The most happy accident I had in Madrid is stumbling upon the Mercado de San Miguel whilst looking for something else. According to its website, the Mercado de San Miguel began as a bookstore. Today, it's a hugely popular place for madrileños to get drinks and food. The building is itself gorgeous, all wood glass and steel. A person can find nearly every kind of sustenance in this place: vegetarian, chocolates, fruits, tapas, whole fish, beers, wines, etc. The serving stalls occupy the outside perimeter of the building. I hesitate to use the word 'stalls,' because it reminds of a bathroom or county fair; instead, imagine handsome restaurants squeezed into less than 100 sq ft. In typical Madrid custom, you stand as close to one of the workers as possible and shout to them what you want. This may require repeated attempts and one should be patient for mistakes (I once received a small tin plate of marinated squid). Everything is served 'a la carte,' in that single sizes rules this roost. Prices range drastically and I've learned which servers are most economical. For example, I now get three blue cheese croquets at 1.50Euro each, a glass of white Rioja wine for 3Euro, and a fruit pastry for 3Euro. All told, a delicious and small meal for less than 10Euro (of course, I tip -- I'm American and simply cannot *not* leave one).
I returned to the Mercado every day since the first on Thursday. I have not come close to tiring of it. No pictures, unfortunately; the biggest tourists come into the place with biggest cameras snapping photos of people with their mouths open. It's awkward.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Pattern recognition
Friday in Madrid:
RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, cold, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, wind, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, food, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, Canadians, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, nap, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, nap, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, dinner, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, clothes!, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, bed.
RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, cold, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, wind, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, food, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, Canadians, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, nap, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, nap, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, dinner, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, clothes!, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, bed.
La Casa de Campo
The Casa de Campo, lies just to the west of the city centre, on the left bank of the Manzanares River. It is a huge green park, chocked full of walking paths for runners, bike paths for (you guess it) those on wheels, and a series of lakes. The largest lake has an appropriately large fountain. I ran the pedestrian path around the Campo, loving the odd combination of rural surroundings and global metropolis. If anyone reading has visited NYC and its Central Park, the experience should be familiar.
What makes the Campo worth noting is the government's renovation program to the part immediately adjacent the river. That area used to be full of shabby buildings that were, I think, public housing. Those buildings are now gone and an 'area deportivo y peatonal' -- sports and pedestrian area -- now exists in their place. I saw people playing games with dogs, playing soccer, jogging, and, to my great delight, lots of bats. Nobody but me seemed to pay much attention to the bats. Bats are fantastic.
To get into the Campo, I jogged rom my room in the Puerta del Sol crossing through the royal gardens, a series of steps that defied count, a construction site, and finally the Manzanares. The night seemed perfect. A brisk 50F, twilight, no wind, and the bats. Hello bats.
What makes the Campo worth noting is the government's renovation program to the part immediately adjacent the river. That area used to be full of shabby buildings that were, I think, public housing. Those buildings are now gone and an 'area deportivo y peatonal' -- sports and pedestrian area -- now exists in their place. I saw people playing games with dogs, playing soccer, jogging, and, to my great delight, lots of bats. Nobody but me seemed to pay much attention to the bats. Bats are fantastic.
To get into the Campo, I jogged rom my room in the Puerta del Sol crossing through the royal gardens, a series of steps that defied count, a construction site, and finally the Manzanares. The night seemed perfect. A brisk 50F, twilight, no wind, and the bats. Hello bats.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Lost and Found: Nebraska
There is a chain of restaurants in Spain named 'Nebraska.' No joke. It's... well, imagine an upgraded Denny's. I thought it, on seeing one not far from my hostal, a one-off: an otherwise average Spanish bar that lured Americans in with its familiar name. Nope! It's a chain, as common in Madrid as Starbucks. This is to say, they're both awful. The menú did not include pictures of its offerings, but the paper place mats did indeed show all the 'postres caseros' in their coloured glory. I ate lunch at a Nebraska today, purely out of exhaustion. I'd become lost -- again -- after leaving the Universidad Complutense. I made a right instead of a left, wandering into a golf and tennis complex. What I'd expected was the military and government area called La Moncloa. Pretty obvious on seeing the huge wall, gate, and 'solo miembros' sign that I was lost. With aching feet, I walked for an hour re-tracing my erroneous steps but instead made a huge circle around a lovely park.
Let me stop for a moment and share my theory on why I repeatedly get lost in Madrid. First, I'm an American man who refuses to ask directions (regardless of the language). Second, Madrid does not label all of its street names. The city centre streets are named but it's the exclusion to the rule. The places I get lost are precisely those areas lacking street name signs. What saves me is a mixture of old and new technology: the random bus route maps and the iPhone's compass.
Back to the story: by the time I found La Moncloa, I wanted to eat or die. Preferably, sit down. Walking along the Calle Princessa, I saw an Indian restaurant atop a hill. Indian food really drew me, so I walked up a flight of stairs toward the restaurant. I opened the doors, where just inside two guys in waiter attire looked up at me and said "cerramos (we're closed)." Oh. Okay, that sucks. Back on the street I saw a Thai restaurant. This also drew me inside, where a waiter barely 18 said "cerramos en quince minutos (we close in fifteen minutes)." Back on the street, I fumed. What the hell? Walking ever close to the Plaza de España, I remembered with all the drama of a Homer Simpson forehead slap that I had run face-first into the Spanish siesta. Restaurants and bars all over the city would be either closed or doing so soon -- at 430p. I entirely forgot about this quintessentially Spanish custom. Hence, my entering with aching feet into the Nebraska. Chain restaurants in Spain do not follow the siesta because they're usually owned by multinational companies. Thanks multinational company!
(ps, i'm writing this from a Starbucks: the only place I can get reliable internet access.)
Let me stop for a moment and share my theory on why I repeatedly get lost in Madrid. First, I'm an American man who refuses to ask directions (regardless of the language). Second, Madrid does not label all of its street names. The city centre streets are named but it's the exclusion to the rule. The places I get lost are precisely those areas lacking street name signs. What saves me is a mixture of old and new technology: the random bus route maps and the iPhone's compass.
Back to the story: by the time I found La Moncloa, I wanted to eat or die. Preferably, sit down. Walking along the Calle Princessa, I saw an Indian restaurant atop a hill. Indian food really drew me, so I walked up a flight of stairs toward the restaurant. I opened the doors, where just inside two guys in waiter attire looked up at me and said "cerramos (we're closed)." Oh. Okay, that sucks. Back on the street I saw a Thai restaurant. This also drew me inside, where a waiter barely 18 said "cerramos en quince minutos (we close in fifteen minutes)." Back on the street, I fumed. What the hell? Walking ever close to the Plaza de España, I remembered with all the drama of a Homer Simpson forehead slap that I had run face-first into the Spanish siesta. Restaurants and bars all over the city would be either closed or doing so soon -- at 430p. I entirely forgot about this quintessentially Spanish custom. Hence, my entering with aching feet into the Nebraska. Chain restaurants in Spain do not follow the siesta because they're usually owned by multinational companies. Thanks multinational company!
(ps, i'm writing this from a Starbucks: the only place I can get reliable internet access.)
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Cosas variadas
Many things happened today.
Most importantly, I rode the train an hour north of Madrid. I wanted to see El Valle de los Caídos, a monument to the 'glories of fascism and the Catholic Church' built in the 1940's-50's by the dictator Francisco Franco. Unfortunately, I think?, the government closed the memorial until later this year because of renovations. It's pretty strange that the present, democratically elected government keeps maintaining a monument entirely devoted to authoritarian rule. Oh, and wholesale murder of Spanish citizens. There is a law called "La Ley de Memoria" that specifically says that any Spanish government cannot erase the past, regardless of its awfulness. The memory law tries to keep the evil past visible in the future so that, the hope goes, evil will not return. The present government of José Luis Rodriguez Zapatero found a loophole in the memory law that allowed them to remove symbols of Franco's rule, such as statues of the man himself *and* symbols of his Fascist political party, La Falange. El Valle de los Caídos (the Valley of the Fallen) contains many fascist symbols. To ameliorate the discomfort of tourists of all nationalities, the Government covered up the symbols with red tapestries. You might think "well, doesn't the memory law prohibit this?" and the answer is: Yes, it does. The loophole is that the red tapestries do not destroy (the key verb in Spanish is 'borrar,' meaning 'to erase.' The law prohibits any erasing of the past; the government goes around the letter of the law -- but, I reason, not its spirit -- by erecting the tapestries.
Wow, I wrote a lot about a place that I didn't get to visit!
La Comunidad de Madrid (I'll stop to explain that there are two Madrids: the Ayuntamiento ((The City of)) and the Comunidad ((The State of)) -- the Ayuntamiento de Madrid sits inside the much larger Comunidad de Madrid) has a fantastic network of trains called Las Cercanías which spread nearly 50 miles outside the city's borders into other towns within La Comunidad. Imagine if Chicago's CTA also connected South Bend or Milwaukee and you'll have a good idea. So, I walked to the central train station called Atocha and bought a round trip train ride to El Escorial Monestary. The cost was only six euros and the travel time just over an hour. I enjoyed the ride immensely because I saw cows grazing in open fields (which surely would upset American agribusiness), wild deer-like animals, and lots of small towns. I uploaded quite a few pictures from today's voyage into the Picasa photo album, so take a look. Anyway, El Escorial is famous for a few reasons but the most important is its collection of religious (Catholic) texts, ornate monastery, and -- what I enjoyed the most -- El Panteón de los Reyes: The Patheon of Kings. Inside the Pantheon are the tombs/crypts of Spain's royal families beginning in the 1500s and continuing up until today. I read that the present king, Juan Carlos I, and his family will also be interred in the Pantheon. I must say that seeing the caskets of actual kings and queens had a solemness effect. Oh, photography whilst inside El Escorial is prohibited so check out pictures on the site's Wikipedia entry: http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cripta_Real_del_Monasterio_de_El_Escorial
Much more happened today. A lot, really; but, I feel exhausted. This evening I ran more or less 4 miles through Madrid and that was *after* walking all day through El Escorial (including uphill nearly 1.5 miles).
Most importantly, I rode the train an hour north of Madrid. I wanted to see El Valle de los Caídos, a monument to the 'glories of fascism and the Catholic Church' built in the 1940's-50's by the dictator Francisco Franco. Unfortunately, I think?, the government closed the memorial until later this year because of renovations. It's pretty strange that the present, democratically elected government keeps maintaining a monument entirely devoted to authoritarian rule. Oh, and wholesale murder of Spanish citizens. There is a law called "La Ley de Memoria" that specifically says that any Spanish government cannot erase the past, regardless of its awfulness. The memory law tries to keep the evil past visible in the future so that, the hope goes, evil will not return. The present government of José Luis Rodriguez Zapatero found a loophole in the memory law that allowed them to remove symbols of Franco's rule, such as statues of the man himself *and* symbols of his Fascist political party, La Falange. El Valle de los Caídos (the Valley of the Fallen) contains many fascist symbols. To ameliorate the discomfort of tourists of all nationalities, the Government covered up the symbols with red tapestries. You might think "well, doesn't the memory law prohibit this?" and the answer is: Yes, it does. The loophole is that the red tapestries do not destroy (the key verb in Spanish is 'borrar,' meaning 'to erase.' The law prohibits any erasing of the past; the government goes around the letter of the law -- but, I reason, not its spirit -- by erecting the tapestries.
Wow, I wrote a lot about a place that I didn't get to visit!
La Comunidad de Madrid (I'll stop to explain that there are two Madrids: the Ayuntamiento ((The City of)) and the Comunidad ((The State of)) -- the Ayuntamiento de Madrid sits inside the much larger Comunidad de Madrid) has a fantastic network of trains called Las Cercanías which spread nearly 50 miles outside the city's borders into other towns within La Comunidad. Imagine if Chicago's CTA also connected South Bend or Milwaukee and you'll have a good idea. So, I walked to the central train station called Atocha and bought a round trip train ride to El Escorial Monestary. The cost was only six euros and the travel time just over an hour. I enjoyed the ride immensely because I saw cows grazing in open fields (which surely would upset American agribusiness), wild deer-like animals, and lots of small towns. I uploaded quite a few pictures from today's voyage into the Picasa photo album, so take a look. Anyway, El Escorial is famous for a few reasons but the most important is its collection of religious (Catholic) texts, ornate monastery, and -- what I enjoyed the most -- El Panteón de los Reyes: The Patheon of Kings. Inside the Pantheon are the tombs/crypts of Spain's royal families beginning in the 1500s and continuing up until today. I read that the present king, Juan Carlos I, and his family will also be interred in the Pantheon. I must say that seeing the caskets of actual kings and queens had a solemness effect. Oh, photography whilst inside El Escorial is prohibited so check out pictures on the site's Wikipedia entry: http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cripta_Real_del_Monasterio_de_El_Escorial
Much more happened today. A lot, really; but, I feel exhausted. This evening I ran more or less 4 miles through Madrid and that was *after* walking all day through El Escorial (including uphill nearly 1.5 miles).
Intenté de comer
Hello from the library of the Universidad Complutense de Madrid. A few minutes ago I entered the university in hopes of finding food and a place to read. Yes, this is a world capital and yes, a thousand places offer both of those hopes under the same room, but I want to see this campus. Every university has a cafeteria and library.
What luck that the first building I enter happens to house both! I followed the signs for the cafeteria which, it seems, occupies the lowest part of the building´s basement. I wondered if the signs were really a trick as I made yet another downward circuit. Perhaps I misread ´cafeteria´for ´bomb shelter´? Anyway, I did find it and immediately felt more lost. The cafeteria uses a series of touch screens for ordering food. You enter money then touch a corresponding button for the things you want. I read the instructions at least five times. Watching the crowds of students went a long way to assuring that I understood the process. So, you insert the money and select what you want; then, a ticket drops below as well as any change. Now that I think of it, it´s exactly like any mass transit ticket machine. Huh. I watched the students take their tickets to a bar area. Men took their tickets and, voila, handed over lunch. For as long as I stood watching and learning the process, it´s ridiculously simple and efficient. I entered my 20 euros, selected a goat cheese sandwich with coffee. The machine made a noise not anything like I´d heard when observing others. My 20 euro note spit out. I tried the process again. Same horrible noise. I noticed then a sign "no acepta los 20." UGH. I had a 20 and 50 euro note in my wallet. I felt ridiculous, thwarted. Not once during the 10 or so minutes that I watched people use the machine did I notice that sign. Feeling ridiculous, I walked out of the cafeteria and up the many many stairs towards the second floor library. I´m still hungry.
Today is beautiful.
What luck that the first building I enter happens to house both! I followed the signs for the cafeteria which, it seems, occupies the lowest part of the building´s basement. I wondered if the signs were really a trick as I made yet another downward circuit. Perhaps I misread ´cafeteria´for ´bomb shelter´? Anyway, I did find it and immediately felt more lost. The cafeteria uses a series of touch screens for ordering food. You enter money then touch a corresponding button for the things you want. I read the instructions at least five times. Watching the crowds of students went a long way to assuring that I understood the process. So, you insert the money and select what you want; then, a ticket drops below as well as any change. Now that I think of it, it´s exactly like any mass transit ticket machine. Huh. I watched the students take their tickets to a bar area. Men took their tickets and, voila, handed over lunch. For as long as I stood watching and learning the process, it´s ridiculously simple and efficient. I entered my 20 euros, selected a goat cheese sandwich with coffee. The machine made a noise not anything like I´d heard when observing others. My 20 euro note spit out. I tried the process again. Same horrible noise. I noticed then a sign "no acepta los 20." UGH. I had a 20 and 50 euro note in my wallet. I felt ridiculous, thwarted. Not once during the 10 or so minutes that I watched people use the machine did I notice that sign. Feeling ridiculous, I walked out of the cafeteria and up the many many stairs towards the second floor library. I´m still hungry.
Today is beautiful.
La polícia
Before I forget, the police are everywhere in Madrid. At least, everywhere that I go. The national police, the Guardia Civil, and the city police occupy every possible public space. I reckon that their presence could strike some people as too much, but not until this morning did I see the police engage in police-like activities. Specifically, they gave a ticket to a guy riding a Vespa scooter. By ´they´I mean ´three cops.´It was weird and seemed a bit heavy-handed.
I like the mounted police a lot. Cops on horse are charming anachronisms. They amble along on huge, but cute, animals;yet, they also use wireless devices and huge, but terrifying, weapons. I see a pair of them every day thus far, both in the Puerta del Sol and the Plaza de Castilla. Apparently both the tourists and the businessmen need watching from atop a horse.
This afternoon, a squad of national police canine units posed for pictures. It struck me as incredible. These enormous men holding the leashes on enormous German Shepards stood at the Plaza de Castilla while tourists snapped photos. Of course I took that open opportunity and will post the pictures (hopefully) tonight. The temptation to pet the dogs was enormous. The risk of getting mauled or shot kept my hands under control.
I like the mounted police a lot. Cops on horse are charming anachronisms. They amble along on huge, but cute, animals;yet, they also use wireless devices and huge, but terrifying, weapons. I see a pair of them every day thus far, both in the Puerta del Sol and the Plaza de Castilla. Apparently both the tourists and the businessmen need watching from atop a horse.
This afternoon, a squad of national police canine units posed for pictures. It struck me as incredible. These enormous men holding the leashes on enormous German Shepards stood at the Plaza de Castilla while tourists snapped photos. Of course I took that open opportunity and will post the pictures (hopefully) tonight. The temptation to pet the dogs was enormous. The risk of getting mauled or shot kept my hands under control.
Café americano
She asked, "no sugar, right?"
The woman working the register at the café where I get breakfast every morning remembered that I don´t take sugar with coffee. After a moment of surprised silence, I said "¿tú recuerdas?"
She smiled with a "sí." I took the tray on which she placed the sandwhich and walked to the next station. Standing there, waiting for the coffee, I felt thrilled. Her remembering the sugar is a small thing; it´s next to nothing. But, I felt accomplished. Every time I travel, the goal is to blend into the population; to be as inconspicuous as possible. In other words, to not be a fucking obvious tourist. In that tiny moment after her question, I felt like any other madrileño wanting breakfast. That moment held an identity within which I was as Spanish as the group of suited men to the right. I was not myself: the easily intimidated American tourist who speaks Spanish as though in a seizure or recovering from terror. My skin tingled from the experience.
A few seconds later, I realised that the group of suited men to my right were staring at me; the barista was holding out my coffee with his eyebrows raised. I snapped to attention and started to speak. The barista said "American coffee?" I mumbled a tortured acknowledgement, stared at the floor, took my coffee, and walked quickly to find an empty table. Me and my American coffee.
The woman working the register at the café where I get breakfast every morning remembered that I don´t take sugar with coffee. After a moment of surprised silence, I said "¿tú recuerdas?"
She smiled with a "sí." I took the tray on which she placed the sandwhich and walked to the next station. Standing there, waiting for the coffee, I felt thrilled. Her remembering the sugar is a small thing; it´s next to nothing. But, I felt accomplished. Every time I travel, the goal is to blend into the population; to be as inconspicuous as possible. In other words, to not be a fucking obvious tourist. In that tiny moment after her question, I felt like any other madrileño wanting breakfast. That moment held an identity within which I was as Spanish as the group of suited men to the right. I was not myself: the easily intimidated American tourist who speaks Spanish as though in a seizure or recovering from terror. My skin tingled from the experience.
A few seconds later, I realised that the group of suited men to my right were staring at me; the barista was holding out my coffee with his eyebrows raised. I snapped to attention and started to speak. The barista said "American coffee?" I mumbled a tortured acknowledgement, stared at the floor, took my coffee, and walked quickly to find an empty table. Me and my American coffee.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
los 50s
Dios mío...
I remembered today how life before 1995 felt. In a word: shitty. Madrid hates me. Specifically, Madrid´s internet providers hate me. It´s now 810a, Tuesday. I am officially in the city for 12 hours and only now could I get access to the internet. The hostal´s wifi connection doesn´t work. I walked to a café and to Starbucks. Both places refused to allow my American devices to connect. I point out American because I can, not because something about their place of origin actually matters (they´re all made in China, anyway). Again, it feels like the days of modems. Shitty.
I am posting this in case the internet connection suddenly drops.
I hope to post pictures taken today (and there are many) very soon. That is, if los dioses madrileños permitan.
I remembered today how life before 1995 felt. In a word: shitty. Madrid hates me. Specifically, Madrid´s internet providers hate me. It´s now 810a, Tuesday. I am officially in the city for 12 hours and only now could I get access to the internet. The hostal´s wifi connection doesn´t work. I walked to a café and to Starbucks. Both places refused to allow my American devices to connect. I point out American because I can, not because something about their place of origin actually matters (they´re all made in China, anyway). Again, it feels like the days of modems. Shitty.
I am posting this in case the internet connection suddenly drops.
I hope to post pictures taken today (and there are many) very soon. That is, if los dioses madrileños permitan.
Como un zombi
Today, I walked most of downtown Madrid on a hunt for wireless internet.
It continues to amaze me how nearly impossible it is to get wireless internet in the city.
The Starbucks I visited yesterday uses a shared hosting service. I couldn´t connect.
I walked by it today and tried to connect with the iPhone. The connection immediately worked.
Amazed, I sat down on the sidewalk and pulled out my laptop. The same problem as yesterday: wifi
signal is fine but the hosting service webpage where one logs in would not open.
Several newspaper kiosks broadcast wireless service, also through a hosting agency. I tried again
both devices and both worked! Sadly, there were not any places to sit and this particular kiosk is
in a very busy pedestrian area. Anyway, I kept walking and again tried a nearer my hostal. This kiosk´s
internet service didn´t work at all (I asked the vendor).
Like a zombie searching for brains, I walk around Madrid looking for functional internet access. Hello, 1990´s.
Update!
So, this is wonderful! The hostal uses two PCs from the Clinton administration for 'guest use.' I will upload a photo of them later. You all must see the keyboard. Anyway, I pulled out the ethernet cable from one and connected it to my laptop. Instant internet access. Huzzah!
Now I can post proper vacation entries. Geez.
It continues to amaze me how nearly impossible it is to get wireless internet in the city.
The Starbucks I visited yesterday uses a shared hosting service. I couldn´t connect.
I walked by it today and tried to connect with the iPhone. The connection immediately worked.
Amazed, I sat down on the sidewalk and pulled out my laptop. The same problem as yesterday: wifi
signal is fine but the hosting service webpage where one logs in would not open.
Several newspaper kiosks broadcast wireless service, also through a hosting agency. I tried again
both devices and both worked! Sadly, there were not any places to sit and this particular kiosk is
in a very busy pedestrian area. Anyway, I kept walking and again tried a nearer my hostal. This kiosk´s
internet service didn´t work at all (I asked the vendor).
Like a zombie searching for brains, I walk around Madrid looking for functional internet access. Hello, 1990´s.
Update!
So, this is wonderful! The hostal uses two PCs from the Clinton administration for 'guest use.' I will upload a photo of them later. You all must see the keyboard. Anyway, I pulled out the ethernet cable from one and connected it to my laptop. Instant internet access. Huzzah!
Now I can post proper vacation entries. Geez.
Spanglish
I saw some excellent misspellings of Spanish words into English at Barajas airport. I took a few notes: "Fire guns" instead of 'firearms' or 'hand guns' and "Skies" instead of 'skis." These made me laugh. First, I was really tired from the flight and second, I read an article in El País a few months ago about the Spanish government's ambitions to curb 'Spanglish' from official signs. Perhaps nobody from the government collects their luggage at Belt 1, which is where I saw the misspellings.
It seems a bit mean spirited to hunt for more. But! I probably will, anyway.
It seems a bit mean spirited to hunt for more. But! I probably will, anyway.
El hostal
I left my (Steven's) suitcase at the hostal office. At 930a. The room wouldn't be ready until Noon. To kill time, I walked around the Puerta del Sol taking photos; then, I walked into a cafe for breakfast: a bocadilla con tortilla (a potato, egg, and tomato mixture inside a baguette) and coffee. Also, I "met" American university students ordering their coffee in English. Finally, 45 more minutes before Noon, I went into El Corte Inglés and bought a book by José Saramago.
Back in the vestibule outside the hostal office. I hope for the love of something that I can register now. My feet hurt. I cannot think in either language (mis habilidades de hablar habían volado). I want a shower and a nap. The order is unimportant.
Back in the vestibule outside the hostal office. I hope for the love of something that I can register now. My feet hurt. I cannot think in either language (mis habilidades de hablar habían volado). I want a shower and a nap. The order is unimportant.
La electricidad
I took a three hour nap after having a very cold shower. The hot water may not function before 4p. I don't know. The same might be true for handsoap and shampoo. The cold shower helped battle the jet lag. The world seemed too bright and out of focus.
I went into El Corte Inglés to buy a power adaptor. I forgot that Spain (and all of Europe) use 220 connections. After looking throughout the five floors of electronics, I asked one of the workers. Whatever he said remains a complete fucking mystery. I do remember the phrase "el otro edificio," meaning 'the other building.' ECI has three buildings at the Puerta del Sol, each specialising in different areas: elecrtonics, fashion/food, and books. I had no idea why he mentioned the other building; nor, at the moment did I care. Discouraged, I walked away. Very likely, I misunderstood his directions. I walked to the 3rd floor of the electronics area to ask another person; instead, I left the store, heartbroken. This makes me crazy. I flew to Spain in large part to improve my Spanish; yet, I feel intimidated by store workers.
Back at the hostal, I asked the woman cleaning the rooms if she knew where I might buy an adaptor. She did and quite near at hand! The hostal keeps three of them for North American guests to borrow. Well! My opinion of the place changed for the better. My laptop and various electronics were happy.
I went into El Corte Inglés to buy a power adaptor. I forgot that Spain (and all of Europe) use 220 connections. After looking throughout the five floors of electronics, I asked one of the workers. Whatever he said remains a complete fucking mystery. I do remember the phrase "el otro edificio," meaning 'the other building.' ECI has three buildings at the Puerta del Sol, each specialising in different areas: elecrtonics, fashion/food, and books. I had no idea why he mentioned the other building; nor, at the moment did I care. Discouraged, I walked away. Very likely, I misunderstood his directions. I walked to the 3rd floor of the electronics area to ask another person; instead, I left the store, heartbroken. This makes me crazy. I flew to Spain in large part to improve my Spanish; yet, I feel intimidated by store workers.
Back at the hostal, I asked the woman cleaning the rooms if she knew where I might buy an adaptor. She did and quite near at hand! The hostal keeps three of them for North American guests to borrow. Well! My opinion of the place changed for the better. My laptop and various electronics were happy.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
I failed the test
I sat the Intermediate-level DELE exam in November. I learned this week that I failed, and spectacularly. The DELE assesses Spanish competency based on five sections. Those five sections exist within three major categories: grammar, comprehension and writing. I failed all five of the sections assessed by the exam. I failed several sections by wide margins, such as 14 points earned out of a possible 25. I expected to fail the exam but not to fail every section. What should I make of this?
After I sat the DELE, I began to entertain the possibility that I reached the nadir of my progress in the language. Sure, I can learn a new word or phrase but the potential to use the language is gone. I intentionally chose the verb 'to use' because my relationship with the Spanish language is akin to that of a parrot's relationship with English. A parrot can 'say' words but it cannot form sentences befitting a context. "Polly want a cracker" is not the same as "My feet are killing me, so let's take the subway."
Speaking the language is humiliating. I immediately become the village idiot when talking to a native speaker. I hear the mistakes leaving my mouth and then want to crawl into a hole. The texture of this situation is that of a social anxiety disorder. My brain wants to engage. Instead, it misfires.
I have not yet learned how to think in Spanish. I cannot express my feelings, environment, routines in Spanish. I cannot use the language to communicate with a Spanish speaker. I possess skills good enough to receive the language (reading) but not good enough to transmit the language (speaking, writing).
I recently read an essay about the lives of great English authors. The essay's author notes towards the end that the authors 'lived, worked, thrived, and died in the language.' That is a touching description. In the aftermath of the exam failure, I wonder how to 'live' in the Spanish language. It seems impossible. I don't use the language every day, because I am not forced. Every day is an English day: English at the café, English at the office, English at school, English at a restaurant. Spanish happens because I make it so: pick up a book, listen to a podcast, listen to Spanish music, read a website, or flip through note cards. I don't daily speak the language because I am not forced. Learning the language feels more and more futile.
This week, I wrote a message in Spanish that my boss wants to send to our Latin American teams. I asked a colleague in México to read it, make any changes he felt necessary, and send it back to me. He did exactly as I asked. His suggestions for revision was essentially to throw out the original. Nearly every sentence that I wrote contained a mistake. He did not understand an entire section ("i am not sure what you are wanting to say here"). I wished that I never asked.
Two weeks ago, a man from a plant in México called my department. He asked me if I spoke Spanish because, I "said his name right" (Raúl Saavedra). I said no.
After I sat the DELE, I began to entertain the possibility that I reached the nadir of my progress in the language. Sure, I can learn a new word or phrase but the potential to use the language is gone. I intentionally chose the verb 'to use' because my relationship with the Spanish language is akin to that of a parrot's relationship with English. A parrot can 'say' words but it cannot form sentences befitting a context. "Polly want a cracker" is not the same as "My feet are killing me, so let's take the subway."
Speaking the language is humiliating. I immediately become the village idiot when talking to a native speaker. I hear the mistakes leaving my mouth and then want to crawl into a hole. The texture of this situation is that of a social anxiety disorder. My brain wants to engage. Instead, it misfires.
I have not yet learned how to think in Spanish. I cannot express my feelings, environment, routines in Spanish. I cannot use the language to communicate with a Spanish speaker. I possess skills good enough to receive the language (reading) but not good enough to transmit the language (speaking, writing).
I recently read an essay about the lives of great English authors. The essay's author notes towards the end that the authors 'lived, worked, thrived, and died in the language.' That is a touching description. In the aftermath of the exam failure, I wonder how to 'live' in the Spanish language. It seems impossible. I don't use the language every day, because I am not forced. Every day is an English day: English at the café, English at the office, English at school, English at a restaurant. Spanish happens because I make it so: pick up a book, listen to a podcast, listen to Spanish music, read a website, or flip through note cards. I don't daily speak the language because I am not forced. Learning the language feels more and more futile.
This week, I wrote a message in Spanish that my boss wants to send to our Latin American teams. I asked a colleague in México to read it, make any changes he felt necessary, and send it back to me. He did exactly as I asked. His suggestions for revision was essentially to throw out the original. Nearly every sentence that I wrote contained a mistake. He did not understand an entire section ("i am not sure what you are wanting to say here"). I wished that I never asked.
Two weeks ago, a man from a plant in México called my department. He asked me if I spoke Spanish because, I "said his name right" (Raúl Saavedra). I said no.
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