Lizzle is in London!

Written yesterday.

I’m in London! And I have successfully managed to convince my parents to stay here an extra day so we can see some of the London tourist hotspots we missed today. After getting up ridiculously early without any alarms, we started our day by taking a red double-decker hop-on/hop-off tour bus. Whoo, breathe after all those modifiers. While on the bus, we passed by the Marble Arch, Grosvenor Place, Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Big Ben and Parliament, the Eye of London, London Bridge, Tower Bridge, and the Tower of London.

We got off at the Tower of London and toured it for a while. Our tour guide did not spare us the gory details of several of the notable executions – like William Wallace’s death where he was half-hung, drawn and quartered. We skipped the Bloody Tower where the instruments of torture are kept and went on to something much more family-friendly, like the Crown Jewels. The Light of India and the Star of Africa are inconceivably huge – say three-quarters the size of my fist.

After the Tower of London, my father went back to the hotel to make a conference call, and my mother and I proceeded to Buckingham Palace. We took a tour of the Royal Mews, which unfortunately only houses horses, carriages, and cars – no falcons. However, it was worth spending time at the Mews to see the Carriages of Scotland, and Australia, as well as the Coronation Carriage. It is a gigantic carriage, and makes Cinderella’s shimmery, effervescent fairy carriage look like the pumpkin it is. The Coronation Carriage looks like it is the offspring of an Italian Renaissance fountain and a German rococo church. Bathe it all in gold and you have the Carriage. It weighs about four tons, and it takes eight horses to pull it.

I was disappointed with the Mews for a second reason – I only saw three horses, two of which were the rumps as they were led outside to be exercised. There were more than three dozen stalls that could be occupied by horses. I suppose they must all be on holidays.

Buckingham Palace itself was fantastic. The rooms were opulent and gorgeous, and if I were an ambassador to Great Britain, I certainly would be impressed. Everywhere I looked, there was white and gold, and the colors of the rooms were so vibrant. Buckingham Palace trumps the Belgian Royal Palace in terms of grandeur, but I still have tender feelings for the Belgian palace because it is small(er) and charming. I liked Buckingham for the same reason I liked the Belgian palace: it felt modern and like it was used.

Not long after leaving Buckingham, my mother and I ventured to Piccadilly Circus, got something to eat, and then meandered through London back to our hotel.

All in all, a good day. Tomorrow: Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and a museum like the Tate or British Museum.

Gene Memory: My Genes Have Come Home

It has been a whirlwind few days. I left Madrid on Thursday, leaving a very sad Magi behind and a lot of people that I had grown to love over my stay in Spain. It’s not hard to care about these people.

By virtue of economy, I flew from Madrid to Copenhagen and then to Frankfurt, changing hot, dusty Spain for wet, green Germany. I do not want to divulge the number of times I have been to Germany, but it has been enough that it has started to feel like home. As the plane descended, the green-fuzzed land came up to meet me. I exchanged one foreign language for another, and all of a sudden the words were very long. Bah, it figures that when I think I start understanding a language, the universe changes it on me. It was strange not hearing Spanish anymore.

Photograph taken through a rainy window in Worms, Germany.

Outside the largest Romanesque cathedral in the world in Speyer, Germany.

Children playing in the fields in Luxembourg.

After spending two nights in Germany, we headed towards Belgium, taking a quick detour through Luxembourg before landing in Brussels. I’m traveling with my parents, and we went to Church (to a French- and English-speaking LDS ward!) for sacrament meeting, and then afterwards my mother and I explored a little bit of Brussels. We went to the Grand Place, got some lunch, wandered around to the Cocoa and Chocolate Museum – which was not as exciting as it sounds because it had the quality of a fifth grade history exhibit – got a Belgian waffle and made a disaster of eating it, and then to the Belgian Royal Palace.

My mom in the Grand Place.

In front of the Mannekin-Pis.

Belgian waffle experience.

Grand Place - I also got a new camera! Can you kinda tell the difference?

I approve of the Belgian Royal Palace. Instead of being a stuffy museum like Versailles or Schonbrunn, it felt lived-in and like a home. Well, as much of a home as a gigantic historical state building made of marble can be. The ballroom was cozy and exquisite with a real parquet floor! I didn’t know what parquet was until yesterday (I would have just called it inlay, but I suppose that’s for colored materials inserted in wood). There was a modern, off-periwinkle room with a writing desk and comfy chairs and even an electric lamp. The cord wasn’t even hidden! Gasp, it was like we were in a real person’s office or living room!

Outside of the Royal Palace.

After the Royal Palace, it was time to head down to the train station, loaded with all of our baggage. I passed a few tense moments at the Customs office, waiting for my visa to be accepted, and then my parents and I were on to the train heading to the United Kingdom via underground tunnel. An uneventful hour and a quarter later, we surfaced in “Ye Merye Engelande” amidst swaying seas of grass, sleepy hills and gnarled, knowing trees. Though I have never been to England before, it felt familiar to me. If I go back five generations, I have family from this part of the world, and who knows how far they go back. Sitting on that train, an arcane part of my psyche, I felt I was coming home.

No more a stranger, nor a guest, but like a child at home.

More Vacation Response

I´m going on vacation! Expect sporadic updates as I make my way to Frankfurt, through Belgium, to London, and then up to Edinburgh.

(Insert funny picture or quotation here.)

And thus the Whirligig of Time...

It's happening again. I've come to an end of one thing, and now I am at the beginning of an entirely new adventure. I feel like I am fading from Spain; I have one foot out the door already. Life here is already beginning to feel like a passing fancy as I hurry and rush around trying to get everything set in order for my departure on Thursday. All of a sudden, time seems to be moving too quickly and and too slowly at the same time.

I wanted to say "too quickly and not enough," but that doesn't quite make sense. I must have a German homunculus in my head.

"And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges..."

I think the first photo is the only really good one. The others are passable - however, I do not want to taint this post with too much criticism. That can be saved for another day.

I Want to be a Flamenco Dancer Revisited

Looky what I found when my co-worker and I were swapping photos:

I still want to be a flamenco dancer in my next life.

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.)

Experimenting...

I can include a video now! Thanks to TropeGirl (The Doctor) who told me how to do this. To repay her for her kindness, watch her videos!

"Mormon Moment" - Pt. 2

The title for "Mormon Moment" came from one of my very dearest friends who will remain anonymous for the purpose of this post. We had known each other for about a year and had many conversations about Mormonism, because the doctrines we teach and espouse have had a profound influence on who I am and who I want to be.


One day, she told me that she had been to the nearby (fantastic) coffee shop and was drinking a mocha when all of a sudden she stopped and thought to herself, "Oh crap! I can't be drinking this!" because she momentarily thought she was a Mormon. She described this as a "Mormon moment."

I'm Mormon, which means I get to have these moments all the time! Whoo!

Mormonism: 1 (n +1)

Caffeinated beverages: 0

Midori and Zil, that was for you. Yes, you know what I'm talking about.

Madrid Metro Failure - Clarification

I was talking with my mother last night who said that it must be a pain for me to get to work nowadays because of the Metro. I was a little confused because my commute remains unaffected - the suspension is on Line 2. I live on Line 9, and my work is on Line 9. I take one train and am unaffected by the change.

However, if I want to get anywhere else in Madrid, my commute is lengthened a bit. I hope this clarifies some things.

Mister Choc

I am in love. He is the paragon of of bridging two extremes, the concupiscence of black and white. I melt like butter with every brief, stolen meeting with him: in the kitchen, in the supermarket, on the street. My love's name is Mr. Choc.

Think of Nutella. Now look at the photo, now back to Mr. Choc. Think of a cheaper, more spreadable Nutella. Replace the hazelnut flavouring with milk chocolate. Now add white chocolate. Now spread on bread.

The dual-chocolate, spreadable sweetness is Mr. Choc.

"Mormon Moment" - Pt. 1

For the last week, I was searching for my iPod. In my purse, in my backpack, in my room, at my desk at work. Nada. After the last couple of days, I finally just gave up and figured that I had accidentally left it somewhere or - heaven forbid - it had been stolen.

I am not one of those people who needs their MP3 players to breathe, and I think that people who listen to the music blasting at decibels I can hear across three seats of the Metro are rather crazy, but I like me some Chopin in the morning and Heroes del Silencio in the evening. On Thursday when I was coming back from La Latina really late at night, I missed my iPod. Earlier this evening when I was writing postcards, I missed my iPod and listening to the dulcet tones of Holst's "Planets" or my piano rendition of "If You Could Hie to Kolob."

I had sunk into a bit of a depression. That was three years' worth of music and a some really, really good Bollywood and Coldplay songs that I was going to have to replace. The iPod probably isn't even worth any monetary value because it's so old, so a curse upon the thief who took it from me!

This evening, the veil covering my eyes lifted.

I found my beautiful little iPod sticking out of a pocket in my purse. I had perused my purse multiple times before this, so you'll believe me when I did a double-take. It was like my slim, black, red earphone-wrapped iPod had magically appeared. I investigated more closely, and realized that for the last week my scripture-journal had been wedged in the same pocket - the iPod must have slipped between the pages.

I was so happy to find such a little thing, and I promptly fell down on my knees and offered a prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for helping me find my iPod. It's an iPod for crying out loud, nothing special at all, but (in all seriousness) praise the Lord! He has helped me find something as inconsequential as music to ease my journeys to and from work and to enrich my life when I find myself alone.

It might also be a not-so-subtle hint that I should use my scripture journal more frequently than I have been wont to.

This may constitute the first in a series of "Mormon Moments." How long the series goes, I do not know, but I have at least one more post planned.

I Like Feet

Some people dislike feet. I kind of love them from a distance: their shape, their function. To me, feet seem so humble, and that humility gives them a quiet beauty.

My feet are getting uglier with each new pair of shoes I buy - they get marked up and scarred after all the chafing, and my soles are toughening up. Anyway, I found this, though, thanks to Toemail:

Which Toe Are You? You Are the Fourth Toe

You tend to be a cooperative and social person. You like being around others. You are pretty attached to your friends and family... but only in a healthy way. Love and relationships are the cornerstone of your life. People come first for you. You are independent when you need to be, but you prefer not to travel solo. You like having your support system. According to where I am right now in my life, I feel that that is true.

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.

Sitting Outside Heaven's Door

The title is some of the lines from "Breathing" by Life House. I feel that that is something to look forward to - to be content with getting as near we can to perfection, even if we cannot attain perfection ourselves.

I wanted to title this post "Death's Doorstep" because it seems like death has suddenly come very close to some of the people I love. Specifically, in the form of cancer. Both my aunt and one of my best friends have recently undergone serious treatments. My aunt is in her mid-50's; my friend is 20. Suddenly life seems so tender. Less provokingly so, I've had friends struggle with other health issues, body image issues, faith. Self-esteem and feeling adequate.

It's hard being so far away from them.

We're all born broken, I think, and it seems that we keep on breaking up into smaller and smaller pieces as life goes on, even though we try and patch ourselves up as best we can. Whether our problems are psychological, emotional, physical... we all have them.

I want to fix everyone so that they stop hurting.

What Is This?!

(First of all, it's an interrobang!)

Secondly, I got a Scribd account just because I wanted access to a document for work today. Five hours after I signed up, someone has started subscribing to me. I haven't even posted anything! I don't have any activity! Five hours and one subscriber. Who is Amelia_christe_8881 and how did she find me? Conversely, I've had this blog for over a year - neglected, yes, but still there - and I've made over 100 posts. And for every precious follower I have, I have expended tears and blood and part of my soul!

Okay, that's an overstatement, but how on earth did something like this happen? As I have no one else to look at right now, I'm looking at you, Universe.

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.

Miscellaneous

One symbol:

☂

It hasn't rained here, really rained here, in a while.

Also, today I learned that a bailiff can come to collect debts and take away non-essential things such as your television or blender. This is mostly in the British system. To me, a bailiff brings in witnesses and helps keep the order in a legal court.

The things you learn sometimes.

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

"How to Be Alone"

I'd like to thank one of my readers for sharing this video with me. It's called "How to Be Alone," by Tanya Davis and Andrea Dorfman. I would post it without having to download it, but I can't figure out how to do it. Please trust me and follow the link.

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?

How to Make Photographs at Which You Don’t Cringe Every Time you See Them - Part 2

This angry-photographer-post's theme: landscapes. Now, landscapes are a bit tricky, because it can be difficult to make them interesting. Landscape photos are similar to landscape paintings, although they take a lot less time and skill. When you take a good landscape picture, though, you take a good picture. I don’t profess to be on the level of Ansel Adams – far from it – but if you want some inspiration, take a look at some of his works.

Ansel Adams, I'm not sure what it is called.

Look at the juxtaposition of textures in the foreground and then in the middle portion of the picture. It appears as if you're looking at two different pictures - which is both the strong and the weak point of the photograph. There is a lot of contrast in this picture, such as between light and dark, rough and smooth, straight and curved, but there is nothing to unify the composition. Your eye is pulled towards the right, but the thing you want to see is out of the frame. Some people like this and think it is artistic. It drives me nuts. (Except in the case of portraits, where we are left to ponder the expression of the subject.)

Now, as discussed in the previous post, you want to make it so your eye moves around the picture. Ask any art teacher and they will tell you that the eye gets bored looking at a symmetrical picture three times as fast as looking at an asymmetrical (interesting) picture. The way to achieve this is by getting balance.

There may be several reasons for you to take a picture. One is that the landscape is so beautiful and you want to capture it. Another reason is to show your friends back home. Whatever You're doing, you're probably more concerned about taking the picture itself and capturing it for later than enjoying the scenery as you pass through it. I am, anyway, and it heightens my awareness of a need to constantly capture and store. In the end, I'll have nothing save a few empty - but well-taken! - pictures.

What Spain looks like. Remarkably similar to Home.

This is not a very good picture. It is flat and static, there is not much depth, and the plateau cuts the picture neatly in half. You should not show pictures like these to your friends and family. Yes, they might document what the Spanish countryside looks like, but again, not that interesting. Don't even take them. Okay, maybe you can take them, just for your own personal benefit, but don't show them to anyone.

Can you believe it? It's the same country!

Okay, this is better. Note the difference between the tree in the foreground and the mountain in the background, complemented by the road on the left, which leads into the distance. More interesting, yes.

The astute reader will realize that I have already posted some of these pictures before. However, not all of them. 

"1"

"A"

"Rhyme and Reason" - If you can correctly guess the inspiration for the these photos' names, I will write and/or dedicate a post to you.

Now, these are not necessarily landscapes (would you call them architecture?), but they illustrate themes I wish to discuss. In the first picture, there is a lot of depth leading from the nearest fountain to the art museum on the hill. I really like the line the spumes make, but the photographs are a little flat still. This is a good photograph, but it could be better.

Take the second photo graph. We still get a sense of depth, and a sense of expectancy, of emptiness, in the sky, but there is too much sky, and it makes the fountains and the building on the hill too small.

I really like the third picture because it keeps the distance that we saw in the first photograph, leading your eye towards the building. However, it also gives the composition a "U" shape - your eye sees the first lamp, dips down and follows the lamps, and then rises again to see the building. However, even this picture is not perfect - the soft glowing light of the first lamp gets lost in the sunset. The other lights contrast enough with the scenery to be considered acceptable.

Also, I'm so glad that I don't run any ads on this site. Otherwise, I might have to check about copyright issues, especially with things like Ansel Adams photographs. Typically, you don't have to ask permission if it's for personal use and if it's for free educational purposes.

Speaking of Ansel Adams, if you want to name-drop a niche-photographer among your friends, I suggest Tillman Crane. When I was younger, I confused him with Ansel Adams - they both have such artsy names befitting photographers. He taught my siblings photography when they were in high school

Yes, I support local artists. For more interesting art, look at Nathan Florence. He taught me art when I was in high school. 

Whoa, Wait - Thesis?

I think I just had an idea for my thesis. Yesterday I was walking back from the grocery store, listening to “Howling at the Moon” by the Ramones on my iPod. All of a sudden, an idea just popped into my head about what I wanted to write about – nothing too specific, but a topic at least.

I have always thought of thesis as something vague and far-off, and whenever any of my friends talked about thesis and topics, I always retreated back into the safety of thinking that I would probably write something about John Keats. What, exactly, about John Keats, I did not know.

However, my thoughts about thesis took me completely by surprise. There I was, walking along the street, and like a great gust of wind the idea was in my head, and the feeling “I want to write about this for thesis” was in my head. It didn’t even have the decency to wait until I was at a computer or had a pen and paper in my hand.

I rushed back to the apartment as quickly as I could, stuffing the groceries into the fridge, booting up my computer, and then waiting for it to warm up so I could record my thoughts. Already the thoughts and ideas and whatever chemicals that gave me such a rush were leaking out of my head. I got the bare bones of the idea down - and a few more authors in addition to Keats - all at a point of time when thesis wasn't even on my mind. It might be an answer to a question I've had on my mind the past week, but it's still too early to tell.

How to Make an Interesting Photograph (Or: How to Make Photographs at Which You Don’t Cringe Every Time you See Them)

This may be a part in a longer series. My rage at poorly-taken pictures has abated, but that's not to say it won't flare up at a later date.


Whenever my family goes on trips and we only have one camera, I automatically make myself in charge of the camera (unless J-Chan is with me – then we can switch if we don’t have two cameras. Come to think of it, not having two cameras is a situation we will rarely encounter because it’s so important for all of us kiddio-sies to have them. Katie-Po might also be an exception). I have a compulsive need to be in control and take good pictures. If anyone else takes the photographs, I get annoyed and frustrated because they are done in a curmudgeonly fashion. No one has enough sensitivity to frame and composition.

To take a picture, it first helps to have something to take a picture of. I’m feeling lazy, so these pictures will be old ones from my albums.

Pictures with people and famous things - Pictures of a person standing in front of a famous thing are a great way to personalize your pictures and make your trip more memorable, and to all those non-believers back home you can point to the picture and say “Proof!” until they refute you with “Photoshop!” Once that accusation has been made, you can't really refute it, though. However, you know you were there, and that’s what matters. 

And I am here so you can take better pictures of that person standing next to that famous thing.

First thing you should know: take as few pictures of the person in the dead center of the picture as you can. In an interesting picture, your eye will move around (namely, from that person to famous thing and back). You need a really good reason to take a picture of the person in the middle – for example, imagine someone sitting along a wall with their feet up. If you’re near their feet, take a picture of them. This will mean that your camera will catch the depth as your friend’s feet go away from you, and their feet become their body, and their body becomes their face.

In the picture above are Teddy and me. Yes, we are important, but what we’re sitting behind is also important – a Cubist statue of Christ being scourged. Note that the angle of the picture has cropped out most all of Christ's body and that there is a lot of empty space at the bottom of our feet. Due to the vertical nature of the statue, I am okay with having Teddy and me be in the center of the picture, and even though I don't want a picture of a tourist in front of the Sagrada Familia (such as is there on the right), it actually balances out the picture. Also, this is not a good picture because it is blurry.

It is not necessary to take a full-body picture unless you want to expressly include that person’s clothes or to show how big/small the famous thing is. Besides, your head is smaller than your body. (Unless you are a baby, in which case your parent should have taken loads of pictures of you, some of them are bound to be good, and hey, most of these rules don’t apply to you anyway because you’re a baby.) Any picture taken of that person from the bust up is acceptable, because it means you as the photographer are close enough to get the details of his/her beautiful, radiant face, while still getting that famous thing in the background. Like so:

Depth! Bust! I wish there weren't a crane in this photo!

Okay, I somewhat liked the sultry look of the full-body shot. But note: I am not in the center, and my body is balanced by the Holy Family on the left and the strong diagonal of the column.

Kitschy Pictures

Lately, some readers might have noticed that there are a lot of ethereal pictures of space with too much pastel in their palette. It looks like an amateur reincarnation of Thomas Kinkade got a hold of those pictures and started painting the creation of the universe.

That is what I would have thought, anyway, had I not taken those pictures myself from the Hubble website. I gave credit to the website, so the astute readers among you will note that this is an unnecessary post to calm my insecurities and vent my dislike for overly-kitschy paintings.

At least I don’t have any pictures of dolphins at sunset…

Awesome Pants

I have a confession to make. I have an obsession with awesome pants. I love interesting, flowing clothes, and this is nowhere near as evident in the case of comfortable pants. They cover so much (usually), and yet they give so much freedom. It's almost like not wearing pants at all!

Admittedly, most of these comfortable pants are "harem pants," but we don't have to call them that. We can just call them "awesome pants" as a signifier of all pants that are remotely interesting. I got a pair of really interesting pants Barcelona, a green-and-bown paisley pattern, and I found the exact same ones last week in Madrid. I think my new pair of pants are the pinnacle of wonderful, ridiculous, frivolous fashion. I probably won’t get another pair of pants that are quite as ridiculous as these – but you never know.

The pair of pants I bought.

The pair of pants I considered.

Teddy and I having fun with silk dresses and pants.

And these pictures are yet more reasons to get a new camera. Thankfully, my mother told me today that she could "send [me my] new camera," which means that a new camera has indeed already been chosen and purchased for me, so this situation will be rectified in a few weeks when my parents come to visit me between my time in Spain and Scotland! Thanks, Mom and Dad, for the early-ish birthday present!

Think "Ent"

The horizon has suddenly darkened for the three of us living in the Casa. Let me remind you that I am living with a Latter-Day Saint family, or rather a mother and her daughter (Magi). Magi’s grandmother arrived last weekend for a visit, and all throughout the week they have been seeing the greater Madrid area. Friday was a particularly hot day, and a few minutes after they came home, the grandmother almost fainted because of heat stroke. Doctors and an ambulance came (note: healthcare in Spain is rise with its own levels of bureaucracy, just like everything else) to check on her, and right she is in the hospital. Things are not very good, but they are looking better. She has stabilized but will still need a few more days in the hospital to recover.

Mar de Ajo - Cole Rise

Needless to say, this has had quite a shock on the family I’m living with, and as a natural consequence I begin to think of life and death: how fleeting and how quick life is, how death is around us like a blanket. I don’t think about death as a process, a slow fading-out. I think of death as something that happens in a moment – you’re here and then you’re gone, all at once. No wasting away, because your life is snuffed out in one moment.

On the other side of the argument, we are born just to die. We are always dying from the moment we are born, and we are all entrenched in a march towards the inevitable.

Willow ent - Newline Cinema

As I get older and older, I fear death less and less. I belong to a Church that believes existence extends beyond our limited sphere – both pre-Earth life and after it. Because of the nature of our existence, time also becomes less important; I figure that if I don’t do something now, I will be able to do it later. Despite what it sounds like, I am not advocating laziness, but an existence which takes into consideration a longer lifespan. (Think “ent” from Lord of the Rings. They’re trees which live for ages and ages, and they talk and move and act slowly.) Rather, it is my personal philosophy that we will get multiple chances to do things over and over again, and we may be bad at it the first time – but the joyous news is that we can get better.

In a more cosmological vein, I believe existence extends beyond the confines of what we’re given in these seventy, eighty years here. I believe I will be able to continue learning, growing, and improving in the next life. What I don’t learn here, I will have an opportunity to learn at a later point. Note that I don’t want to wait until later, but I only have so much time and energy here. Additionally, my capacity for thinking and understanding may not allow for learning all I want to know. Case in point: the mind of God. I hope to one day understand everything He understands and think the way He does, but I think that there are more planes of thought involved which I do not have access to at this time.

Hubble Image - Jet in Carina

As a result, I think of time as more circular rather than linear. I’ve thought about this a lot regarding conversations – a conversation should not be something that you have at one time. Rather, you can talk about something, go away, think about it, experience a bit more life, and then come back and talk about the same thing with new ideas or new perspective. (Gasp – this is the reason why we always talk about the same things in Church! And to remind us of what we should be doing.) My philosophy on life is that it’s more circular than linear, and that I will have many opportunities to do the things I love. Now, my task will be to take advantage of the opportunities at the optimum time, instead of letting them pass and missing the boat as I wait for whatever is better “just around the corner.”

I don’t think that there is much to fear from death – or at least I don’t have much to fear from own. Other people’s deaths, especially people I care about, frighten me deeply. I don’t want to be left behind, I don’t want to figure out how to live without them. Concerning my own death, I’m afraid of the pain that will come with it, but I think it will be one of the most interesting experiences of my life. I look forward to reuniting with people and entities, such as my grandparents and my cat, after death, as well as reuniting with people I did not get to meet on earth. It’ll just be another adventure.