So lately I have been having a crisis. I am not funny. This means that trying to find motivation to enter some text onto this here site is an increasing challenge. Because my life here is probably the same as life would be anywhere else, except that I can't speak the language fluently. For some reason, the Spanish operate under the misconception that *everyone* who attempts to speak their language should do so with perfect grammar and pronunciation. Attempts to communicate are often met with eye-rolling, total and utter confusion or a rude reply in broken English. And the Spanish are often amazed to learn that they in fact have an accent when they speak English.
"When I speak English, do I have a British or American accent?" they ask me and my other English teacher friends.
"Actually, you speak English with a Spanish accent," we reply.
"No, that is not possible," they say. "Come on."
However, when those of us non-native speakers make an attempt to speak Spanish, the accent is immediately overheard, and far too frequently, the Spaniard will heave a sigh of frustration and issue a short "no entiendo" until the word/phrase/sentence/metro station is repeated in perfectly accented Spanish.
"Tirso de Molina," I tell the taxi driver.
"Que?"
"Tirso de Molina."
"Que?"
"Tirso de Molina."
"Que? No entiendo."
"Tiiiiirso de Moliiiiiiina."
"Oh. Tirso de Molina. Vale."
Last night, for example, I was at Lolita Bar & Lounge celebrating Sarah P's birthday. As those of you who have traveled to or lived in Spain well know, the fancy cocktail concoctions of the US are simply unavailable here except at speciality bars. Normally, you pick a type of liquor (vodka, rum, gin, whiskey) and a soda (coke, fanta limon, fanta naranja) or juice (orange). They take a highball glass, put in 4 ice cubes, fill it halfway with liquor and top it off with the mixer. You then have both a highball glass and bottle of soda or juice to take around the venue, although most people leave the remaining soda in its bottle on the bar. This not only means you can get drunk fairly rapidly. It also means that drinks are quite easy to order. For example:
"Cacique y Coca-Cola Light." (Ca-thee-kay e ko-ka ko-la liiiite.)
As many of you know, vodka is my alcohol of choice. Thankfully, vodka is not a word that changes from country to country, like the words "beer" or "wine." Nor does it suffer from an unfortunate combination of letters that would alter its pronunciation amongst the Spanish-speakers of the world (such as "gin"). Yes, thankfully vodka is word that is pronounced almost identically in all languages, including languages like English, French and Italian, and even exotic languages that use entirely different alphabets, like Russian!
Or so I thought. Last night, after my second vodka-con-limon had gone down, I returned to the bar to order a third. The gentleman who had served me the first two was now working further down the bar, so I smiled at the girl now pouring drinks and waited for my turn.
"Que quieres?"
"Vodka-con-Fanta-limon."
"No Fanta, solo Schweppes."
"Vale."
She goes through the routine of using tongs to place 4 round ice cubes and a lemon slice in my glass and opens the bottle of Schweppes and then stands back.
"Vodka con limon, por favor," I repeat.
"No tengo vodka."
?? "Huh?"
"No tengo vodka."
"Quiero vodka con limon."
"No tengo vodka."
(This next bit was said in Spanish but I will write in English from here on.) "You don't have any vodka? In the entire bar, there's no vodka?"
"No."
"No vodka?"
"No."
"Vodka?" (At this point I am doubting my sanity, as I can see three bottles of Smirnoff behind her, and am beginning to question whether I'm actually pronouncing the word "vodka" correctly.)
"But I can see a bottle of vodka. There."
At this point, the girl suddenly gets angry. She grabs the bottle of Smirnoff off the shelf and goes through a big production of slamming the Smirnoff on the table, unscrewing the cap, angrily pouring some into my glass, replacing the cap, and slamming the Smirnoff back on the shelf. Then, in English:
"Five fifty."
Not hearing her, I say, in Spanish: "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."
"Five fifty," she repeats in English.
"Oh, five fifty," I say in Spanish.
"Five fifty," she repeats in English.
Finally, I select some coins from my wallet and lay them on the bar, which she haughtily grabs and walks away. Needless to say, I stayed far away from her all night, and even managed later in the night to score a free drink from the other (male) bartender.
But this type of experience is all too common here, and it is so frustrating when you're trying to learn a language and assimilate to a certain extent in a different culture. Having worked in the service industry in a very, very touristy part of the world one summer (a Starbucks in Sausalito), I can attest to the fact that it's obnoxious when people travel to a country and make no attempt to communicate except through rudely pointing at a beverage sign, or something similar. However, if someone is trying to speak English, I feel like I (and everyone else I know) would make the leap to try to understand, through patience and kindness. If a Japanese tourist, for example, and asked in broken, strangely-pronounced English where the Golden Gate Bridge was, I'd hardly snap back, "What? I can't understand you. What are you saying?" Yet in Spain, unfortunately, I feel like I encounter a huge number of people who treat any non-native-Spanish-speaker with a certain amount of disdain and impatience, like if you can't speak the language perfectly and fluently, you have no business even trying. At which point the speaker will either get frustrated and curse and mutter in Spanish, or switch to their own not-exactly-perfectly-pronounced English.

I arrived back in Madrid last night around 10, after many hours spent in the car returning from gorgeous Marbella. It is so reminiscent of Santa Barbara, it's uncanny. Palm trees, beautiful beaches, expensive cars, rich people. Our trip down was interesting -- while pondering a new white purse to go with my new white shoes in Mango, I received a call from the Brit notifying me that the keys to the apartment we were to be staying in hadn't yet arrived. But we decided to get out of Madrid anyway, and after dropping Sarah P off with her friend, spent a few hours lost in Marbella, and finally out of near-desparation, checked ourselves into the one-star Hotel Don Alfredo. Which actually had a view of an old Arabian castle. The next day we brunched on the beach and spent a while lying on rocks in the sunshine, but most of the afternoon onwards was spent in front of a Mail Boxes Etc waiting for the keys to arrive from DHL. The keys finally arrived around 5, and we drove off to Puerto Banus.

Other than sleeping an exorbitant amount -- I realized that I slept more deeply in the peace and quiet of the apartment than I normally do on my busy, loud street here in Madrid -- we woke up and prepared for the arrival of a Spaniard and Angela. Thursday was spent with some informal Thai kick-boxing lessons from the Australian and poolside in the sunshine. Friday it was raining, so the five of us piled in the car and drove off to Ronda, which is a truly, truly neat little city that should be high on the must-visit list of Spain. The highlight is this massive bridge built between a massive gorge that dramatically cuts through the countryside. After walking around in the rain for a while admiring the sights, we ducked into a Tex-Mex bar and had a few beers and sandwiches. Saturday we went into Puerto Banus and sat at a cafe near the port enjoying a few bottles of white wine, and that night, we went out to an Italian restaurant along with Sarah P, and drank and partied until 6 am when we walked home. Sunday meant the departure of the Spaniard and Angela, and we spent the rest of the day on the beach in Fuengirola with an old friend from Dublin of the Australian's. And yesterday we returned to Madrid, where the weather is still chilly but the trees are finally beginning to develop buds.

And now I've begun the process of seriously sorting out where I'm going in the next few months. First, I intend to really study Spanish at the Universidad Complutense and get some formal certification for my resume. Then, I'm not entirely sure, but I'm leaning towards a US-return, although probably to someplace entirely new and different, maybe Atlanta, maybe Miami. Last Tuesday, before embarking on my Andalucian journey, I woke up suddenly infused with a fresh sense of focus and ambition. Maybe it was the sudden warmth in the air, or the final presence of sunshine after weeks of rain and gloom. But it's time to harness the ambition, once again.

I am glad to report that tomorrow I will be getting out of Madrid for a few days, escaping with the Brit and the Australian for Spain's sunny southern shores, Puerto Banus in Marbella to be precise. Sarah P will be in the car for the drive down, staying with a friend in Marbella, and Angela will be joining us on Thursday (she's currently in Paris interviewing for a big airline). Some others are anticipate to make appearances, including other Australian friends of the Australian, and perhaps the Finnish roommate as well. After weeks of dreary, cold rain, the temperature here in Madrid has finally risen a little, meaning that the south has the potential to be lush. At least sunny. And honestly, I am looking forward to a respite from not only working but also living in this city which, in recent weeks, has been both personally and publicly, uh, insane. From the train station attacks to suspects blowing themselves up in apartment buildings to getting mugged to suffering from a cold all week (including a particularly nasty eye infection on Saturday morning), I have been in a less-than-chipper frame of mind, traisping down the spiral of lethargy and woe. (I feel sick, so I don't go to the gym, so I feel more lethargic, so I don't have the energy to go down to Plaza Lavapiès to buy groceries, so I end up eating more and more crap food, so I feel too tired and sick to go to the gym, etc.) The last few weeks have still been quite fun, what with my sister around a little bit.

So it was a fun weekend, my sister thankfully calling me on Thursday evening to notify me of her return to Madrid from Lisbon. I met her and her friends for some sangria at a very Spanish bar, then brought her and her friend Christina to meet Megan and my friend Christina at O'Neills, the Irish pub I seem to frequent way too often on Calle Princípe. A mellow, although late, evening. On Friday I met the group outside their hostal, and we went in search of this cookie shop they'd read about in my Time Out Madrid guide. It's in a closed convent, and it's somewhat difficult to find. The door is marked only with a single little plaque that reads "Venta Las Dulces" and you ring a camoflauged brown doorbell. You walk through two tiled, bright courtyards to a little hallway in the back where there is a brown, rotating cabinent. You talk to the nun through the cabinent, order your half kilo of Spanish cookies, put your money into the rotating door and out spins the freshly-baked cookies. Which, by the way, are absolutely amazing, and worth a trip to Madrid.

But, despite my love for this city, I am in need of a break. I am in need of a break mostly from taking the Cercanías train south to the industrial city where I teach a class on Mondays and Fridays, for it is making me nervous and anxious each time that I'm on the train, to imagine life being ripped apart through the faces of similar strangers.

Oh yeah, one last thing: who wants a postcard from Marbella? Email me!

Haven't posted in while. Much has transpired.

1. I was mugged AGAIN a few weeks ago, March 18, while walking down Calle Magdalena en route to Megan's house. I had just passed in front of La Falsa when suddenly I was thrown into the street by two Moroccans who, after a momentary struggle, made off with my bag, breaking the strap in the process. Lost: mobile phone, 30 euros, bank card, 2 lipsticks, and my monthly metro pass.

Here are my comment's from Marc's site where I sort of vented much of my initial anger and upset in relation to some comment he made about the war in Iraq and the change of government in Spain:

I've got a lot to say, but not enough internet access to say it with, alas.

I was mugged last Thursday by two Moroccans who, after throwing me upon the pavement, ran off with my bag into the heart of Lavapies, where the terrorists live. Shifty, shady, dodgy motherfuckers. I live in a barrio of shifty, shady, dogdy motherfuckers who use stolen mobile phones, like mine, to blow up trains. Do you think 1,300 troops would do anything to solve that problem? The mastermind of 11M was a locutorio owner around the corner from my house. Mohammad Atta visited his Al-Qaida cronies a few days before Sept 11 on my street. I don't see how 1,300 troops marching through the streets of Lavapies would do much of anything. Personally, I advocate wielding a little bit of French justice, arrest all the shift, shady, dodgy motherfuckers who lurk in my neighbourhood, and make them prove their innocence. "Tell me you're not thinking something bad." These theives, like the ones who took my bag, get arrested over and over and over again -- there are some who are recorded as having been arrested 19 or 20 times for petty theft!! -- and are never deported back to their home country, even though they lack any legal documentation allowing them to live in Madrid. I'm sorry, I know it's probably fucked up to say, probably way lacking in political correctness, but if you allow a neighbourhood to exist where police are afraid to venture (as they were after my mugging), you allow other kinds of activities far worse to unchecked and unnoticed. I ask you, seriously, how much does a threat of terrorist activity worry you? What do you think we should do? Do you think, in some way, that they are right? Do you enjoy, just for a second, a conservative government having to "check" itself, either at home or abroad, even just a little bit, despite the bloodshed? Who and what do you really think we're up against?

Head back to Marc's site to read his well-thought, well-put answers.

2. I drank fire. After an extremely enjoyable, delicious dinner at Café Olivar in Chueca (where the Brit's brother, in town for his birthday, accidentally elbowed the waitress in the mouth while applauding himself over a particularly amusing joke, and caused her to bleed), the group headed downstairs to the posh bar to enjoy a few after dinner concoctions. The bar had offered to buy us all a free shot, and someone chose "cucharachas," which is some kind of brown liquor set afire. You're then handed a straw and say cheers and everyone sucks down the shot. Only I didn't know you're supposed to blow out the flame first. My throat was sore for about a week after, but whatever, I'm badass, I sashay around Lavapiés letting my yellow hair catch the sun, ignoring the dodgy fucks who leer and say things to me in broken Spanish like "venga aqui, rubia, guapa", and can swallow fire.

3. La Falsa Molestia suddenly and unexpectedly closed. I received a text message from the Italian Painter saying that his heart had been destroyed. However, this is not terribly surprising considering that I don't think I ever paid for a beer there, nor do I think anyone else did. Where the Italian Circus will go next is unknown to me.

4. I lost my sister. She arrived in Spain last Friday, and on Saturday night I said good night to her and her three friends and have not heard from them since. They were supposed to call at 11 am on Sunday, but never did, and were taking an overnight bus to Lisbon on Sunday evening. So, Zan, if you happen to read this, please send me an email or give me a quick phone call to let me know you are just having fun out there and neglecting me, rather than something dreadful and worse.

5. I have been reading an excellent book called The Midnight Disease: The Drive To Write, Writer's Block, and the Creative Brain by a neurologist by the name of Alice W. Flaherty. Fascinating information on the connections between insanity and creativity.

6. The Finnish roommate kindly and generously lent me his laptop as he left today for Semana Santa (Easter Week), which for those of you who are not aware, is a huge holiday here in Spain. I will be heading to Marbella on Tuesday with the Brit and the Australian, with Sarah P in the car, and Angela hopefully meeting up with us after she returns from her interview with United Arab Emirates Airlines in Paris this weekend. I am so excited to get (hopefully) some sunshine; it has been dreary, and rainy, and cold here in Madrid for months.

So, other than muggings and fire consumption, all is well here in Madrid. Besitos*