Why the Bus System is Marginally Okay

Today I had so many thoughts running through my head. There has been a massive public transportation strike in Madrid over the past two days, and a good three hours of my day was eaten up taking buses from one stop to the next. Standing in a bus for three hours gives you a lot of time to think, and I thought about strange things as I was crowded in a moving vehicle, swaying back and forth. I was very close to a pole, and I almost felt like a pole dancer in the midst of a massive, transportation-al orgy. Sorry, I should censor that. My attempt to be funny didn’t really work out. I’ll be sticking to straighter stuff from here on out.

I thought about posting how much I dislike buses. Oh wait I already did that. I thought about posting some stories and observations I noted while riding the train. They will be coming shortly.

What made my day interesting was that I jumped on the first bus that came to my stop. This wasn’t the wrong bus, but it wasn’t the right bus, either. I needed to get to Sol, one of the big tourist hubs, and switch buses so I could go back to “mi casa,” and the bus that came was heading that way. I did not realize that Sol was the end of the line, and I was at the beginning of the line. I shrugged my shoulders and felt that it was okay to take this bus; I haven’t taken buses much before, so I don’t know the topside of Madrid very well. I took this chance to get to know it a little better.

I let myself get lost.

I knew I was getting lost, and I kind of knew where I was the entire time, but it was wonderful. Walking down the streets listening to my iPod as it played this song (yes, the video is cheesy), seeing the architecture and the people and the fountains. Back home, I used to go walking or driving if I wanted to be alone. I figured out how to be alone in Madrid: hop on a bus. Even though I am surrounded by people, it’s like moving in a sea of loneliness. Wow, I am tired and oh my goodness it’s late for me.

Anyway, I learned today that I still don’t know my way around very well in Madrid yet, even after being here a month. I’ve been able to navigate the bus system passably, but I can’t simply wander around. The wandering will get you farther and farther away from the right bus stop sometimes.

(Argh, I want to rewrite this post and make it pretty and beautiful and poetic, but that will have to wait for some other time. Today really did feel like a page from a story.)

((I also have the phrase, "stranger in a strange land" reverberating in my head. "No more a stranger, nor a guest, but like a child at home"?))

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.

Whoo!

I’ve realized that updating my blog has become a weekly ritual. This will be no more, because I will post more frequently about my goings-on and happenings. Like this weekend. On Friday night, I went to a dance sponsored by the Young Single Adult group (adultos solteros) in my ward with my host-sister. I will call her Magdalena from here on out, although if you’ve been paying attention, you should already know her name. There were some really nice people, mostly Latin American guys, who were paying attention to me. I’ve never had attention like that – if you want a boyfriend, go abroad and go to an LDS ward. They’ll be nice to you. They might be a little weird, but they’ll be nice. Then you can come back home and the world will have subsided back into the regular American way you’re used to.

Saturday I went to Toledo! Whoo!

The end.

536

This is a slapdash edit of one of the great English poems of the 18th century. I like William Wordsworth a lot, but now I'm beginning to think he can be a bit verbose for what he wants to say. Nevertheless, this poem has elements of what I want to say, so I'm quickly cutting and pasting it here. There are so many beautiful parts to this poem, and less beautiful parts to it. Ah, I've had to take away the formatting, and a little piece of my soul just died. To bring back that part of my soul, read the whole thing here.


"Intimations of Immortality"

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more...
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth...
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? ...
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home…
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

A Sunday Post

As I was sitting in Church this afternoon, the realization that I was homesick washed over me like a wave on the sand. It was gentle and subtle, but nevertheless it had force. I'm not terribly sad or anything, just a little bereft of my homeland.

I’ve been enjoying being in Madrid and learning Spanish. It’s so much fun to master a word or a construction, and I enjoy pantomiming words and actions so that I can understand and be understood. But it’s wearying. I miss understanding people clearly, not having to correct other people’s bad grammar. More than that, I miss the familiarity of the United States and life there. I miss having the confidence to ask where the hand soap is (because I can say “hand soap” in English; I forgot it was “jabon” in Spanish), and knowing that I will be awkward at social gatherings because I'm awkward in general, not because I'm awkward and I can't speak the language.

I miss things like hugging my college friends every night before I go to bed. I really miss Reesie because I haven’t seen her in-person since Christmas. I even missed high school earlier today. I remembered getting ice cream one snowy day in January, and the feeling of wearing my school sweater and skirt. I miss the simplicity and security of that time.

I haven’t missed my family too much. I do miss being able to talk with them whenever I like, and I hate not getting to talk with my sister frequently. Otherwise, I’ll see them again. It’s inevitable. Sure, there will be Christmas, and vacations, and summers, and social gatherings. But there's more to it than that. As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ, I believe I’m stuck with them for time and all eternity. The time that I’m spending here in Spain, and then afterwards in Scotland, is transient. Coming home for Christmas is the same thing, too: a wonderful, necessary ritual that only lasts for a little while before it’s gone. It’s the pattern of this life: it is short and transient. The cyclical nature of life is why I don’t feel quite so far away from my home and family. However, I do feel that I’m missing something, and whether I am in Madrid, Spain, or at Home with my family and friends I love, I am not wholly home. A quote that my cousin posted on his blog a little while back reflects that feeling:

“There is within each of us a giant struggling with celestial homesickness” – Howard W. Hunter

I believe that that is so true. As a child smaller than I am now, I used to pretend that there were other worlds out there that we could not get to with our limited brains and technology and knowledge. I was from another world, another dimension, one which was really my home. That world was special, and I was special in that world. I know that I am not alone in thinking about this – just look at the plot structure for 70% of adult fiction books today. (It used to be 90% until Twilight hit the market. Now books about vampires have 20% of the market.) I am aware that young adult literature is a negotiation of the transition between childhood and adulthood, but I think there might be more to it. In childhood, we still think about an other place where we really feel we belong. Then those thoughts dissolve after time and we forget about those other worlds and possibilities and settle for life in this world. This world is good, but there are no fabulous crested dragons or warrior princesses or keys to unimaginable power just by unlocking chakras in your brain.

In my personal experience, my vivid imagination has faded to shades of sepia and marmalade, but the feeling still remains that I’m only passing through here. After this world, there’s one where I am special, where I do belong, where I can have dragons pull my chariot as I fly through the sky. Okay, the dragons aren’t really important, but I like thinking about them all the same.

The point of this post is for me to talk about missing familiar people and places, and reassuring the rest of you (Coyote) that I am having a good time here and learning new things.

Photo credit: James Vernacotola

Olive Oil Makes Everything Better

Dear Audience,

I thought I would put this post in epistolary form. Some of you know my penchant for writing long and unintelligible letters. I have written several postcards, but I haven’t made the effort to figure out where the correo (post office) is, let alone bought sellos (stamps). To make up for that, I thought I'd cover all my bases and write a communal letter.

I must be really bored, because this is the third post for today. I just finished cooking myself dinner (absurdly early by Spanish standards), and I am proud of myself. I was able to conquer the unknown realms of cooking a full meal in a European kitchen! Go me. That may not sound like a feat to you, but for me, it is. Thinking in Celsius, litres, and kilograms instead of the comfort of Fahrenheit, quarts, and pounds. I found a recipe online for rosemary baked chicken yesterday, and I picked up some chicken, potatoes and some spices. When you go to a foreign country, be sure to know the names of any spices you might need. I had no idea what the Spanish word for rosemary is, or if they even have rosemary in Spain. Instead, I improvised and bought some herbs de Provence. I had heard that herbs de Provence makes anything taste good. I’d see if that was true.

I mixed some olive oil, pepper, garlic powder, chili paprika, salt, and the herbs de Provence together. I soaked my potatoes in the mixture for a while then put them on a sheet to bake, then de-skinned my chicken thighs and did the same process. Like any good cook in the Mediterranean climate, I slathered everything with enough olive oil to grease a monkey in a steam pipe.

"Aceite de olivo"

Now, before I continue, I most forewarn you about the scary thing about cooking in Europe: the oven. I recognize this may not be a universal concern, but our oven freaks me out a little. I had tried baking some pre-made frozen food in it a few weeks ago: I followed the instructions on the package (as best I could – they’re in Spanish, Dutch, Italian, and Roumanian, but no common language I could read like English or French) and preheated the oven, and then when enough time had passed, I plopped my dinner onto the tray. My meal started sizzling immediately, which is what one should expect when a cold item touches a hot surface. I closed the oven door, but then a few minutes later, wisps of vapor or smoke started emanating every now and then from the oven. Needless to say, I was troubled. I turned the oven off and let my meal sit a few minutes longer. When it came out, amidst vapor and heat, part of it was burned and not very tasty.

A few days later I had tried baking the same meal, only instead of preheating the oven, I let my meal cook as the oven was warming up. This worked much, much better. No vapor, no parts of the meal burned to a crisp, only happiness.

This go around, I followed the internet instructions and preheated the oven. Ooh, that was a bad idea. I put my potatoes in the oven, and they were fine for about seven minutes. Then the wisps of smoke started coming. I peeked in on my beautiful potatoes, and they were still yellow and starchy – they still needed more time in the oven and I needed to cook my chicken. I turned down the heat, put more olive oil on the potatoes, and threw my chicken in. Then I waited. After about an hour of continuously checking the oven and adjusting the temperature and turning the oven off when the smoke came out too much, the chicken and potatoes were ready.

The potatoes were on the crispy side, and a lot of the chicken fat had burned away, but my meal was darn finger-lickin’ good, if I may say so myself. I could taste the olive oil seeping through the chicken with every bite. To complement my chicken and potatoes, I heated some peas and sliced some bread, and for dessert I finished the stracciatella ice cream I talked about two weeks ago.

What I learned today: olive oil makes everything better. Even if it makes food sizzle and is the original cause of the smoke and vapor, I don’t care.

Sincerely,

Lizzle

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.

This One Has Pictures

Picture time! I’m sorry I’ve been bad about posting them, but I’ve been working a lot. Instead of doing touristy things and gallivanting off somewhere every weekend, I’ve been staying put in Madrid and doing Madrileno things. I’m actually living in Madrid, and sometimes that means doing monotonous things like going to the grocery store and taking the Metro to the same stop every day, five days a week.

Last Monday, we went walking around the apartment because I hadn’t seen that part of town. I wanted exercise, too. Look below for some lövely pictures.

Las fuentes en frente del piso.

Belén being herself

What it looks like from a jogging path near the apartment.

On Tuesday, we went to the Temple of Debod. I thought it was a cheap knockoff of the Temple of Dendur in the Metropolitan in New York City. However, this is not the case. It’s a real temple given to Spain by Egypt during the 19th Century as a thank-you for helping them save some other temples. The Temple of Debod was outside in a beautiful little park. I am entitled to say that the Met keeps better care of their ancient Egyptian temple than Madrid does, and no one needs to point out that Madrid is in an arid clime which is more similar to Egypt than New York’s climate is.

Temple of Debod

Don Quixote y Sancho Panza

In the words of my brother, "Hewwo!"

After the Temple of Debod, we walked to the end of the park and saw this.

A blurry picture taken from the park near the Temple

A much better picture taken near the building

Palacio Real! I still haven’t been inside yet. That is a project for some other day.

On our little excursion to the Temple and the Palace, one thing really stood out to me: joggers. Joggers were everywhere! Mostly men who looked to be 35 or 40, but there were young women, old men, teenagers. In the space of one minute, I saw about six joggers. That's even more than the numbers of joggers and cyclists on Wasatch Boulevard back Home in the morning.

Things I Could Be Doing

This post and accompanying picture is dedicated to TropeGirl, who likes to use M.S.Paint to illustrate stories on her blog. I was bored last Sunday during the siesta hours; I'm not given much of a siesta at work, and it's hard for me to take siestas on the weekends. Instead of sleeping, doing research for work, studying Spanish, o reading for pleasure, I drew this.



It's not that good, and I have few intentions of building my internet fame on the quality and humour (gif, British) my drawings, but it's really my way of letting TropeGirl know I care. Imitation is the best form of flattery, after all. It is unfortunate that that line won't get you out of a copyright lawsuit.

On this lovely Sunday afternoon, it's time for almuerza (lunch) and then maybe - just maybe - I can hop on the train and take a walk in El Retiro Park.

Would you care for a Cognac?

(Thursday’s rough draft that I didn't edit before posting)

The days just seem to fly away… slowly. It’s Thursday. Tomorrow is Friday. That means the weekend comes after that. This week has been a little rough, to say the least. I had the first review of my work, and it’s back to the drawing board for me. The criticism is harsh, which is good for two reasons: it toughens me up and makes me a better worker. However, criticism deflates your ego - especially in this case. It’s one thing to be told by professors if they don’t quite understand what you’re talking about. It's an academic setting, and although clarity of writing is key, the ideas we discuss can be complex.

It’s another thing to be told by someone who doesn’t speak English that your writing is hard to understand. And not just any foreign, non-native English-speaker, but a German.

I’ve been staring at computer screens too long today.

(Today’s real post)

The bosses left early today – and while the cats are away, the mice play. A half hour after they left, my co-workers brought out a few bottles of beer and passed them around to celebrate the weekend and a fellow intern's last day. I did not choose to partake, but continued working in the front room by myself. Most of my day is spent staring at a computer/wall (another intern works half days, but she's not much company). I thought of just popping over to say hello and be sociable, even though I didn't drink. Thank my lucky stars, because after everyone had finished the round of beer, one of the sales associates asked if I wanted to pop around the corner for (what sounded like) a cognac. I stared at him blankly for a moment, wondering if he had indeed said "cognac" or if it was some other Spanish word. I said I didn’t drink, but he said to come along anyway and order a Coke.

It. Was. Fun.

Our party consisted of a Belgian girl, an Italian girl, a French girl, an English guy, and… I’m not sure what the other guy was. Guatemalan? Venezuelan? I'll call him a Whatever for now. They all had their beers, and the English had his cigarettes, and I had my Coke. I was included in office culture! It was amusing to watch them drink and try, confusing to speak in three languages. The Italian kept trying to explain Italian tenses by comparing them to French and Spanish tenses; I understood the French, but was a little lost when she talked about the Spanish tenses.

I had my first taste of Russian salad (it might look sweet like cake, but it’s not. Think German potato salad drenched with carrots and mayonnaise), I passed on the peanuts, and I tasted some really good, dry cheese. The Brit said it goes well with beer - figuring how dry my mouth was after the cheese, I believe him.

I feel European! The South Africa-Mexico football match was on, and there were a group of old men sitting at the bar watching the game. I didn't pay too much attention to it. The game wasn't hard to ignore because there was no mass of crazed Spaniards, yelling and cheering for their home team, as I hope will happen later this summer.

After our escapades, we all tottered down to the Metro, where we said goodbye to our French and Italian girls who were going one way, while the Brit, Belgian, Whatever, and I were going the other way. Riding the Metro with company is absolutely wonderful.

In other news I left my pack at the office and had to break into the office to get it, setting off the alarm, but that’s a story that I don’t really want to tell. (I had a key and everything, it’s just that stupid alarm.) Yeah, I hope the police that turned down the street where the office was weren’t responding to that alarm…

Anyway, lesson learned: if someone invites you out with them for a “cognac,” take your pack with you.

So. I feel like I have friends. I really like the Italian and the French chicas. Hey, I really like the English and Whatever guys, as well. I’ve started off the weekend right – now all I have to do is not think about Monday and whatever trouble is awaiting me on the other side of this weekend.

The Struggle with the Stracciatella

Hey, today is a twofer. I forgot to post what I wrote yesterday, so another update today that is actually about today! Yay.

Today was yet another day at work after a lovely holiday. Yesterday evening, I got an e-mail from the boss with an assignment for the following. I actually had a task to do. I freaked out because I didn’t have the requisite software to do it on my computer at home, but when I got to work this morning I had one of the programmers fix me right up and everything was dandy.

(Uninteresting work stuff excised, including potential new friends, office gossip and fellow intern stories. Oh my gosh I just passed up an opportunity to use an Oxford comma I think I’m going to die)

Today I hung out with some Spanish people at the local church. It was a Family Night, and after a brief lesson, we played “El gato y el rato” and a game which I’m calling “Mi casa.” For the first game, we all sat in a circle. The evening’s game moderator brought out two scarves, one of which was the cat, the other the rat. Players would have to wrap the scarf around their neck and tie one knot if they were the cat, two knots if they were the rat. The scarves started next to each other, but the cat was in front. In order to “catch” the rat, the cat essentially had to lap it. Whoever was caught with both scarves had to do something funny in front of the group. We had a big group, and it was a little boring until one of the missionaries kept the rat so that the cat could catch up. The cat indeed caught up, but the rat managed to pass five or six person and it ended up catching the rat on me. However, one of the loud, little Spanish fathers had been accused of dishonest play, so he had to dance the samba instead of me.

The second game played by getting people in groups of three. Two people would stand near one another with a hand meeting above their hands. They would be the casa. Another person would stand between them, the “inquilino” or tenant. Whoever was monkey-in-the-middle would call out “derecha,” “inquiero,” “inquilino,” or “terra mundo,” and the person on the right, the left, middle, and everybody, respectively, would move. Needless to say, it was a recipe for minor mayhem. Collisions!

At the end of the evening, a friend of the Daughter (look - she's capitalized now! Must be her official name) came up to me and said "Yo creo tu no hablas espagnol." I understood that she didn't think I spoke Spanish! I said "no" to her question, and was amused that she waited until she was about to leave to make this comment. Heh - perhaps I can pass for a Spaniard? Probably not.

I had thought about including my struggle with the stracciatella ice cream today, but I think I won’t expend as much effort as I had planned into writing about it. This evening after work, I felt like some ice cream, so I took out the small tub I had purchased earlier in the week. It was frozen all over, and the ice came off in little sheets like frozen plastic. I pulled on the lid, thinking it would pop off easily like American ice cream containers, but no - this was going to be a struggle. My fingers scrabbled all over for a purchase to pry the lid apart, but my efforts were to no avail. Tips of fingers cold and slick with melting ice, I began to be desperate for my ice cream, that milky, creamy cold prize kept from my be a quarter centimeter of plastic. Oh the travesty! Then I found a small tab which broke under a little bit of pressure from me. With the tab broken, and a few more scrabbles, the lid came off easy as pie. I was actually a little disappointed at how easy it was to get my ice cream.

P.S. Sorry for any mistakes and incomplete thoughts. It's been a long day and I'm tired.

Behind the Door

(wrote this yesterday, too lazy to post)

This morning, I dreamed I was back home in my dark, cavernous living room that really wasn’t mine. Since this is a dream, anything goes, though. An acquaintance’s sister had died, and many of my friends and acquaintances from college made cameos in my dream to support this acquaintance. The acquaintance’s boyfriend was there, too, a golden-haired Adonis whom I had never before met. We were in the cavernous living room when all of a sudden we decided to split into groups. I stayed in the living room and watched as a friend of mine gave my mother a back massage – weird, I know – and then all of a sudden we were in a grotto rather than a living room. Sunlight and plants streamed down from above, and there was a knock at the door.

I did not get to see who was behind the door because the knock was across my unconscious and conscious self. The daughter was at my door, knocking. It was 10 a.m. already, and we were supposed to go to the temple. The shades over my window were still drawn and the room still dark, but it was already bright and sunny – and warm – out. Boy, had I overslept.

So instead of going to the temple, we went to the distribution center and purchased a Book of Mormon in Spanish, and then the daughter and I were off to Peurta del Sol for some tourist action. Since I didn’t know what I was doing and had forgotten my handy little tourist book, we wandered about for a while. Actually, I was perfectly content to do this, although that quickly turned into a version of “what do you want to do now?” and “I don’t know. What do you want to do?” We stayed out until about 2 p.m., when the sun hit. For the past several days, I have been indoors from the hours of 1-4, and for very good reason. Indeed, it does get hot here, and there is very little air conditioning. When the old roomie Fiona told me that Madrid is hot and loud, I suppose that, in comparison to other European cities I have been to, it is true. Madrid has no big rivers and is landlocked, which accounts for how hot and dry it gets here.

Casas and Spanish Dining Hours

Today was mostly filled with work, although there was a change of pace because I transitioned from research to actually writing about my topic. Also, I had a buddy working at the other desk in the same room! We didn’t talk much, however, because I think she is Italian and she was busy doing her own work. Our desks are in the front room of the company's building, a casa, near the kitchen and by the entryway. I get to see all the comings and goings of the company. It gets great light in there, too, and it has high ceilings which minimize how hot it gets.

The company is located in a decently-sized casa in an older part of Madrid. The casa is located on a quaint, one-way cobbled street, and the sidewalk is barely big enough to admit one person. It’s a little forbidding because all the casas have fences to mark the property, but a lot of them are lattice, which is great. I can see some of the houses and the lattice provides a great anchor for climbing plants, so vines and flowers hang over the fences while providing shade, too. No matter the time of day, the white cobblestone streets in that part of town always seems filled with light.

For lunch today, I navigated my way to the Alcampo. It is a big superstore similar to Target, but since it is European, it is naturally superior. I purchased some food and ate it in the office’s garden. Really, I am spoiled.

I feel like I move in half-time in Spain. Everything takes a lot longer than I think it will. Today, I got home from work around 8 p.m., went to the Lidl (a local, smaller grocery store) for some food and got back around 9 p.m., and didn’t have dinner until about 10:30 p.m. when the mother of the family had returned from work. A friend of the mother’s had come to chat and she stayed for dinner. Dinner lasted for almost two hours, yet it felt nowhere near that long. I can’t speak Spanish and the time passed amicably with the daughter translating what her mother and mother’s friend said. The later and later it became, the more pantomimes I did, the more relaxed I became, and the more comfortable I felt as I tried to communicate with the mother and friend, who do not speak English. These are people with whom I can really get along. And today, at least, it felt like my Spanish comprehension improved a little bit.

Tomorrow I have off – huzzah for Spanish holidays! I suppose I should invest some time to discover which holiday it is… But on more pressing matters, the family and I are going to spend the morning at the Madrid temple, and then we will be off to do something touristy. Oh, I am so excited! It’s my fourth day here and I have yet to visit Puerta del Sol or the Royal Palace or the Prado Museum. Also - special shoutout to my brother whose birthday it is today. I promise to get you something nice while I'm in Spain!

I like Spain.

Vivo!

It has been a whirlwind of three days. It feels a lot longer. I would have posted sooner had I had an internet connection; with no connection, I was much less motivated to be on the computer writing. It’s amazing how less interesting a computer can be with no connection to the outside world.

So. I’m in Madrid. I’m in a southern suburb of the beautiful city, about a five minutes’ walk from the Madrid LDS temple. I think that I've adjusted to the time change remarkably well, considering that Madrid is eight hours ahead of my Home. All of Madrid I have seen so far seems rather stretched out – it’s not compact like Manhattan. Then again, I have yet to visit the really touristy places like Puerta del Sol or even see their financial district (if they have one). Hoo, I suppose I’m still in the comparison-phase of my transition. My old roomie, Fiona, told me that Madrid is hot and dirty, but it feels no hotter than my native Utah. The metro is cleaner than New York’s. However, I have only seen a small smattering of the city so far.

Work was good today. I arrived at about 10 a.m. Madrid time, and the boss was still setting up my computer. I was conscripted into helping set up my computer, which makes sense because it is a publishing company (http://www.justlanded.com), but I made a fool of myself because it took me a moment to figure out how to plug the monitor into the computer. Not one of my finer moments. I hope that, despite all of my silly questions and needing to be babied, I made a good impression. I left work at 6:45 p.m., so hopefully enough hours have been put in today.

For those of you who always take what I say the wrong way, (Coyote,) I really am having a great time. I can’t enumerate all the good things right now because it’s late and I still need to eat, but I’m sure that it’ll just keep getting better and better, as well.