbyes and sprint to the metro so I can catch the train before it closes.

I fly down the stairs to the metro, avoid the girl covering up her friend peeing in the corner (gross) and speed walk to my train.  I exhale a sigh of relief when I see the platform is packed with people. I make my way up the platform, swimming through the hum of Spanish chatter towards a less populated area.  The information screen advertises irrelevant info, naming the stops of the train without listing the amount of time before the expected arrival of the following train. The lulling sound of this mono-linguistic babel is suddenly broken by the nasal, shrilling sound of an American girl exclaiming “seriously, oh my god, that was just like so scary. Seriously. You know? Totally scary. Like what just happened?”  I quickly initiate the guessing game in my head. What could this girl look like? Where is she from? How old is she? I take a peek at her from the corner of my eye and realize, yes, I am a winner!  She is about 5’4 with long dark dark brown her she likes to pass as wavy but is actually straight and dirty.  She is wearing skinny jeans with musketeer black boots and a black top.  She might as well have a Louis Vuitton clutch. Her eye make up has made its way down her cheeks and remnants of her lip gloss are doing a better job of highlighting her nose than her actual lips. She does, however, have a really nice manicure and is definitely from Long Island.  “This train is totally never coming, is it? Ugh. We should take a taxi. Don’t you think? It’s like not coming at all, right?”  

…

“Do you think the train is coming? Or, like is this closed?”

Fuck.

She’s talking to me.

And then it happened.  My inner bitch found her way out again.

“umm, perdona, esque no hablo ingles.”

“Oh” she said. And walked away, grabbed her friend and went for a taxi.  The train came 2 minutes later.

What a relief! The train! Let’s not think about what you just did and let’s remember how great it will be to get home.  So, I take the train to Diego de Leon and then switch to the circular line to bring me to my home.  The cops are standing at the Diego de Leon stop and I ask them if I still have time to switch trains or if the metro is officially closing.  They said I should be fine if I run.

So, running is exactly what I did…for the next 45 minutes.  As everyone files off the train to the right, I go to the left, down a set of stairs and into a corridor.  The corridor leads me towards a sign that points me in the direction of my train. I follow the sign into another corridor and down another set of stairs. The following sign offers more hope, pointing in one direction for certain stops and in another direction for the other stops.  I go my way, down another hall, make another right, go down 3 more sets of stairs and finally arrive at my train platform…where absolutely no one else is standing.  Fuck.  Across the platform, however, there are definitely people. So, ok, maybe it’s ok.  The little info sign says that the train is 3 stops away so I might be ok.  The sign, however, is flashing.  Does that mean the train is stopped there?  Or, just passing through? Hmmm.  I wait. And ponder. And twiddle my thumbs.  And wait.  And look across the way.  And note that no one else has joined me on my side.  And wait. And acknowledge that 7 minutes have gone by. And no train.  And make the executive decision to book it out of there.  So, I leave the platform, sprint up the stairs and follow the signs to the exit.  These signs, however, are not in the same direction in which I came. Ok. It’s ok. Just keep going.  I run down the hallway, make a left, keep going down the hallway, run up the turned off escalator, three flights of stairs, then another 3 flights. I hear the shutting of the gates.  Fuck.  I make a left from the stairs, sprint down the hallway, approach another 2 flights of stairs, take them in twos and hear another gate closing.  I see the abandoned and resting turnstiles and hear another gate shutting. I run. Fuck. Fuck. I get to the turnstiles and they, of course, don’t move because they’ve been turned off.  Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Fuck it. I jump the turnstile sprint to the door and see the cleaning woman walking away.  I yell for her, plea that she please please open the gates for me. Rolling her eyes, she comes back down and lets me out.  I sprint up the stairs, thanking her profusely and just so adamant that I need to be above ground.  In my moment of panic, I recognize nothing.  After a deep breath, I notice the plaza and, like a beacon of hope, the McDonald’s pointing me in my direction home.  I begin the trek home.  As I pass the McDonald’s the homeless man asks me for money or for, at the very least a smile. Unable to do much of anything but email my friends, I christen him Ronald, thank him, and go home.

On another note, I’ve recently decided tea tastes better out of glass mugs rather than ceramic mugs.  It’s created a major shift in my daily routines.

GChat and my Blackberry

Team Readers!
I thought I should let you all know that those times that you see me online on GChat afternoon/evening your time and very very late my time, I'm usually asleep.  My phone, for whatever reason, signs into GChat on its own, no matter whether or not I tell it sign out.  I'm telling you this not so that you stop IMing me, because who doesn't love waking up to IMs from their friends, but so that you know that I'm not ignoring you.  In fact, I'm probably dreaming about you as you IM and the gchat waves are streaming into my brain as I sleep and my subconscious is conjuring some psychedelic and non-sensical dreams (to which Arielle and Alexandra can attest).  Not to mention that I fear some of you have misconstrued it and think I'm some raging party animal here in Madrid.  By fear, I mean I know you think I'm living a life of debauchery to the max since I've even received some reprimanding IMs for being up so late (in contrast to what I said above, those ones I actually did ignore).  Anyway, fear not!  Being a loser isn't the kind of thing you just up and drop according to your environment.  It's just one of those things that comes with you everywhere you go...like baggage...
OK, so, now that I've cleared that up, please do IM me!  Without VH1, my mornings have been so quiet.  I love having them be the first thing I see when I wake up (after the snooze button, of course)!


xx

The Candied Apple Doesn’t Lackadaisically Stumble Far From The Tree

If you know anything about me, it’s that I have a lethal sweet tooth.  Or, if you’re ever in serious need for gum, I’m probably the first person who comes to mind. Let’s be honest. I better be the first person who comes to mind. I’ve worked hard to build the reputation as a gum addict/dealer! I’m pretty sure my love for sugar will be the death of me.  And, if it’s not my sweet tooth then it’s the other most important factoid about me: I can’t walk in a straight line. So, if you see someone with a lollipop zigzagging down the street while listening to her iPod and staring out into the ether completely in her own world, then you see me! Or maybe it’s a doppelganger. If you also happen to be in Madrid, then there is an extremely high chance that it is me and I’m about to stumble into your personal space.  Or, it is me and I’m about to jaywalk through what, unbeknownst to me, is the middle of the street.  Maybe you wouldn’t mind doing me a favor and grabbing my arm to make sure I don’t actually step into the road. If you do, I promise to give you two pieces of gum…

Let’s get to the point because I can’t imagine strangers read this and most of you already know about my candy/clumsy shortcomings.  Coming to Spain seemed like a godsend because the foods I love are located along the Northern and Eastern coasts of the Mediterranean and, along those same lines, the sweet foods I love don’t exist here.  I mean, when I think of the major components of Spanish Cusine, I think of olive oil, jamon, paella, and tortilla.  Of course, those foods are amazing but they aren’t my personal favorites.  So, I thought, I can come to Madrid, have some access to the foods on which I binge (mainly Greek, Turkish, Israeli, etc) and then major access to food I enjoy but not enough for them to be problematic.  Then when it comes to sweets, they have flan (gross) or churros (amazing but only for 5 minutes because they are quickly followed by feeling ill from eating fried dough).  And drinking? Beer and wine are cheaper than water and gas.  It’s more economical to drink yourself to warmth than it is to turn on the heat or take a hot shower.  Spain is mainly known for red wine, to which, thank goodness, I’m allergic!  So, needless to say, food hasn’t been at the forefront of my mind as a major part of my life here in Madrid.  I know some of you out there are judging me right now but I’m hoping you get over your judgments and read on.  I do love it…I just have a more complex and deep love for some other foods.

One innocent Sunday afternoon (there have only been 2 thus far), I went to have tapas with my future classmates. We go to our first bar, a cute place off La Latina metro stop.  It’s small (as most of these places are) and it feels like I’ve just walked into a cigarette steam room.  Turkish baths must find bars in Spain to be major competition.  Tons of people in their late twenties and early thirties are packed in, smoking (obviously), drinking sangria or beer, and having a grand ol’ time.  It seems that the traditional 2 hour siestas must have been built in to help people recover from the night before and not because, as Harvard claims, a mid-afternoon nap helps the brain retain the information from the first half of the day better.  I know this isn’t some eye opening remark but I always just thought the Spaniards like to relax.  Now I’m realizing it’s a perpetual hangover from which they are trying to recover.   Most of the young people here dress pretty well.  Many girls have very blunt haircuts.  There appears to be an unusually high number of hippies with dreads and hemp clothes.  It’s possible, however, that I’ve just been exposed to an unusually low number of hippies in the other cities in which I’ve lived/traveled.  So, we snake through the crowd and place ourselves in one corner, have some cañas, and a plate of jamon with olive oil.  OK great, perfect.  Totally to be expected on the food and drinks front.  Let’s move on.  We go to the next bar for more tapas.  

A few breaths of fresh air and we’re already in the next tapas bar. Mind you, I have no idea what any of these places are called.  This one is smaller than the first and not as refined on the surface but with far more to offer than the last place.  It’s square shaped, with the bar and food counter on the left, a middle standing area and then some counters for eating on the right.  It can’t hold more than 40 people comfortably, but it’s hard to tell because it’s so smoky that seeing people is proving to be a challenge.  In no time, however, we have found a nook, ordered 5 tapas, double servings on some, making this quite a hefty serving of “finger food.” 

This was when I first realized: Spain is going to be a massive problem.  We had jamon, squid, bacalao, eggplant, pork, and tortilla.  Any and all fish dishes are always at the top of my favorite food lists.  Pez a la Sal, for example, is my favorite fish dish of all time…it’s Spanish.  Any monkfish dishes are also really high up there…they have lots of those here.  Seafood paella is generally amazing…turns out, they serve that in Spain.  I mean, fml.  2 plates of tapas amongst 6 of us later, I was more full than I’ve been in a super long time. I mean, painfully full.  I dragged myself home, to bed, and did my best to sleep it off. 

The following morning, the sun rises with big smiles and energy, it’s a beautiful day, my roommates are up and getting ready to head to their Spanish class, and I’m overjoyed by the mere fact that I’m no longer full.  It’s a new day! A Monday! And I’m going spinning! With Pilar (Kike was no good)! Here we go!

I’m not sure what I’ve been doing between the moment I landed and that Monday but clearly I wasn’t paying attention.  Awake, alive and ready to soak in Madrid, I walk outside, look to my right and realize that I’m actually living right next to a bakery.  I look to my left and it’s a candy store, which neighbors another bakery.  Is this a joke?  So, I walk to the gym.  On the way, I walk by a dried fruit and nut store, 2 more bakeries, and 3 more candy stores.  A few hours later I walk to school to print some things and realize that I’ve walked by another 2 bakeries.  At this point I’m a little bitter there is no candy store on my walk to school.  Then I walk to my friend’s apartment and see an Austrian bakery, a honey store, a specialty food store with baked goods, a diner type restaurant with more pastries, and maybe 3 more candy stores.  I take the metro home that night only to find there’s a candy store in my metro station.  Honestly, I didn’t go into any of these places but the sheer volume and proximity to it all made my teeth hurt and my anxiety go through the roof. 

Sorpresa! Of course I have a sugar addiction problem!  This is where I was raised.  How did I never see this before?  Spain is surreptitiously the country of sweets.   So far as I can tell, they aren’t known for their national sweet staples but the Spaniards love their sugar and, according to my passport, I’m a Spaniard.

As the realization that diabetes is actually a possibility in my future begins to sink in, the lower part of my body comes to a sudden, jarring halt and my upper body continues “walking” forward as I slam into a solid metal, round, small pole protruding from the street that I had never noticed before.  Frustrated by the pole and by my oversight, I look down to make sure I fully walk around it only to realize said pole is not a pole whatsoever and it is actually a little old woman taking a stroll on this peaceful Monday evening.  Gasping at my blind clumsiness, I open my mouth to apologize but before I even get a word out she has already moved on, swerving her way down the street and not even noticing that I nearly ran her over.   What? So, as I turn to finish my short walk home, I nearly hit a mother walking with her daughter.  I stop myself short, wait for them to walk by and then slowly complete my mission to my final destination.  If only it were that easy, right? Right.  There is one person walking in my direction and I decide to focus on walking straight and staying on my side of the sidewalk.  My competitor is on his side and I can’t tell what he’s looking at.  He starts to walk in a diagonal so I start to speed up. I know this could be the 3^rd collision of the night and they do come in threes.  Just as I think he’s about to straighten out, he does one final swerve and almost loops back.  I open up my body so that I’m facing the street instead of just walking up the sidewalk and let the dude walk past me (instead of into me).  Never once did he blink or really seem to acknowledge my existence.  How had I never noticed this before? No one  here can walk in a straight line either!  I’m assuming it hadn't dawned on me sooner because I was just swerving alongside everyone else.

Coincidence?  I think not.  Pay attention tomorrow? No, no thank you.  I think zoning out is best.  Health insurance?  Yes please! Anything! Now is the perfect time for all that paperwork to come through….

Trapped in the Magic of Madrid

To all future visitors to Madrid, beware.  All plazas have magical abilities.  You think they are round but in fact they have secret catapults at every degree.  True story.  Once you think you have reached the corner you want, you are quietly yet quickly thrown to a different corner and any direction in which you walk is invariably wrong.  It is so fast that it surpasses the speed of sound and light (is that possible? To do both?)  I was looking for Diego de Leon (a street), I followed the instructions on google maps, came across a plaza, crossed the plaza, to the corner exactly opposite where I started, got back on the same road, and then ended up going South West instead of East.

What a predicament, right?  Well, clearly I didn’t realize it at first.  It took me 20 minutes to realize I may be going the wrong way.  Listening to music while you walk proves to be a bad idea in a new city.  Did I mention that it’s been 30-40 degrees here?  Yes, it has been.  Did I mention I was in a skirt?  No, I didn’t.  And, at this point, I can’t feel my feet because, as it turns out, sandals don’t block the wind.  But, not all hope is lost.  The clouds parted, the sun shone down and the angels sang (they do that in Catholic countries) over a courier messenger marching up the street with packages to deliver. 

(Imagine the below in Spanish.  I have christened the messenger Jesus)

Karina: Hello, do you know where Juan Bravo is?

Jesus: Juan Bravo? Juan Bravo…Hmmm.

Karina: Or, Diego de Leon?

Jesus: What? Diego de Leon?

[uh oh]

Karina: Yeah, do you know how many more blocks till I get there?

Jesus: Ohh, Diego de Leon!  Nooo!  You are far far away. You have to be on the other side of the Castellana.  Woah.  Jajaja.  No, you’re going the wrong way.  Jaja.   It’s that way.

Well, at least he got a good laugh.  I hope it brought a smile to his face for the rest of the day to think about that silly girl in the skirt and army coat and pink scarf and sandals walking miles out of her way.  At this point I wrote off any chance that I may think twice about Catholicism and happily resorted to my misanthropic view on organized religion and reminded myself of the time I got kicked out of catechism school for asking too many questions.  Then I got a good chuckle and turned into the girl in the skirt, with the army coat, the pink scarf and the sandals who happens to also laugh at herself as she walks.  Any second, I was bound to start talking to myself as well and give these people a good scare (or a good story, take your pick).  So, I turned around, walked right back to where I started and decided to go the long way. 

Ahh, something useful to know.  I was on my way to register for national health insurance.  It’s the only thing that gave me some solace as I shuffled, jittering and unable to really pick up my numb feet, my way along the streets of Madrid.  No better place to go when you are coming down with hypothermia, right? So, I’m walking, nervous that I’m going to pass it again, and only made slightly more skeptical when I pass the bull fighting ring in Madrid.  Could it really be here?   Yes!  It was here!  For the bullfighters and for me, a seasoned bull-runner!  I walk in, bright smiles, even smiling with my eyes, and explain I need health insurance.  With big smiles and a great sense of humor, they promptly tell me I’m not eligible!  Jaja, right?  Yes, this is funny.  “But, I’m Spanish,” I explain.  “Yes, what is your point? Just because you are Spanish does not mean you get national health insurance,” they tell me.  Jaja, what? Isn’t that exactly what it means? That I do.  Isn’t that what is so great about Europe? Do my white extremities and red face and shaking body mean nothing to you?  I am drying!  Of course, had I actually said this them their response would have been something along the lines of “jaja, yes, life is terminal!  Want a smoke? Camel? Marlboro?” ARGH!  So, I bought myself a lollipop, moved one step closer towards diabetes and cavities and went home.

Another fascinating fact about Madrid: When the walk light flashes green (implying that you should speed up before the little red man lights up), it lets cars know they can start driving too.  So, if you’re crossing and it starts flashing it actually represents your life flashing before your eyes…literally.  It’s like the magical plazas.  The walk signs actually allow you to cross your fingers harder than you’ve ever crossed them before, so they literally cross each other.  At first, it appears that the cars and people mirror your fingers.  They seem to magically cross each other as though they aren’t substantive lumps.  Then you realize you have just had one of those out of body experiences people talk about when they come back to life after being dead for a minute.

Too dark?  Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t get hit, then.  Not only because that might not be funny, but also because I signed up for the cheap health insurance where they don’t send my body back to my home country if anything happens.