Welp, That Was Fun - Back to Real(ish) Life

So, I'm off to a trawling start in 2011. I have been reading and "writing" and puttering around on the computer, doing a little experimental cooking, keeping a fairly low profile. I've still been thinking about new themes to put up, and I'm entranced with the idea of posting about pants/trousers (in my lexicon, they are the same thing).

You have seen this before.

However, part of me also thinks that it's okay just writing about myself, my works and days. Riiight now, however, I am searching for internships for this summer. They are the banes of my holidays.

I officially dislike searching for internships, because what you're looking for in terms of company/experience isn't exactly what prospective companies are offering. Companies and organizations are forever looking for the perfect, cancer-curing intern. I don't know exactly what I'm looking for, and I have a feeling that companies aren't looking for me.

It feels like every advert for intern jobs goes something like this.

"We want a creative, energetic, intelligent, self-motivated intern to do a few menial jobs and learning the basics about our industry. She must be willing to wash away the tears of blood that her forebears have shed with her own lignin. At all times her body must resonate at a perfect A flat that will bring harmony to the universe while entertaining her superiors. Her skin must shine through rainbows, and her brain must be able to sense macro- and microwaves. Being able to microwave leftovers with said brain is a huge plus.

"P.S. This internship is unpaid, but we might be willing to give you some compensation. Like a bus pass."

Sigh. Bus passes are better than nothing, though.

Part of landing an internship is to sell yourself, but there can't be too much of a discrepancy between what you are and how good you make yourself sound. I may have done so a bit last year, which is why I wasn't that great of an intern, I feel.

Last year's internship did come with some pretty awesome experiences, though, and overall I did learn a lot.

Las Cascadas

Two major things happened on Saturday: one was going to mountains, hiking, and swimming in the river. The second one was having my wallet stolen. For the post about dealing with my wallet stolen, have a look at August 22nd's I'm Two for Zero post.

I spent the day with my Czech co-worker, her boyfriend and some of their friends. They are some very lovely Spaniards – very friendly and open and willing to speak in English (after I spoke for some time trying to practice my Spanish). There was a real Madrileño, two Malàgans, and Andalucian (he came from a smaller town in Andalucía with its own name) and a Galician, perhaps? Yes, yes, I know that they have their own names (like Gallego), but I do not know them, and I am going to be culturally insensitive for a few moments.

We drove to the destination (I don't know where it was) in two cars, and I was with the Czech, her Spanish boyfriend, and another Spaniard. I was really amused when the two Spaniards started to talk about the work that they were doing, and how there was a problem with the software that they had been developing. The product was already delivered to the customers, and the malfunction had been picked up by a news station. One joked that they should they leave a comment on the article, saying, “Sorry, yes, it’s our fault as the programmers, not the company – we’ll fix it mañana!” “Yes, yes, we’ll do it after siesta!” they bantered back and forth. As you can tell, I was amused.

We arrived at a series of three tiered pools, each one a gigantic square. There was Kentucky bluegrass (or its cousin) beneath our feet – and a gigantic crowd sprawling along the beach. Preferring a more natural setting, we walked another hour and a half to the top of the falls.

Here there were two shallow pools, one falling into the other. The space was narrow and a little crowded but fewer people were there. We climbed up to the higher of the two pools and took a dip in very, very cold river water, and some of the guys tread water for a moment right beneath the waterfall. I cannon-balled into a lower (warmer) pool but didn’t feel like having really cold water splashed on my head.

After swimming, we took lunch, and then the chicos went off to explore the waterfalls above us while the Czech and I talked and enjoyed being down below. I was pretty tired, and drying off in the sun sounded just about right for me.

After they came back, we took our stuff and made our way back to the area with the crowd and the pools (las piscinas) where we regrouped and refreshed ourselves with restrooms and Coca-Cola.

Everyone was nice, and the Spaniards talked to me – in English and Spanish – and I had a really nice time out in the country with some very kind people.

Gushy ending, I know. Note – you can also find Mormon missionaries just about anywhere. While up at the falls, I ran into two of them on a Saturday excursion with their ward (Barrio 3 - I'm in Barrio 6). One was even from my city and knew Elder M from June 20th's When in Spain... post. It's a small, small world.

I'm Two for Zero

I can now say that I have been to more police stations abroad than I have been in the United States. Last summer I went to my mother with to the Swiss police station when her purse was stolen; last night I went to a Spanish police station to file a report for my own stolen wallet.

What is up with people stealing things Can’t we all respect each other’s property? Meh, I was being stupid and had been lulled into a false sense of security because I’d had no problems thus far. (And I have less than a week to go!) My own fault, I suppose, for not being vigilant.

I had a microscopic glimpse at the bureaucracy rife within Spain last night. The Metro agent at Sainz de Baranda, where my wallet was stolen, said that I needed to go to Nuevos Ministerios to file a report there. Lucky me, Nuevos Ministerios is only five or so stops from Sainz de Baranda. I got off, looked around for a security agent who told me that the Comisaria was just around the corner, and then knocked on the door of the office. There was one officer left who said that they couldn’t file the report there, and that I had to go to Sol. Great. I had to switch trains, but it wasn’t going to be the end of the world to get there from Nuevos Ministerios.

At Sol, I looked around for the Comisaria, and lucky me, it was closed. I asked the guard if he knew where I could file a report for a stolen wallet in the Metro, and he said Calle Leganitos, which you can get to from Plaza de España. So I went on my disgruntled way to the Plaza.

Note that I had come back from a day of hiking and swimming in a river. I still had my bathing suit and swim shorts on, and I was oily with sunscreen. And my water bottle was low. And I was wearing my ugly orange – but comfortable – Keens. Everything from my orange-clad toes to my sun-burned skin and my pulled-back hair screamed that I wasn’t from around here.

I have some good news – my Spanish was good enough to speak with the security personnel at all of the places I stopped. The hardest was first explaining that “alguien robio mi carjeta” at the beginning, because I knew neither the word “robar” nor “carjeta”. Yes, yes, I am stupid. At the front of the Comisaria there was a guard who told me that I could go to the waiting room and they would send someone out who would speak English with me. 


The overall process wasn't too bad, and it involved me getting to speak to my mother for free about canceling our credit cards (thank you, government of Spain), and about an hour after arriving at the police station, I was walking out and going home and counting down the minutes until I could take a shower.

The Journey: El Escorial

Saturday I practiced my capacity to be alone by going to San Lorenzo de El Escorial. My LDS family had other errands to do, and so I thought I would go on this journey by myself. I did bring Rick Steves along with me, but purely for point of conversation I was alone.

At about 1 p.m. (it was really late to start a day trip, I know), I hopped on the Metro, switched trains at Sainz de Baranda, and rode all the way to the Moncloa station. Finding the 664 bus to El Escorial was a breeze - I almost happed upon it by accident (quay 11, 1st platform of the bus station). On my way to Moncloa, I had thought it might be easier to go to El Pardo, which was Franco's summer palace, instead of El Escorial because it's closer. However, I changed my mind because the 664 bus was right there and leaving in another 10 minutes. It seemed as if the bus were pulling me toward it, inviting me to take the journey.

A pleasant 50 minutes later, I was hopping off the bus and hoping to catch the 3:15 bus to Valle de los Caidos (Valley of the Fallen). You may know it for its gigantic cross towering into the sky, under which is a big basilica. It is where Franco's remains are kept, and the basilica looked really pretty in my guide book. However, the Valley was closed. Due to no fault of my own, I was not able to see it.

I did, however, make it to the monastery, which is huge and beautiful. San Lorenzo/El Escorial is a pretty small town, and it's difficult to get lost. It is quaint in the same way all European towns are: swept cobbled streets, wrought-iron balcony railings, street lamps, planter boxes. This was Spanish, so things were a little more crowded and a little louder than France or Germany. Then all of a sudden on your left you see a big dome that could easily crush the houses around it.

Welcome to the monastery.

The monastery plaza was huge, with big flat flagstones paving the central plaza. If the day had been any warmer, it would have been unpleasant with all that rock and sun. As it were, the day was lovely and I proceeded into El Escorial just fine. The guards at the coat-check were incredibly nice, and when I didn't understand what a consigna was, the guard pointed down the hall and said with a smile, "The cloakroom is just over there." At the ticket counter, I tried to ask for one unguided tour, but the man was really nice and asked if I wanted to speak English. Did I! He told me that today was free, and he pushed a little yellow sticker through the window, along with a ticket. Whoo, free entrance!

I wandered over to the architecture museum, where I saw lots and lots of drawings and models of El Escorial. Great. It went on unnecessarily long, and then I found myself in a series of painting galleries filled with religious themes. Felipe II had built up El Escorial, and he and his wife (?) had their own rooms at the monastery. Most of the rooms have been converted to displaying Felipe II's extensive collection of religious works - walking through it, I thought that there are only so many ways you can paint the Penitence of St. Jeremy or the Nativity.

Now on to the good stuff: the tombs. The tombs were probably my favorite part of the experience. They charged me (3 euro) for going to see the ruler's chambers where Carlos V, Felipe II, Felipe III, etc are buried, but it was worth it. Walking down the red marble and jade steps, I felt like I was going into the vault of some very, very expensive hotel or bank. When I arrived in the chamber, it really felt like a tomb for royalty. There were bronze and gold fixtures everywhere, and there were 26 caskets, 23 of which held the remains of former rulers of Spain (although the only queens who were there were those whose sons became kings). It was strange to be in the presence of the remains of people who swayed nations and influenced the lives of millions of people. It didn't quite strike me at the time; it just seemed like hollow grandeur to me.

Next were the burial chambers of the royal family members. There were a lot of filled tombs - but then there were a lot that were empty. The most interesting to me was the mausoleum where they kept the remains of the children who died before they were eight and could have their first Communion. They were kept in a structure that Rick Steves adequately describes as a wedding cake:

The basilica was next on the list, which was thoroughly impressive the way all large Catholic cathedrals are. I love feeling dwarfed by buildings and spaces like that, and I was certainly dwarfed. Notably in the cathedral was the altarpiece. In the very center is San Lorenzo, for whom the area is named and the patron saint, who was martyred by the Romans via being grilled to death. He is reported to have said, "I'm done on this side, you can turn me over now." I thought that was amusing.

I may have more to say about El Escorial later, maybe not. But this post has gone on long enough.

Note: I was not allowed to take pictures in El Escorial, but I did buy postcards! (All the pictures which I am not in are actually postcard pictures; that's why they're so good.)

Old People: They Make Me Pensive

I've been thinking about old people. Magi's grandmother is visiting, and she had to go to the hospital. I don't know why, but I started looking at pictures of old people. I think they're beautiful.

I want to be old one day - after plenty of years of living. Then again, that begs the question of what I am really doing right here. Am I living? I've been in Spain almost three months. My 85-odd days of being here are almost up. What have I done? Have I even been to Casa del Campo? No. The Thyussen-Bornemisza Museum? No. How many times have I been to the Prado or the Reina Sofia? Both just once. Then again, how many times have I been to Sol? I don't know, quite a few. How many times have I been walking around my apartment area, off to the park to the south? Once or twice. How many times have I been to Pio XII Alcampo, Lidl, the LDS Church? A lot.

What have I been doing with my time here? I know the answers - working, and unfortunately, blogging. Trying to get to know my Spanish-speaking ward, even though every time I go I'm almost glued to Magi's side because I hate being alone and not understanding what's going on around me. I haven't even learned how to speak Spanish, shame on me.

This was not meant to be a depressing post; none of my posts are. In fact, last night I went out with two of my co-workers for pizza at a real Italian restaurant just near Sol (and talked with the American-Peruvian-Caribbean waiter and the Italian owner), and then afterwards saw La Latina's street fair. The Spanish certainly know how to throw street festivals...

And now for pictures of old people. Yes, I did take them from Flicker without asking permission.

"Hamal" - Vedats

"Navsari" - CrassCadence

"Untitled" - Anatcefne

"Waiting for the Bus" - Rosquillo

It's interesting how photographs can make any life seem almost Romantic. Or enviable, anyway. Enviable for these people's simplicity, their wisdom, their compassion distilled through suffering. Yes, compassion distilled through suffering, not wisdom.

Madrid Metro Failure

The very fabric of time and faith has crumbled around me. Nothing has meaning anymore. The Madrid Metro, the last redeeming factor of the public transportation system, has failed me.

Line 2 (red) is closed for the rest of August due to maintenance. I use Line 2 to get to Sol, the left chamber of Madrid's heart. It, like the colour assigned to it, is the lifeblood of my transportation needs, it is the way I get to the Centre. Now no more this shall be.

To look on the bright side, my commutes will now be full of many colours. In order to get to the Centre now, I'll have to take Line 9 (purple) to Line 6 (grey) and then to Line 1 (light blue). I really dislike Line 6 because it always takes a good 6 minutes for my train to come, and in general it is a hassle to change trains.

Perhaps I have misled myself for the past two and a half months and the Circania trains are really the last bastion of hope for Madrid public transportation. However, I don't have a use for the trains because I don't live in an out-of-the-way place like Getafe.

What the map looks like. Red is no longer an option.

I Want to be a Flamenco Dancer in My Next Life

Tonight I went to see a flamenco ballet performance of Carmen at Madrid's Teatro de Nuevo Apolo with my Italian coworker, her (American?!) friend, my German former coworker and her boyfriend.

It was fantastic. Carmen has never been one of the plays which really grabbed me, but this performance was different. The traditional score is nice, but it sort of thrusts itself upon you. This time was no different, although they mixed in traditional, Spanish flamenco music and dance. (The music was live! Real players sat behind a translucent screen towards the back of the stage.) Although I liked the scenes where there were men and women dressed in traditional flamenco dresses, my favorite scene was when the rival for Carmen's love was thrown into prison, and he danced out his passion and frustration by stepping as fast as humanly possible in a small circle.

En fin du compte, the live music and dancing were excellent. The story, though, was pretty weak, and the transitions from one scene to another incomprehensible.

Beethoven in Plaza Mayor

On Thursday I went to a Beethoven concert in Plaza Mayor sponsored by Madrid's "Veranos en la Villa." The concert started at 10 p.m., and due to transportation issues I arrived at Sol right about the time the concert was supposed to start. The now-familiar street, Calle Mayor, was not as crowded as I expected, and there was not as much light as I remembered from earlier nocturnal excursions. I was alone, which made me glance around a little more warily than I would have had I been walking and chatting with a friend of mine.

The sounds of a symphony greeted me as I turned down the alley that leads to the Plaza, and there was a huge crowd of people standing around barriers, beyond which an even larger crowd was sitting. The symphony itself was in a gigantic box, and from my vantage point near one of the barriers, I could only see two of the violinists' right arms. No matter. The music was beautiful.

They played selections from Beethoven's sixth and seventh symphonies (I believe), and as the music played I saw story-scapes from Fantasia flit through my head: a young pegasus testing out its wings, centaurs celebrating summer, Zeus hurling thunderbolts. Then all of a sudden I was taken aback once again by the tones of his seventh symphony. Whenever I hear it, I inevitably think of The Fall, which is one of my favorite movies, and the images that correspond with that movie.

I was a bit disappointed because I saw the same images from the movie in my head, felt the same things I had felt before (admittedly they are pretty fantastic). But they weren't my own. I would rather I had exercised my creativity and supplied my own - which takes a bit more effort. I can make the paltry excuses that I was tired and didn't have the energy, that I had to keep minimal concentration not to fall over.

Truthfully, I kept getting distracted. In the Plaza's buildings, there were some people who were there that evening and opened their French doors to listen to the music: silhouettes leaned against the balconies or sat in chairs while light lit up the room behind them. I thought of how at that very moment, I was in one of the centres of Europe, that word us Americans say in hushed voices as land of sophistication, of history, of our imagined origins. Were I younger than I am now, all the cells in my body would have thrilled to even think of Beethoven, Plaza Mayor, night, lights, Madrid, all together. Nevertheless the music and the evening was very beautiful, but behind it all was the sordidness that comes with knowing how dirty the city can be, with knowing how the magic can fade if you stay in one place too long.

I have lived long enough that I can't imagine new things when I listen to music I've heard before - or I'm so out of practice with my imagination that I must put forth effort to use it.

Plaza Mayor

Gypsies and Porching

Every day when I come home from work, there is a group of people who gather on the grass near my apartment block. They sit there every day in giant circles of lawn chairs, one for the men, one for the women, and then a smaller circle for children on a nearby stone wall. People come and go, and I hear voices from seven in the evening until midnight sometimes. They’re dressed in black, and Magi told me they are gypsies who come together because someone died, and they’re there to remember that person.

Gathering every evening to chat, sitting in the heat and watching the day slide away, being a member first and foremost of a community. Whenever I see them, I try to scuttle past without arousing too much attention. What a different life that must be, to gather and chat. Mine is faster and driven by the need to be at work for eight hours a day, to come home and eat, to go out and see the rest of Madrid. My life is solitary, encapsulated in a little bubble of things I think I need to do and English.

I wonder when they will stop congregating like this. Is there an official date that people stop meeting? How will the individuals feel when it ends? Relieved that their mourning period is over? Empty because they no longer meet together every evening, and it is no longer a major part of their lives?

Their lifestyle seems so much simpler, more village-like, more community-oriented. I think that as an American, and as a shy American, I have missed out on that sense of community. It reminds me of something Lala told me about: porching. When the day is done, dinner has been had and dishes cleaned, people sit on their front porches and watch the evening pass by. They chat with neighbors passing by, watch as their children play in the street, take life slowly. 

Other Americans can do it - can't I?

The Barcelona 100 - Take 2

Teddy and I were headed to the beach. Note that we did not bring any towels with us for this trip. I usually take my showers at night, and my plan was to stand in the shower until most of the water dripped off me and then let the rest evaporate as I was falling asleep. This worked fairly well taking a shower the first night. However, going to the beach is an entirely different matter, as sand gets everywhere and you want a towel to sit on. Additionally, the temperature always seems cooler at the beach than a kilometre away from the beach, and a toasty 30 ᴼ C suddenly becomes a pleasant 28 ᴼ C. [I just made those numbers up.]

Beach!

We got to the beach, nestled down on a bit of sand, and watched the waves roll in, the people walk by, and the sky change colors. The beaches in Barcelona are not very clean, and I only stood in the water up to my knees – Mediterranean water, mind you. Teddy and I took our turns in the water because we didn’t want our stuff to get stolen, and then for the rest of the time we laid with our heads resting on our shirts (resting on our purses resting on our flip flops resting on the sand). We stared up at the pinky-blue sky and watched as the clouds changed shape.

It sounds so wonderful, sitting on a beach in Barcelona and watching as the clouds scud by, naming shapes and letting the imagination take hold of the sky. There is something Romantic in it all, a feeling that I had while sitting there and three days later when I’m writing this post.

The National Art Museum and its fountains.

Afterwards, we caught bus to Playa Espanya. (Catalan is different than Castellano, and as a person who is learning Spanish, I found it really confusing. Who calls an exit a “sortida”? What happened to the familiarity of “salida” which you find in the Madrid metro?) We got off at the huge roundabout there, and my eyes went wide at the two towers which marked a wide street up towards the National Art Museum. The street was lined with light water fountains, and at the end of the street on top of a hill was a gigantic fountain. A crowd had gathered around it, and after a few minutes of waiting, music started playing and the lights changed color in a water show. It was like misty magic playing right in front of our eyes.

The magical fountain, which kind of looks like a jell-o pudding.

Afterwards, we went back to Las Ramblas and grabbed a bite to eat at an all-you-can-eat tapas bar.

And now on to Monday. The evening at Hostel New York was much quieter, although it was much hotter than the night at Auberg Palau. We checked out, took a quick jaunt to the train station to leave our bags in a locker, and then we went out adventuring again. This time, we went to the Casa Mila, did some shopping, and then I took a quick tour of the Casa Batllo because I really wanted to see it. Both of these buildings were again done by Antoni Gaudi, and they were pretty amazing. I only spent about 25 minutes at the Casa Batllo because Teddy and I had to catch a train back to Madrid in less than two and a half hours after I purchased my ticket.

Casa Mila

Casa Battlo

Casa Mila again

However, actually being there, my expectations overran the experience. I didn’t enjoy it as much as I thought I would. If you read my last post, you should know that I had dreamed of seeing these places for five years. That’s quite some expectation. However, now as I look back on my pictures, the buildings are indeed very beautiful. Perhaps the downfall of Guadi’s architecture is so detailed that it needs to be focused, cut, cropped, and bounded within a photograph.

After the casas, we caught the train back to Madrid, and our Barcelona adventure faded back into quotidian Madrid life. This has been only a quick sketch of my few days in Barcelona, and obviously a lot of thoughts and details are missing. I have to keep some things for myself, don’t I?

The Barcelona 100

Today marks a momentous occasion. This is my hundredth post, and what better way to celebrate than posting about my adventures in Barcelona, Spain‽ Thank the stars for the concordance of trips and posts into such an opportune time. It was a wonderful time, and I fulfilled one of my life dreams by going to Barcelona. However, before I talk too much about Barcelona, I'll tell you more about Teddy's visit. We spent the first day of her visit here in Madrid, exploring Puerta del Sol, the Prado, the cathedral behind the Prado, and Plaza Mayor.

The Prado is that-a-way, man.

As we were outside of the Prado, we were approached by an older man who started to talk to us and ask us about Madrid. We were obviously tourists, pouring over our maps, and I wasn’t necessarily happy to be approached by a well-meaning but overly-helpful Madrileño. He asked us how much Spanish we knew, and said that we should practice Spanish everyday for eight hours for several weeks if we really wanted to get good at it. Who has the patience and the free time to study Spanish for that long?

There was a cathedral behind the Prado, and I wanted to see inside it. The man, very kindly, asked if he could come with us, and we couldn’t exactly say no. We walked up the steps (on a red carpet, mind you) to the entrance, and we walked in on the middle of a wedding. The cathedral was full of people, and the bride, groom, and priest looked small as they stood at the end of the nave. We made our visit brief, and were out in front of the cathedral in no time. The older man did not overstay his welcome by much, as Teddy wanted to listen to a guitar player in the shadow of the Prado, and the older man wanted to go to the Botanical Gardens nearby.

The following day, we got on a Renfe train, and three hours and a lot of Spanish countryside later, we arrived in Barcelona. Barcelona, say it slowly and let it roll off your tongue. Barcelona, city of dreams and magic and wistful futures, of voyages and crossroads. We had arrived.

Leaving the apartment early in the morning

You bet your bottom that's a Renfe train.

What the Spanish countryside can look like.

We got our tourist Metro tickets, and then we were off on the Metro to our hostel in the Gothic Quarter. Our first night was to be at the hostel Alberg Palau, and we wandered the narrow, winding streets of the Gothic Quarter before finding the correct, cozy little side street where our lodgings were located. I had never stayed at a hostel before, so this was going to be quite an experience.

I was really surprised when we arrived at the hostel and it was so clean and neat. It took up an entire floor of a building from the nineteenth-century, and all of the rooms circled around a central skylight. The windows were always open, and you could see across the courtyard into every part of the hostel (well, every part of the hostel which wasn’t a room). Every room got light, especially the breakfast nook.

Look at the happy frog! How can you not trust that frog?

I did not remember to take a picture of the common areas of the hostel, but I did manage to find the drawing I had made in order to get from the train station to our hostels.

Teddy and I were put into a room with five other chicas, one from Seville and the other four from France. We had French doors which opened onto a balcony overlooking the street below. There was no air conditioning, but a nice breeze came through the door. We settled our stuff down, made an itinerary, and were off to wander around Barcelona.

We saw a bit of Las Ramblas, although we didn’t spend too much time there, and we got lost and distracted looking at clothes - especially kurta pants, which are all the rage in Spain. We wandered over to La Cathedrale de la Santa Maria del Mar (who knows if that is correct). Interestingly enough, we caught the tag-end of a wedding at the Maria del Mar. Two cathedrals and two weddings in two days. Go figure.

We walked along the Carrer de Colom (they say “carrer” instead of “calle” for street in Barcelona, I think) and towards the marina just as the sun was setting. The air was moist and cool, and the sky was pink and cold. In the middle of the sky, there was a little glowing white wedge. Any pictures I have taken don’t do justice to the atmosphere and the immensity of the marina, the street, the sky, the moment.

Sunday morning, were off to see the Sagrada Familia. A few stops on the Metro and we found ourselves blinking in the sudden sunlight at the mass of towers that is the Temple of the Sacred Family. I was incredibly excited, because I had wanted to go to Barcelona and see buildings by the famous architect Antoni Gaudi for nearly five years. (That is a quarter of my life span, by the way. If I have any older readers, like Mom and Dad, that isn’t much to someone like you who is much wiser and has experienced more, but my perspective changes when I put the years into percentages. I hope yours does, too.)

We bought our tickets and the use of an audio guide, and we were on our way into the cathedrale amidst the milling crowds.

I am happy.

Despite being in the process of achieving my dreams, I was a little dissatisfied as we entered the cathedral. There were a lot of people and it was rather warm out, making me sticky and sweaty, which took up a lot of my patience, but then I had problems with my camera. First of all, my camera wasn’t taking crystal-clear pictures every time like I expected it to. Secondly, everyone I asked to take a picture of me didn’t know what they were doing. It gets boring if you take a picture of someone and they’re standing in the middle of the frame in every single photo, full-body shot. There is a reason why the viewfinder and the digital camera preview were invented: you can see your picture before you take it, which means that you can crop the picture and make it artistic, or at least interesting!

Note: As you can tell, I did not take this picture, which is why I don't particularly care for it.

Anyway, this was a momentous occasion in my life, and I wanted to document it well – not have a collection of poor, blurry pictures as remnants of my memories. I didn’t want to spend all of my time taking and retaking pictures until they came out, either. (Yes, Mom, this is a blatant plea for a new camera for my birthday.)

I was also disappointed by how incomplete the cathedral was. I knew it was still under construction, but I hadn’t realized how much it needed. Much of the area where the altar will go is unfinished, and there was nary a hint of a pew. The audio tour expected it to be done by 2030. That’s a whole lot of work which needs to be done on the cathedral in twenty years by about 200 or so people. I take solace in the fact that the exorbitant fees charged by the Sagrada Familia are the only way that construction continues on the cathedral. Now Teddy and I have contributed a little piece of the Sagrada Familia, along with millions of other people.

Nevertheless, it is still a beautiful, beautiful building. My immediate impressions were that it was a gigantic sandcastle.

Sandcastle!

The colors were really, really beautiful, like a watercolor rainbow.

After the Sagrada Familia, we checked into Sunday night’s accommodations, Hostel New York. We had our own room this time, although it was on the fourth floor, had one tiny little window, and no air circulation. The hostel was kind enough to give us a fan which we kept running constantly. Hostel New York was nowhere near as quaint or personable as Alberg Palau, but not all things can be equal. After a quick change of costume in our room, Teddy and I were ready to hit the beach.

The view from the Alberg Palau, where we stayed the first night.

Thus ends the first installment of the Barcelona adventure. This post has already gone on way too long, and I have lost so many details and thoughts just getting the bare bones of what we did down.

Vacation Response

A friend of mine, Teddy, has flown down from England to visit me for a few days. I took two days' worth of vacation for her visit, and today we explored a bit of Madrid. Tomorrow we're going off on an adventure and we'll have a grand old time. I won't have access to a computer for the next few days (read: I will be too busy having fun to write posts), but you can expect something schnazzy by the time I come back. I sure expect something schnazzy.

Oof

Today one of my fellow interns quit. Her decision was unexpected, and it caused the rest of the interns to have to scramble to learn how to do her tasks and get them done today. Needless to say, it threw a wrench in my project planning, as well as everyone else's projects, but such is life.

I understand her reasons for leaving the company, but she will be missed, especially by me. She sat at the desk directly across from mine, and I had to go through the day without having anyone to look at, tell me about the crazy things she had to moderate, or ask me about an obscure English word I may or may not be able to explain. I have inherited her office plant, and it will be looked after.

With this new development, I certainly won't be bored at work anytime soon.

My co-worker and I are taking a Spanish language course together, and we had class this evening. So I got to see her, and afterwards we stopped at a little cafe alongside the Parque de El Retiro. It was good getting to chat with her and to see her in a setting outside of class and work. We chatted about work and experiences as the sun faded over the Spanish sky.

It was very nice.

This Week's Bane of My Existence

Stamps. I have been on the lookout for them ever since my second week in Spain, thinking that I will go and purchase them if I happen to pass by an estanco, or tabaqueria, which sells them. (I realized too late that I could purchase stamps at the place I registered for my Metro pass. I was right there, in the same shop.) 

Anyway, I have some long-overdue postcards to send, and my project on Tuesday was to find a place where I could buy stamps. That day was also my find-a-book-in-English day, so I was pretty busy. After going to the bookstore, I stopped off at Sol to get some more postcards and look for an estanco, but it was getting late, I was tired, and I let myself off the hook because I felt so accomplished for having bought not one but two books in English earlier that day.

Wednesday was the match, and so I gave myself off that day, too.

Thursday we had a barbecue after work, so I went to that instead.

Friday I found an estanco on GoogleMaps, and I thought I had the right bus station. At about 8:45 p.m., I hopped on a bus, but it was the wrong bus because it didn’t take me where I wanted to go. I got off, looked around for an estanco, didn’t find one, and then spent twenty minutes waiting for the right bus to come and pick me up. (Public transportation failure – four other buses came before mine did.) At this point, it was almost 9:30 p.m., and I still had to buy food from the local grocery store (Lidl), which closes at 10 p.m.

My stamps would have to wait for another day.

And that day was today. I have been to the Estrella supermercado a few times, and across the street is a tabaqueria. To make sure that there really was a tabaqueria there, I looked at the street view on GoogleMaps. (Despite my best efforts, I can’t figure out how to take a screen shot on my computer or find a picture on the internet, but I'm trying to show you what it looks like. To compensate for my lack of computer skillz, just imagine a maroon-and-yellow T hanging above a shop door.) I found the tabaqueria and was on my way. I got lost a little bit, because I pick a direction before thinking about the best way to get somewhere – I want to look like I know where I am going, but such a desire causes me more trouble than it’s worth. However, that is neither here nor there, and I arrived at the tabaqueria with little incident.

I joined the line, which was about four people deep. As other people bought their cigarettes, and I kept thinking that this is place couldn’t possibly have stamps to send my postcards to the U.S. By the time it came to me, I asked the sentence I had prepared in my head: “¿Vendes los sellos para los Estados Unidos?”

To my surprise, and gratification, she said “Si.”

She took her time finding them, and she asked me if I wanted one. Ha ha. No, I wanted eighteen. Granted, I don’t have eighteen postcards to send – right now – but it took me this long to figure out how to get stamps, and I wanted to make sure that I had enough for the next round. She got my eighteen stamps, I paid for them, and then I went on my merry way.

I now have eleven postcards, written, addressed, and stamped. I forgot to put them in the mailbox today. I won’t forget to put them in the mailbox, though, because unlike post offices (which don’t sell stamps anyway, or so I’ve heard) and tabaquerias, post boxes really are everywhere. To prove this, there is one just outside my apartment building. It looks like this:

This isn't my "correo" box. Mine has graffiti on it. It gives it extra personality, I think.

Postcards from Far Away

Apart from being the title of a lovely song by Coldplay, some of you should expect to get postcards in the mail! I finally purchased stamps a few days ago and put them in the “correo” last Friday. I hope that I purchased enough postage to get them to the United States from Spain… 

For others of the rest of you, postcards should be on their way soon. I finished another batch on Sunday, and now I have yet to find more stamps for them.

For all the rest, if you want a postcard, send me your addresses! Writing letters is one of my favorite things. Let me write to you! I'll do it, too. It might not be in the most timely of manners, but I will write.

This One Has Pictures Which Are Not on Facebook

This morning I needlessly took the bus again to Retiro because Magi thought the Metro was still down. We stayed up last night trying to figure out a quicker way to get to my work via train and bus – however, I don’t think there is a quick way. And once I was sure that the Metro was running this morning, I got off the stop and walked to Principe de Vergara. Ohh, Principe de Vergara is such a beautiful name. It’s not a very beautiful street, but it means so many things – you’re in the Centre, you have access to a lot of lines. (It's the same with Avenida de América.)

Today at work was different – instead of writing and editing, I finally got to publish some things on the internets! Yay! You cannot see them yet because they’re invisible when I’m not working on them (which is anywhere between midnight and midday for those of you stateside, depending on where you are in the States). They probably won’t be up for another month because of PR, but rest assured that my day at work was good.

I’m making plans to visit this place so that I can get myself a book in English. I finished the only English novel I brought from home a few weeks ago, and it's time to purchase some more Metro-reading material, especially since the Metro seems to be back online. The English bookstore is in the opposite direction of where I live, so it will be an adventure.

And I need to go on another adventure to find stamps. I need an estanco, but they’re never around when you need them.

Now it is picture time – which aren’t on Facebook, so readers will have some incentive to read this blog.

This is proof that I stood in front of the Museum Reina Sofia. I went inside it, too, but no pictures were allowed.

Inside the Catedrale de la Almuneda

Modern stained-glass window. Very pretty.

La, la, lala la la-la. This is from the day trip to Toledo. I think the Alcazar is the large squarish building behind me.

La Catedrale de la Almuneda, right in front of the Palacio Real.

Got my sights and pull trigger... That is actually really terrible.

This is a whole mis-mash of different days. There is no rhyme to these photos (except for the common factor of being taken in Madrid), nor reason to how they were ordered.

I'd like to do a trip to Segovia soon. I would really, really like to go to Barcelona at some point, or visit some acquaintances down in Sevilla. However, I have made no plans on that front yet.

Blogging compatriots, make me accountable to you if I do not go to Barcelona.

In front of the Palacio Real.

The Catholic version of Heaven... an endless eternity of waiting rooms, going on and on...

This is also from the weekend in Toledo. I'm sorry Shakespeare, but I had a weekend fling with Cervantes.

Hey, this is also from Toledo. Alfonso VI, anyone?

I'm trying to mess with your perception, but I think it's going to end up in a very bad, poorly-laid-out post.

And the Madrid Metro Strike Continues

In which I cultivate a different voice from what I normally post.

So tomorrow, the Metro strike is supposed to continue. Up until last week, the Madrid Metro system was the way to get around town. Not so anymore.

Magi heard that no trains are supposed to run, which makes me very angry indeed. The public transportation system is supposed to run at least 50% of their trains during a strike - minimal service for the 2 million or so people who use the Metro to get to work every day. Last Tuesday and Wednesday, they did not run any trains at all, which caused a huge tax on the bus system.

I have been personally inconvenienced by this, but the Metro strike - any public transportation strike - affects the productivity of all sectors where workers commute. All because Metro workers didn't want to take a 5% pay cut (yes, if you're on subsistence wages, that is a lot), every sector where workers commute is losing money. Their selfishness is causing other people to have to wait for buses, not work, and not get paid. For salaried workers who use the metro, their work is not being done.

With the Metro down, the buses have to take additional people, make additional stops, and use additional fuel. (I don't know how much energy it takes to run a Metro train, and I don't know if there are more buses being used to compensate for the lack of trains, but it seems like the air quality here is worse than in the past.) I feel that the metro workers are sloughing off their work onto the bus workers. The bus workers won't get additional payments for having to deal with extra people. However, it's not like taking more people is a major inconvenience; the routes run regardless of how many people there are.

It is grossly unfair of the workers to protest the wage cuts while taking away their regular commuters' working time. The economy is pretty bad, but it's bad for everyone. The Madrid metro workers should stop rocking the boat and let everyone get back to life using their otherwise phenomenal service and promptly-timed schedules.

Displeased.

The Metro Train Law of Lizzle

I have discovered a new law today: the Law of Lizzle. Whenever I take the metro, it is a law irrevocably decreed that I just miss the latest train. Had I been a few seconds earlier, I would’ve caught it. As such, I have to wait for at least another seven minutes until the next train comes. If it’s after 7 pm, I have to wait eleven minutes.

Regardless of the hour, the train will always be busier going in my direction. However, I am allowed a seat  once every three journeys.

No matter the circumstances, a train going in the other direction must always come before my train comes, and it must be less full than my train. I can be standing in my train, but the other train must come before the doors of mine come. Whenever possible, the universe will make it so that two trains arrive going the other direction before my train comes.

The result, every single time: exasperation and a very long commute.

Mmm, delicious.

The Spanish Expedition: In Which Lizzle Has Housing Arrangements

I have a place to live this summer! I will be living with a mother and a daughter in their apartment in Madrid, Spain. They are LDS, and they typically rent to Church members who are in Madrid to go to the temple there. However, they will get a tenant for three months! The girl is a few years younger than I am and has studied English. “Has studied” does not necessarily bode well for “being fluent and able to converse with me,” but I’ll just have to make do, learn Spanish, and probably get out of my little Lizzle-shell. I am hopeful I will be able to pick up some Spanish from her while helping her out with English. She seems super-nice! I have plans for this summer in Madrid – I want to learn how to cook Spanish food, how to get along with Spanish youth, how to figure out how to live like a Spaniard lives. I know those things are very broad, but I have more pressing things on my plate.

Right now, I have a short list of things I really want to do while in Madrid. I want to watch some of the World Cup in a Spanish pub. I want to go to Barcelona and see the Sagrada Familia and other buildings designed by Antoni Gaudi and museums on Picasso. I've been told I will become a connoisseur of gazpacho and tapas. I’m wondering if I should want to go see a bullfight. I don't wanna see a bull killed! It looks like I’ll be in Spain during the festival of San Isidro, which is known for its bullfights, as well as its music and street festivals. If I do end up going, it will end up right on this blog.

The Spanish Expedition: Beginnings Still

It's really happening.

Yesterday my mother e-mailed me my plane ticket reservations for Spain. While she was at it, she also booked my flight home from my semester abroad in Scotland. Barring cataclysmic disasters and invasions of spoony bards, from May 29th until December 19th I won't be in the States.

Yesterday morning, I also woke up to find that someone (Lala, that was totally you) had pinned two magazine pages on the corkboard outside my door. They were ads for Madrid's tourism campaign, "Smile! You're in Madrid." It looks absolutely wonderful. Now all I have to do between then and now is finish my schoolwork - and every night I'll dream of being in Spain.

Also, in other news, The Doctor started a blog! I suppose I should call her "TropeGirl," but I like "The Doctor" better.