In Which Buses May Explode

Oh my goodness, two posts in two days! Something must be wrong in the world.

Actually, there is something wrong in the world today (my world, anyway [ooh, that sounded really bratty]). I have something to write about other than, "I sat at a desk for eight hours today wracking my brain for things to say about Israel." Today, the Madrid public transportation system was a massive failure.

Every day, I take the metro to go to work. I walk ten minutes to the nearest train station, take a twenty-minute metro ride, and then walk another five minutes to get to my work. It's like opening an umbrella or blinking: simple, right? Everything is fine and dandy until the metro workers decide to strike, and not even offer basic metro services - at least while I'm awake. I admit that I inadvertently slept in this morning, but I thought the metro would be running at 9 am.

Not so.

Instead, I had to figure out how to use the bus system under the pressure of getting to work within a reasonable amount of time. Let me just say that I don't like buses. You can use the metro to get just about anywhere in Madrid. It might take you two line changes, but it's alright. You know exactly where you're going on the metro lines. There are maps everywhere. They stop at designated, well-advertised stations. It might not be very scenic, but at least you're not stuck in traffic all the time. It's difficult to find bus stations, and then know when to get off, and before you do anything you have to worry about the direction you're going, and you don't have little signs leaping out at you saying, "Look at me! I'll show you the right way! No worries! Follow me!"

At about 9:15, I called my house-mate Magi and woke her up. I was pretty frantic, asking how to get the bus to my work and how to pay for things and how to know which bus to take. She couldn't log onto the internet to check times and buses - perhaps because everyone else was logging on to check times and buses, or the computer people at the public transportation department were also on strike - but she couldn't really help me. I got on the bus that I had taken to go to Sol a few weekends ago, and then at the Parque del Retiro, I got off, wandered around for a while and asked a few people where the nearest bus 29 station was, and then eventually - finally - thankfully - made it to work. Two hours later than I normally arrive, but the important thing was that I arrived.

No thanks to the metro.

So many people were on the buses today. For as hot and crowded as the metro can be sometimes, it's even worse on a bus.

Coming home today, I saw one bus break down. I want to think it was because there were so many people on it. Water started spewing from the end of the bus (overheating much?). On a side-note, I thought the air and steam smelled faintly of waffles. Someone must have said that the bus was leaking, because all of a sudden there was a panic and some people left the bus. Watching people exit the bus was vaguely reminiscent of watching blood flow at a cellular level: you see all these little specks rushing by on certain paths, while bigger specks just sit there. The majority of people who left the bus in a panic were young teenage girls.

This is not what the bus looked like.

Well, at least I can say I learned how to use the bus system today.

Sorry for the poor quality of this post (lo siento!), but today was a rather long day, and I didn't feel like writing this up in a word document, maybe editing it, and then posting it here, which is what I usually do.

When in Spain...

Crazy. Random. Happenstance. Friday night, I went with my Spanish sister (that’s really what she has become) to our Church’s Family Night at the ward meetinghouse just around the block. The missionaries come to most every ward activity, and they were there on Friday. The missionaries had transfers last week, which is where missionaries are moved and shuffled around and often get new companions. We got a new guy, and I met him for the first time on Friday. He asked where I was from, and I said the US, and he asked what part. I said Utah, and he asked what part again. I told him the name of my suburb, and he asked what part again. I told him the name of my neighborhood, and he was obviously familiar with it, because he asked what street. When I told him my street name, it suddenly dawned on me who this missionary was. My family had purchased his house when we moved to Utah, and we are still living in that house today.

I don’t know about you, but I think that is a crazy random happenstance: meeting a person who used to live in your house while you are in Madrid, Spain. Ten thousand miles away from where you used to live.

Friday night I also had the chance to go out to a bar with some coworkers. They’re really nice and sweet, but they were going out at midnight to go to bars and clubs. Midnight. That’s an hour before my Spanish bedtime, and when you live far away from the center of town, it takes you 20 minutes on-way on the Metro to get to the better clubs and pubs in Madrid. Anyway, I didn’t end up going, and I think it was for the best.

Instead of going out, I was able to have a little bit more camaraderie with the family I’m living with, and I felt it was the right decision. I had already been to the Family Night held over at my Church (not the best idea to go to a bar after the uplifting thoughts and wholesome activities shared at family night). I had also walked around the town festival that my town is having for the next two weeks, where I had my first Spanish churro and porro. I’d had enough excitement for one evening, I thought.

Choosing not to go to the bar/club also meant I could go to sleep. Needless to say, the internet was an attractive distraction, and I didn’t go to bed for another hour.

The Spanish Expedition: Beginnings

In other news, I have heard back about one of my internships! To make a long story short, I got it! Over Spring Break, I freaked out and searched for internship opportunities. It was 11 pm on Wednesday night of Break, and I was tired because I had been searching for a few hours. I was sitting at the end of my kitchen table, and my Mom sat at the other end. I told her that I was going to apply to this internship in on a whim. My mother encouraged me to do it. “It can’t hurt to apply,” she said.

With that much foreshadowing, I sent in my cover letter and resume about a week later, on a Tuesday, and then by Thursday days, I had received an e-mail. They wanted to interview me! I had no idea what I was doing, so I scheduled the interview for the following day, Friday. In trying to stay on top of my schedule and all the other things I had going on at that time, I barely had enough time to ask my college’s Career Planning and Resources office how to respond. They gave me a few quick pointers, made sure that I had questions to ask the interviewer, too, and then sent me on my merry way.

Friday morning, I set up camp in my dorm’s study room, monopolizing the entire space. I nervously shuffled the index cards I had prepared and skimmed the previous night’s Facebook posts, waiting to receive the call. At 9:10 am my phone buzzed, and the conversation started. My legs were shaking too badly for me to stand, as I had been instructed, and I forget to smile over the phone so that my interviewer could know how enthused I was about the prospective opportunity to work with their company. Apparently I didn’t bungle the interview too badly, because at the end of the interview they offered me the job! I was reeling. My breath had been knocked from my chest: they wanted me. This internship is in Madrid, Spain.

It should be noted that I cannot speak Spanish. However, the company I will be working for is a small startup with international employees. They run a website that is basically a how-to guide to living in a given country; instead of a travel-guide to countries, I’ll be writing and editing living-guides to various countries.

I asked for a week to decide on the internship, and after talking with numerous family and friends, notably MomAndDad and Aunt E, I felt that accepting the internship would be the correct decision to make. I had my parents’ support in this endeavor, as well as my aunt’s advice to rely on. It is incredible how support can change someone’s attitude. I was not sure about going at first because Spain is far away, I don’t speak the language, I don’t know how to get around. But as Cousin Kimber said on Facebook, “This is the time in your life to do it. Even if it is horrible it will be an amazing experience you will remember for the rest of your life with increasing fondness.” I don’t quite know what I’m getting into living abroad, but the parameters of the internship align with the skills I would like to develop. I want to push myself and live in a foreign country, as well, and grow personally. Whatever fears I have about going abroad are nothing in comparison with the experiences I will have there. I almost let my fear get the better of me by entertaining the idea of refusing the offer, but even in accepting the internship I grew. I’m growing. It was wonderful.

Since then, I've figured out my visa situation and gone to the FLRC (Foreign Language Resource Center, pronounced "flurck") with Morwen to learn Spanish with their Rosetta Stone software. I can say, "Ella tiene una manzana roja," "Que' esta' haciendo ella?" and "Ella esta' comiendo una manzana." As you can see, I like apples.

I’m working on housing in Madrid now – I hope to be with either an LDS family or share an apartment with LDS roommates. It would be neat to have that experience; I did not want my entire undergraduate experience to be one at BYU where undoubtedly my roommates would have all been LDS. It would be nice to live for a summer with people who share my values, people with whom I don’t have to explain what I believe or what I do. They already know, they understand, and they do the same things I do.

Also, to all the companies that did not accept me as an intern, I must say that you’re losing a special intern. Especially you, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency.