Kaitie's blog

Sorry this post is so belated. I kept meaning to do it and then all of a sudden the end of the semester and it still wasn’t done. That is the story of my life on study abroad. Nonetheless, here it is. My second book is Earnest Hemingway’s classic, The Sun Also Rises. There aren’t a ton of English language novels about traveling Spain (at least to my knowledge), but The Sun Also Rises was also a strong complement to my first book, Spain in Mind. I would recommend those interested in reading about Spain read them together.
 

Hemingway is a claim to fame here. It almost feels as if any bar or restaurant that dates back to the 1920’s has the authority to claim that Hemingway spent time there, and there are plenty that do. It’s interesting because Hemingway might be internationally known (well is actually), but Madrid was chock-full of important intellectuals during the pre-Franco, 1920’s. In fact, based on what I learned this semester, 1920’s were probably Madrid’s artistic and intellectual hay-day. We’re talking Dalí, Buñuel, Garcia Lorca, Einstein, Marie Cure, really big cats.
 

The Sun Also Rises gets at this Bohemia of sorts, although it revolves around a group of Americans (there main interaction with Spaniards centers around relationships with the Spanish bullfighting culture). Lady Brett is much like the early 20th century ladies of Spain, of whom I learned this semester. She is like the protagonist of César Arconada’s “Mujer Vestida de Hombre,” she goes out and is social, independent, and knowledgeable of the world; in essence she is a vanguard. Brett’s character is complicated, swayed by the affection of men, which is not of the style of early 20th century Spanish women. Still you can see their character in her. Undoubtedly, Hemingway met many of these prominent Spanish women during his travels in Spain; they could not have helped but make an impression.
 

The funny thing about the Sun Also Rises is that it touches on some of my favorite spots in the city. Reading it feels familiar in a comforting way. For example, the popular Madrid restaurant/landmark, El Sobrino del Botín  and its suckling pig appears in the novel. Most things are nicely familiar except when it comes to the discussion of the bulls. I have not been to Pamplona, true, but I have been to Las Ventas, one of the remaining Spanish holdouts for bull everything, and I saw what I thought would be a running of the bulls. I suppose I can see why Hemingway would find the ceremony of it intriguing or curious, and worthy of some thought. I, personally, found the actual event, which is still very much historically intact, somewhat cruel and unnecessary. It is, however, certainly a symbolic of Spain’s preoccupation with masculine virility, a theme that appears in the novel.

I’ve been leaving for a long time now. At least twice a year for the last 6 years I have moved, picked up all my belongings, put them in suitcases, and boxes, and trash bags, carried them home, to a home which is only barely mine now, more symbolic and sentimental than practical. I’m what you might call a perpetual leaver, and it never used to bother me before. When I was 15 and first decided going to boarding school would be a good idea I never thought about the consequences; how it would affect my family and friends, or my adolescence. I was talking to my old roommate about this last weekend while I visited her in Barcelona. We’ve been stuck in a holding pattern for a bout 6 years now because there isn’t a great difference between boarding school and college. A couple fewer rules and little more distance, maybe, and less class, that’s about all. I didn’t feel some radical “going away to college” shift my freshman year, but I’m feeling something now.
 

The longer you’re in this holding pattern the harder and stranger it is to get out. I knew I needed something different, and that’s a lot of the reason I decided to go abroad. I thought it would be a big change that would help me to feel like more time had passed and get me ready to start transitioning out of college. That’s not quite how it worked.
 

My family is moving on now. For the first time they are taking their own new adventures. My brother is off at college. My mom is selling her house and moving to California. My dad is going to be living with his fiancé while they look for a place on the Cape. I’m so excited for them, but at the same time it’s strange because now instead of having a choice of whether I want to grow up or not, I have to.
 

Being a senior means making real decisions about where I’m going to live and what I want to do and the type of person I want to be. Study abroad helped me with at least one of the three. I know I want to be a person who lives as fully as possible, as hokey as that may sounds. And I want to live in the way I want to live. I want to give myself chances and opportunities, and I want to push myself hard but also cut myself some slack. It’s only just dawned on me that I am no longer sharing control of my life with my parents. From here on out I make all the decisions.
 

So I made a permanent decision. I got a tattoo. It was something I’d actually been thinking about for a long time, but I have issues with permanence; I’m always concerned that I’ll regret the decision later. I didn’t exactly say fuck the consequences, but I made a deal with myself that I didn’t want to live basing on my decisions on future regret. If you live wisely and richly you might make mistakes, but I’m not sure you’ll ever have regrets. That’s the life I want for myself and that’s what I discovered here in Madrid, so I got the word vividora (an older Spanish word, which means something a long the lines of an epicurean or a bon vivant) tattooed on my foot. I’m not sure I love it yet, but I certainly don’t regret it and I’m proud of myself for being decisive in my own life.
 

I want to thank the people in the class for listening. It was really nice to have a place to vent, explain, or work through everything that was going on during my time abroad. Learning about your experiences not only opened my eyes to the diversity of study abroad experiences, but also to possibilities for my own. I think I appreciate Spain much more having had to write about and having seen reactions to my experiences. I guess all I can say is that I really appreciated this class and everyone in it.

All my tips about Madrid are absurdly mundane. I really wish I had something more exciting to tell you guys. I don´t really feel like I should be giving tips on exact places to go because I feel like if you´re going to spend an entire semester somewhere you should be able to develop your own relationship with the place.

I guess my one big thing that I wish I´d known was not to worry about traveling too much. I hadn´t really traveled much around Europe before coming abroad. In fact, the only European country I had been to was Spain. I came to Spain with a lot of unrealistic ideas of where I wanted to travel to, and then I stressed out about the money I would need for these trips. I skipped a lot of little moments, like eating out with friends in order to budget for spring break and weekend trips but in the end I was often too tired to really enjoy these excursions.

You need to find a balance because the longer you´re in your adopted country the more you´re going to want to actually be there (at least that was the way I felt). Plus even though you´re abroad you´re still going to school. It´s still NYU. In Madrid, there are still midterms and finals. There isn´t a lot of work there still is some so if you bail weekend after weekend you´re going to end up causing yourself some stress.

If I could do it again, I think I´d travel more locally and skip the big spring break. Italy was lovely, but I felt like I couldn´t fully appreciate it or Istanbul because I wasn´t really fresh. I´d also get off the beaten path. My best trip was definitely to Morocco, a place to which I wouldn´t otherwise have had a chance to travel. I loved Berlin as well and before I went I really had no interest in going. I guess what I´m trying to say is skip the expected, if you´ve already been there with the family there´s probably no need to go back. Sites are cool, but at least for me, they do not a vacation make. No what type of trip you´re looking to have before you go. Relaxation and monuments do not go together.

And lastly leave yourself plenty of time to wander, have adventures and generally do nothing. People seemed to have this (mis)conception that study abroad needs to be action packed with every single second wholly preocupied. I think in some ways this keeps you from acclimating to the local culture because you stay in this sort of “I´m only here for a little while” tourist mindset. Find the pace in your new country, this will help you to get used to the culture and set up your own life there. Most important though, just have fun, and don´t feel guilty about whatever gets you there, even if you´re eating onion rings at a kitsch fifties diner. 

Addendum: I forgot to add one thing - do not overlook Museo del Jamon as a great Spanish place to eat. That may sound silly. Museo del Jamon is not a literal museum of ham but it is like the fast-food jam emporium of Spain, and it's everywhere and really cheap. The thing about museo though is that, while you shouldn't be there all the time, it has great Spanish staples at a great price. Pop in for their 1 euro bocadillos. It also illustrates an important lesson about Madrid, a lot of things look touristy or not high quality because of the way they are presented, like Museo del Jamon, but that's just part of the esthetic and some of those places are really yummy.
 

                            (This is what you´re spring break will end up looking like if you travel too much )      

                           

For those of you who don’t know what a Turkish bath is, I’m not really sure how to explain it without going into all the details. The basic idea is being bathed by someone else, in this case an old Turkish woman. It’s an intense scrub-down, soaping, a little massage, and then a shampoo. We went to the Cağaloğlu Hamami during our stay in Istanbul over spring break. It’s on the “1000 places to go before you die” list so we figured it was worth as worth our time as any old mosque or church. I generally, and maybe conceitedly, think of myself as more or less enlightened, so I figured the experience would be a breeze, an oasis of blissful relaxation devoid of any cultural, or other, awkwardness.

Whenyou first get there you pick your option off a board listed in English, Italian, Spanish, Turkish, and French. A basic package includes everything listed above plus a towel, clogs, and a private room to change. A man then walks “foreigners” through the actual process of the bath. At the time I scoffed a little and didn’t really pay attention because I was eager to actually get in there and away from all the gawking semi-nude men hanging out in their towels in the lobby. The bath is segregated, but men seem to have a lot more use of the entire facility.

Once alone in my private changing room I began to realize the possible awkwardness, or rather discomfort of the situation. My mom had told me to expect people to be more naked than I would in the U.S. I laughed when she said that because it’s an odd thing to say and I don’t think of myself as prudish so why would it matter. However, when it came time to get undressed I left my bathing suit on. It just seemed strange to strip down to an unknown towel and walk out into a brightly lit room of naked strangers.

I hadn’t anticipated that it might feel stranger to be clothed in this environment. As I stepped out into the confusion and din of the marble waiting area, I felt as if an a million watt spotlight was shining right on me. Everyone seemed to be a local, accustomed to what I still didn’t know. Their eyes crossed the room with me as I hurried to my friends’ changing room, trying not to make too much noise in my wooden clogs. This was definitely going to be a learn by doing something wrong sort of situation.

With little direction we wandered ahead into another marble waiting room and then what was clearly the bathing room. Again completely in marble, it was incredibly humid with several small fountains of hot and cold water on each wall and a low bench the whole way around. In each corner was a tiny enclosure with yet more fountains, which we later found out were used after the baths. When we arrived there were few other patrons in the bathing room, and most were already receiving the treatment. The man had told us something about warming or loosening our skin but I wasn’t sure what he meant. Sitting awkwardly in the corner, I prayed I didn’t somehow offend anyone or make a complete fool of myself.

Over the next 15 minutes two things became abundantly clear. We were the only ones with any intention of wearing anything on the top half of our bodies, and the fact that we were was going to hamper our experience. As more and more completely naked women came in, our bathing suits began to seem foolish all together, but the top, in particular, absurd. I mean its skin too, like the rest of the bodies we had brought to be washed. And so, rather unceremoniously, we all took our tops off. And…nothing happened. Nobody laughed; we actually attracted less attention. From that moment on I was able to enjoy the bath experience without the feeling of standing out quite so much.
 
I recognized myself as someone who was not only willing to take chances in theory but to actually do it in practice. It wasn’t about getting a story about the time I took my top off at the Turkish Bath and how awkward it was. It was about accepting it as part of the experience and not feeling awkward about it. Some part of me was still a little kid, skittish around other people’s body parts and partially believing in coodies, and in that moment, it was really holding me back. A lot of this semester, for me, has been about letting go – of preconceived notions, plans, the past, and the present. This moment at the bath was a physical representation of my abroad experience, and really a sign of how much I’ve grown up. I wish I could go back so that I could actually relax and appreciate the bath more, but still I’m happy with the experience I had and the peace of mind it brought.

I can’t say particularly like Megan Jones. She’s sort of a tough person to like. The other day I was watching old commercials in this sweet fifties diner and the original Marlboro man person came on. That is Megan Jones. She is a connoisseur of cigarettes and a master of taking extremely long smoking breaks. Plus she’s kind of a cowboy. Megan is the sort of head of residential life here. Students have the choice of apartments and homestays, and she arranges them. That’s about it. Both the literature and Megan are pretty explicit about the fact that she’s only an intermediary. Once you’re in the living situation her “hands are tied” in terms of getting involved.

I guess I should explain why I had such a bad impression of Megan as it is directly related to the comfort she provided. Megan and I were fine. Then we began to have trouble with our landlord. I think I mentioned we had to move recently (and we’re moving again on Sunday). This is because they suddenly (and without much warning) needed to tear up the entire hallway in our apartment and our bathroom. We got a weeks notice.

At first my three roommates and I didn’t panic. Our landlord seemed levelheaded and promised to keep us in the loop, and we’d have veto power over the location. Things went downhill fast though. Long story short his best solution was the four of us sharing two beds for a month. In retrospect the situation seems funny but at the time we were horrified and felt powerless to affect the situation. Since our building’s a co-op and the repairs were urgent (our downstairs neighbor’s ceiling was coming down), we had no choice but to go somewhere. But where? And for long how long?

That’s about the time I got Megan Jones involved. I figured she’d want to step in on our behalf because she is more Spanish than we are and it seemed somewhat like her responsibility. She pretty much shut me down. Told me we’d have to move but assured me Diego was a good guy and he’d find us a “suitable” apartment. And that’s how things stayed right up until the moment she saved our butts.

It was pretty much the final hour. Tuesday afternoon, repairs were to begin Thursday morning, and we still didn’t have a place to go. Diego had shown us the best option that morning, and we agreed we’d make it work, but had then said he didn’t know if the finances would work out. We parted ways on that note. Then I got a call from him saying he needed to know the days of our spring break. You see a hotel owns the apartment and he wanted to rent around our spring break to save some money. This was the last straw. Not only did he want us to complete four moves in one month, but the only reason was to save money which wasn’t even his. The insurance company paid to cover the gap in our rent. Let’s just say he and I exchanged heated words before my phone died. I still needed to call my other roommate to let her know what had happened, so I headed to the office of student life (where Megan’s desk is) to use their phone.

I burst into their office exasperated, looking visibly upset. At that point I just didn’t know what to do. I mean I knew I wouldn’t be homeless, but I felt like I had no power in the situation and whenever I tried to move forward my landlord did something underhanded. Since the official word seemed to be that we would need to suck it up I felt like I was out of options. The head of student life noticed I was upset and asked me what was wrong and the whole story just kind of came out, especially the part about not having an actual place to live during spring break and needing to move four times with no guarantee our apartment would even be finished before we left Spain. I barely noticed when Megan quietly got up from her desk with her cell phone in hand and stepped out. When she came back she held up her hands; I stopped talking to my roommate who was on speaker phone, and turned to listen. She said, “I just want to let you girls know you have the place for the whole month.” I have never felt such an actual weight come off my shoulders. Megan said for safety reasons we needed to have a homebase at all times, particularly when the school would be closed for two weeks. I didn’t care why; I didn’t care about any of it anymore. I just said thank you and was happy.

This was the greatest comfort Megan could have provided. Sometimes all you need to know is that someone has your back. I’m pretty comfortable here in Spain but when it got into the knitty-gritty of legalities, I felt like I had pretty little standing. Her being in my corner, even if it was begrudgingly or just for a second, made all the difference. I left her office feeling back on my feet and able again. Which was all I really needed.

Just a note: posting this from Florence! 

My relationship with Morocco and its culture, however tangential, stretches way further back than last weekend. My uncle Benz, who’s married to my Aunt Susan (my father’s sister), was born and raised in Fez, which is the spiritual capital of Morocco. His family has for a long time been in the ceramics and mosaic business. These mosaics I’ve always taken for granted. Morocco artifacts have always been around because of him, and I never stopped to question their history.


Not to have been misleading, but the genius loci of Morocco, or at least of Fez, is not its ceramics industry, though that is definitely part of it. It’s the medina. Medina has muliple meanings. The word traditionally means city, but now serves to mean old city, implying that a new, more advanced city has been built, which is very much the case. The medina of Fez is a walled Labyrinth that you should only enter with a guide. On one side is the world of cars and the other the world of donkeys and horses. As you make your way down the impossible narrow, crowded cobblestone streets you might suddenly be shoved to the side by the nuzzle of a horse, or if your lucky be warned by some unfamiliar, incomprehensible cry to move aside.


The medina sells everything imaginable. Most of it is made right there or brought in very locally. During our visit we went to tannery where they still used (pardon me) bird droppings to change and condition the leather. Men wade in great clay tubs of putrid liquid up to their knees. You have to stuff a mint leaf under your nose to keep from becoming sick if you’re going to be exposed to the smell for more than a minute. Mint is readily available is fresh picked bushels on every corner. As are chickens, still alive in their cages; butchers really butcher here. Eggs lie in a basket beside, added as they come, for veiled women with a few small children to come and pluck up for a few dirham as they do their shopping.


The medina has tourists but it is by no means a tourist destination. It is still in everyday use as it always has been. This is wear women and men by their clothes, their wedding outfits, their shoes, food, spices, knickknacks of every kind. There are the latest DVDs, music, and every sort of electronic. Things are generally separated according category, but only people who have lived there their whole lives know how to get around. You could get impossibly lost. Our guide told us before we entered if we got lost we should stay perfectly still and they would come back and find us, and he wasn’t kidding.


The Medina smells at the same time deliciously fragment and rotten, a mixture of animal droppings, fresh bread, and recently cut herbs. Light filters down but seems to come from no where. Its loud but sound seems muted. It is honestly like you’ve stepped into an enclave, a fortress of antiquity hodge-podged with awkward modernity. Still everything seems to fit as it should.


The Medina of Fez imbodies what is the constant identity struggle taking place in Morocco. Morocco is a muslim country, and in Islam repitiion and continuity are very important. The present must have a connection with the past so as to know that nothing in the middle has been corrupted. The Medina of Fez represents this side of Morocco which is so entrenched in its own past, while simultaneously showing the modern side of Morocco. A country closed linked with the US and Europe, and somewhat disassociated with the rest of northern Africa. A stand alone which respects and pursues education and technology. Morocco is an old, advanced country, and the Medina of Fez exemplifies this.
 

I see all of this reflected in my uncle, whom I can definitely say I understand a lot better after my trip. I also see it in Spain. Spain, like Morocco, is a backwards country in many ways. Culturely stagnanted by a leader or two but also in the present taking leaps and bounds.

Yesterday after the great apartment repair debacle, all four of us from the previous apartment moved into our new spot on Calle del Pez. Aside from living in the sweetest quasi-hotel set up ever, we completely lucked out in terms of location. Calle del Pez is a great good place in itself. It´s trendy without being annoying and homey without being demasiado campesino o algo asi.
 
We´ve only been there one night but already the great goodness is overflowing. Last night we went to what is unquestionably the best Chinese restaurant in Madrid. You might be scratching your head as to why in hell anyone would want Chinese food in Spain, and it´s probably for a variety of reasons. Not only do these food cultures seem fairly opposite but also why when you´re in a place with such great national food would you ever venture to the realm of the extranjera. This place, whose name I´m still confused about, is absolutely amazing and completely worth venturing outside the traditional fare. 

Few really know the name of this gem; most refer to it as simply the Chinese place under Plaza de España, which is true as it is in a hallway in a municipal garage along with a couple of Chinese travel agencies. After you locate an entrance to the garage follow your nose until you see a line and smell what is distinctly yummy, msg-y Chinese food. You´ll probably have to wait in line if you have any more than two people as this place is always busy.

No worries though. One of the women working inside will come out and ask you how many people you are and give you a menu. You then spend your wait picking out the sumptuous delicacies to be consumed once you are finally seated. She´ll come back out and take your order. This way by the time you sit down your food is either piping hot and being placed on your table or a minute or two away. Things come out as they´re ready so you can enjoy a nice long slow meal.
 
Must haves:
Dumplings (listed as empanadillas)
Homemade noodle soup (Sopa de tallarines caseros, add a little Sriracha)
Bao
Fried rice noodles (Tallarines de arroz frito)

Everyone goes for the dumplings, they´re casi famosas, but I really love the homemade noodle soup. The noodles are still a little doughy and the broth is rich but not salty. There´s spiced beef, baby shrimp, and some veggies mixed in. Sriracha adds a little heat and you´re ready to go. The bowl by itself is easily one of the best meals ever, but for only 3.95 euros you should definitely order something else. You can sit and enjoy the company of every type of Spaniard, loud families and boisterous university students. This is spot for locals; you wouldn´t find it any other way.
 
I also know, for anyone who´s headed this way, of a Great Moroccan place, La Cocina del Desierto. Hit it up if you´re ever in the area. You will probably need to take a long happy nap.

I first wanted to write about Guernica for this post, but I couldn’t help flashing back to story a friend told me a couple of weeks ago about the Mona Lisa. According to her, some years back the Mona Lisa was stolen by a janitor in the Louvre. This man, of Italian descent, hid the Mona Lisa under his bed for weeks before boarding a plane and returning with the painting to Italy. Upon arriving he promptly presented the Mona Lisa to the Italian government. You see he had just been trying to get back what he thought was rightfully theirs. This man was clearly arrested, but the interesting part of the story is how art can become a symbol, an icon of national pride. This, I guess, gets me back to Guernica.
 
Guernica, painted by Pablo Picasso in 1937 at the request of the Spanish government, depicts bombing of a small town named Guernica by German and Italian forces during the Spanish Civil War. Even though Spaniards at the time surely didn’t understand it (that was kind of the point) they love it.
 
Picasso insisted Guernica return to Spain after its tour of the world. And so while many of the pieces from the greatly prolific artists are scattered around the world, Guernica still makes its home in the Reina Sofia right around the corner from Salvador Dali and only a couple blocks away from Velazquez and Goya. Somehow it feels like they’re all in cahoots, developing a Spanish identity and pride through art. Separated by centuries, there is a sassiness to all of them that just seems so Spanish.
 
Its easy to lose sight of nationality when an artist becomes internationally known and treasured. Sure we don’t forget Di Vinci was Italian but there something about international recognition that sort of makes you seem more like a global citizen. And yet every artist is linked to some nation, and that nation is undoubtedly incredibly proud of them.
 
So its less that these pieces of art from Velazquez, Goya, and Picasso help shape my experience of Spain, and more so that my experience of Spain helps me to understand why these pieces are so important.

I live in Erving Groffman’s front region. Probably as much in terms of state of mind as physical location wise. However, in many ways Madrileños themselves live in the back regions. The most emblematic example is, of course, El Corte Ingles. Just today a friend was searching for the relative American counterpoint. There truly isn’t any, but I’ll try anyway. El Corte Ingles is like the Christmas display at Macy’s on 34th  during the week before Christmas (even though I think Lord and Taylor’s has the better display, the analogy works better with Macy’s). The biggest spectacle you will ever see, as gaudy as possible and filled to the brim with every person imaginable. Still you have to go there; not only because it’s iconic but also because you have actual shopping to get done, and it’s efficient to get it all done there. That’s Corte Ingles in a nutshell.
 
When we first got here we were warned over and again about what a tourist trap Corte Ingles was. The wellness counselor probably told us six or seven times never to shop for food there. Search out the chinos she said (chinos are the bizarre name for tiny fruterias and verdurerias, which pepper the back streets of Madrid); go to the mercados, it’s cheaper there and much more authentic.
 
I happen to live right next to Corte Ingles, or rather in the middle of it. Ours, and there are many like this, is so big it can’t be housed in one building. Instead it has takes up four corners of an intersection with each corner dedicated to a couple features. You name it they definitely have like ten different types of it. They even have their own dry cleaners (take that Macy’s!). Since it’s so close, it’s pretty hard to avoid. You go in thinking you’re just buying a little olive oil and you leave with some salmon, the new Lupe cd, and an umbrella.
 
What’s so strange about Corte Ingles, at least in Puerta del Sol, the center of the city, is that it truly seems like its been designed to provide tourists with everything they could ever need without pushing them too far out of their comfort zones. It feels Spanish without feeling un-American; if that makes any sense. The flip side of that is though that Spaniards, not just Madrileños, really go there. I think the grocery megastore is the most clear example. It never fails to be packed, but not with the people you’d expect. It’s neighborhood people grabbing a few things on their way home from work (Madrileños don’t really do the big cart for the whole week shop).
 
So why push yourself outside this zone, as MacCannell concludes is necessary, if your next door neighbor who’s lived here his whole life doesn’t. True I’ve seen plenty of hostel-dwellers stocking up on a few essentials during their brief stays, but I’ve seen an equal number of Senora’s buying jamon, bonito, and mayonesa just like they always have. I think what’s crucial here is to accept the authentic experience for what it really is. I mean you still go to Washington Square Park right?

The Madrid of H.V. Morton during his travels is not that different from my own, which is sort of miraculous because 1955 Spain was that of Franco. For those who are less familiar with Spanish history, Francisco Franco was a military general who ruled Spain from the end of the Civil War in 1939 until his death in 1975. Without getting too deep into Spanish politics, it should be said that Spain under the dictatorship of Franco was a sort of strange entity. From what I’ve learned since I got here, Franco not only instituted military law but also manipulated culture to his liking. More on this later though
 
Morton’s essay republished in Alice Leccese Powers’ Spain in Mind follows a particular visit he made to Madrid in 1955. It is a snippet of the first night of his trip, but not his first night in Spain. Though I was left overall with the impression that Spain had not changed greatly, two of Morton’s observations stuck out in particular – the fitness of the Spanish people and the religion.
 
Morton first introduces the topic of fitness in saying, “I was impressed by the white cotton gloves which the Customs officers drew on before they probed into the luggage. I was soon to learn that the white gloves are a symbol of the Spanish sense of fitness.” (225) As you can see from this excerpt, fitness in this sense does not relate to physicality but to decency. Spaniards are very decent; they follow an inbred social code, which dictates how one should appear and act. They know it, accept it, and see no reason to explain it.
 
Morton later identifies what is even today a concrete sign of Spanish fitness – women’s hair. All women from the very old to the very young fix their hair before they leave the house. It is usually perfectly set with a slight wave, though the younger population tends to favor bone straight. Accompanying the hair is a perfectly adorned face because decent Spanish women wear make up. Morton explains well the subtle motivation behind this, “no woman would have put on those neat little frocks, black patent leather shoes, and have made sure that that their hair was looking right, had they not expected to be noticed and admired.” (230) People stare here, in the time of Morton and Franco and today. They watch without malice, simply taking note, and that’s why one must be ready.
 
To Morton’s second observation religion, Spain has a complicated relationship with Catholicism, which I cannot admittedly fully explain. Under Franco, who was very Catholic, the church had quite a lot of power. It influenced politics greatly, and people were expected to live their lives as good Catholics. Since I got here every one of my professors and tour guides has commented on the state of Catholicism in Spain. They tell us, “Spain is a secular country but don’t be fooled.”  Spain may have gay marriage but religion stills factors in everyday life. Morton gives a classic example of this when describing his hotel room, “my rooms were featureless and might have been in London, Paris, or Rome, indeed the only touch of a Spanish hand was a picture of the Crucifixion above the bed.” (226) It just gets slipped in; so even though I’m not sure I’d say Spain is a very religious country, it does fit snuggly with Spanish decency and way of life.
 
I suppose I should not be so surprised that the Spain I know is not that different from that of Morton. It has only been 36 years since the death of Franco, and while a lot has changed politically, the evolution of culture takes much longer. But then again, why change? Madrileños seem quite proud of all their Spanishisms. If you were to ask them, why there is no coffee without milk, why women wear fur coats in 60 degree weather, and why they don’t take food to go, they would simply respond, “why would you?”
 
 

Much of my routine here is not that different from NYC. I want to be able to say I don’t even have a routine because my life is spur of the moment/fly by the seat of my pants, but being a student carries with it some norms. Get up, go to school, hang out, come home, and eat. In New York, there is more deadlined work though. One often feels like they are working towards deadline after deadline. Syllabi here are more a list of things that will be covered by the end of the semester. Things tend to move at a leisurely pace and as such real homework becomes less consistent. The time that I’d usually spend frantically trying to catch up on Intro to Macro or running to an internship is now free for new pastimes. These are what I’m trying to develop.
 
Besides watching a fair amount of American television with my roommate, Caroline, I’ve stumbled into a habit of taking little paseos through my neighborhood on the weekends. Spain has a large drinking culture, and most weekend mornings usually start with some sort of hangover ranging from mild to severe (eh, it’s the truth). According to Spaniards, if you drink good red wine you’ll never get hung over, but we’re poor college students. Good wine is usually out of our reach. The hangover actually motivates me to seek out food, which is what gets me out in the calles.
 
I rarely have a direction when I walk. I just have an idea of the type of food I might want to eat. Two weekends ago I started out looking for a new doner kebap place and ended up finding the palace and national cathedral. When I have the option of taking a turn my intuition usually pulls me one way or another. It is extremely hard to get lost here. Even if you think you are heading into the unknown it won’t be long before you find some familiar landmark; still I try. The weekend I found the cathedral I curved and curved until I was suddenly five minutes from my apartment. Weird, but sort of comforting.

These paseos connect my time in Madrid to my home in Boston, where I frequently try to get myself lost. I’m never quite able to there either. It reminds me that what I thought would be a radically different experience in many ways isn’t.
 
My mom always called getting lost taking an adventure, and I think that’s fairly accurate. So far, I’ve let most of my adventures be confined by rain, lack of sun, and chilly weather, continually hoping a day will come when perfect adventure weather will roll around. I think though that getting lost is the only way to get the most out of this experience; something of which I am constantly anxious. Doing this has really helped to bring that out, so I think I’m going to make a keener effort to get lost more.

(I took the picture myself at the Palace in Madrid)

Spanish is a language with a lot cultural politicking. Its speakers tend to have a lot of pride in the pureness and authenticity of their Spanish. A native ear can locate another person’s tongue within their first sentence or two. There are little things that give them away. However, Spanish is much more an umbrella term for a group of associated dialects than it is a concrete language in itself. Every country you go to has a different Spanish – different grammatical rules, spellings, names. Something that is perfectly correct in Puerto Rico is embarrassingly wrong in Spain. I actually had this experience the other day, but I’ll get to that in a second.

Most of the disaccord comes from a sort of superiority complex. Castilian Spanish is supposedly the mother tongue. According to some, all other versions are just more or less corrupted versions of her. These other versions, in order to stake their legitimacy, have two choices. Route A, typified by Puerto Rico, claim that your Spanish is pure because your ancestors are closest to Spain and have not been corrupted by other ethnic groups. Route B is to take pride in the distinctive richness of the adapted language and claim that it is better than the original. For example in Cataluña there isn’t Catalonian Spanish, there is Catalan; its own unique entity entirely.
 
My Spanish is a smorgasbord - Caribbean, South American, and of course Castilian. I’ve spent significant time around speakers from these regions either through classes or personal connections. The most influential have definitely been Puerto Rican and Mexican, and the clearest example of this is the “pa.” Pa is the shortened version of para, which in simplest terms means, “for.” The “pa” is used in phrases like, “pa’que” and “pa’ti,” which sound pretty but aren’t used here in Spain. I’ve tried really hard to eradicate the “pa” from my Spanish, but it still slips in every once in awhile.
 
Back to my bad language experience - I was walking to the bar on Saturday night with a friend when a promoter stopped us. Whenever out in Madrid on a weekend, you are constantly accosted by promoters. They give you their spiel, “dos copas para 8 euros,” so as to entice you into their bar. We barely listened to this guy as we were already set on our destination, and I gave him the cursory, “No gracias.” This guy, who in all truth did not look or speak like a Madrileño, proceeded to berate me in English about how horrible my Spanish was. He knew this, from my two words, because I pronounce gracias without the “s.” He shouted, “gracia gracia, no it’s gracias. Look at your Spanish. That’s horrible Spanish.” I think there was something thrown in about me being American as well. 

I have never received any complaints about my Spanish. In fact usually it is quite the opposite. I have a strong accent that I’ve worked hard to cultivate, and I’ve removed most of the slang from my speech. I actually take pride in my Spanish, so even though this run-in should have been a minor blip in my night I was actually quite offended.  It all comes down to the cultural politics of the language, and the treacherous subleties of speaking it in one country or another. Having people ask me if my Spanish is Puerto Rican or Dominican is actually complimentary given the amount of time I’ve spent in this communities. Having someone tell me I have horrible American Spanish is another thing entirely. So while I still don’t think I’m going to add the “s” to my “gracias” and I am going to try to be more conscious of Castilian Spanish. 

Getting lost in Madrid is actually hard to do. It may not be a grid like New York but somehow things always seem to lead back to each other. I found it much easier to get lost in Berlin. We were dead set on finding some really yummy, authentic German food, but that was harder than it sounds. Bafflingly difficult. In Madrid, all sorts of Spanish food abound. Asturiano, Galician, Basque, there are so many regional varieties of Spanish food ever present. There was also a lot of food diversity in Berlin (a lot of Doner Kebap) but we just couldn’t seem to find any actually from Germany.

 
I think the highlight of our food adventures was our search for a restaurant called Zur Letzen Instanz. In true Madrileño fashion, we left at 9pm and hopped on the train towards the center of the city. That much was easy. We were excited to stuff ourselves on meat and potatoes, our idea of German fare. We got off at and proceeded to wander in every direction for about 45 minutes. We asked pedestrians, fast food employees, and police officers for direction, but none knew how to find the place. Eventually one man with his iphone located the restaurant but because of the language barrier couldn’t communicate the actual directions. That was the moment we decided to take cabs. It ended up being a 3-minute, five-euro ride, but that didn’t matter. We high-fived and fist-pumped our way through the door and hunkered down behind a big wooden table. Then the bomb dropped. The kitchen had just closed. My friend was so irate (and famished) that he just stormed out. We spent the next half our searching in the rain for ANY restaurant that had an open kitchen, and finally settled on the German version of Denny’s. Yum, right.
 

No worries though, we had one more day. One more meal to get it right. We got up early(ish) and made a much more successful trip to the restaurant. As we triumphantly marched up the street, we neglected to notice the shuttered windows. The restaurant was closed. No German food for us.
 

A little perseverance and some more wandering paid off though. We ran up the first set of stairs we found and practically screamed at the woman at the door, “Is the kitchen open?!” It was! Hallelujah!
 

None of this is meant to critique Berlin or its culinary customs. I loved Berlin. When I finally found German food, it was fantastic. We sat at the table for a full two hours to digest our three courses. What our little excursion did make me realize though is just how acclimated I’ve gotten to Madrid. Take for example assuming that people would be eating dinner at 11pm at night. We guy we asked actually laughed at that notion. Instead of comparing Berlin to New York I was constantly comparing it to Madrid. Coming back Sunday night really did feel like coming home, and I’m looking forward to many more adventures anchored by my new home base.

Image: Image is my own taken when I was finally served my German meal.

My feelings about traveling are somewhat contradictory. While I love to travel, I´m scared to go. Perhaps it´s that I´m scared to leave. I´ve made a place my home the thought of making a new one seems uncomfortable at best and downright frightening at worst. In the case of Madrid, I had been so excited to go for months; I rubbed my impending journey in the face of just about every family member or friend I encountered over the winter break. Still, when I woke up, or rather when my alarm went off because I didn´t sleep at all the night before, I was so nervous my hands began to sweat.

I should explain that I have already been here. I went on one of those summer educational trips after my junior year of high school, and we traveled from Madrid to the south and back. Unexpectedly this prior experience actually contributed to my anxiety instead of soothing it. Time undoubtedly softens memories, and mine of my previous time in Spain became the cause of much stress. I remembered feeling completely out of place and disliking just about every custom I encountered. Spaniards tend not to recognize the boundaries of personal space, something I generally embrace. Similarly, although I appreciate a good nap here and there, halting commerce in an entire city for a period of two hours seemed to me somewhat ridiculous (this is clearly a little exaggerated). Even though I was the one who choose to go to Spain, by the morning of January 8thI was all but convinced I was going to hate it.

I sat in the window on my flight from JFK to Dulles and again from Dulles to Madrid-Barajas. For a second night I didn´t sleep, but instead split my time between staring into the dark clouds and watching The Kids Are Alright. It´s a 6 hour flight, which I´m used to, but of course this one felt unusually long. It was still dark when we landed at a quarter to 7:00am local time. I could just make out, as we descended, tiny houses, billboards, and cars. I´m always interested in how sports fields look from above for some reason. I guess it makes me think of familiar communal activities.

Disembarking the plane I was completely alone. I had spent so much time worrying about how foreign the experience would feel, and here I was completely confronted by it - getting through customs, finding my luggage, changing money, and getting another terminal to meet the rest of the group without getting robbed, lost, or losing my sanity all by myself in another language, in another continent, in another world. I´m an independent person, but I worried this was one mission I would completely fail. Then what would happen?

I had forgotten something I had long before figured out – airports are airports, they´re all essentially the same. Needless to say I did not have a single issue finding the group. I was so proud myself by the time I joined them that I felt this quite corny but equally pleasant sensation that everything would be alright. Madrid is in Europe, not Mars.  

Hey there travelers,

I'm fairly horrible with introductions (something to do with never feeling certain of what is actually relevant/interesting), but I'm going to give this one my best shot. My name is Kaitie. I'm a junior at Gallatin concentrating in Sustainable Development. Within that rather vast realm of study, I'm really interested in food and green urban planning. However, I started off thinking I was studying Public Relations, so I'm definitely open to changes in my path. I'm sure things will either get a lot clearer or far more murky by the end of the semester.


I'm originally from Boston, MA (go Red Sox, boo Yankees), but I've moved around a little bit (Concord, MA for High School, Los Angeles for freshman year of college). I definitely love to travel, and this semester feels like my first real foray out into the world. Needless to say, I'm a little overwhelmed. Settling into Madrid has actually been great. NYU provided a somewhat unusual (lots of exams) but interesting orientation, and now three weeks in I catch myself feeling just a little bit Madrileño every once in a while. It pretty much goes without saying that the city and the surrounding area are absolutely stunning. The picture accompanying this post is me staring at the countryside surrounding the Alcázar in Segovia. I was pretty impressed, and can't wait to see more. 

Alright, I'm going to end there. Looking forward to hearing more about all your adventures.


Kaitie