Friday, June 10, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Stop learning, start speaking.
I read a website that argues against nearly every method of learning/using the Spanish language. The author poo-poo's intercambio as the fail-proof method of improvement. His argument went in two directions: one, that a learner is inclined to 'listen' rather than 'use' the language (perhaps, I gather out of anxiety of embarrassment); two, that the learner assumes the intercambio as a silver-bullet to fluency. I fell into both of these categories. More the second as of late than the first. The first, fear of embarrassment, exists more so in the formative language years. I recall with horror my getting lost in the monastery of El Escorial earlier this year, unable to form the words to describe my predicament. Now, on home turf and after a decade of exposure, the fear is gone. Now, I want much more to impress. The second reason, the assumption that intercambio is a panacea, is one to which I certainly "fell victim." I know nearly no one with whom I can use the language. It seemed (seems) fair to presume that using a language -- like any skill -- keeps and develops the mastery of such. I'm not sure why the author concludes this, but it does bring an mount of space for relief. His suggestion to abandon verb tables gets my whole-hearted applause. He advocates that one should treat verb conjugations as separate, distinct words rather than iterations of the infinitive. For example: sé and saben mean two different things in a sentence, so treat them as such. This works for me! Especially salient are the modismos created from tener, hacer and echar. Moreover, the best advice that I read - and that oft-repeated by teachers - is to it every day but not an hour. No, much more than sixty minutes. Throw out the idea that one needs/should take "breaks" from Spanish. Can a native English speaker take a "break" from English? Nope. This makes one hell of a lot of sense. I might revise the motivational scrawl at my office desk from una hora todos los días to una hora a la oficina sino mucho más en casa. This hours are mind to find and exploit. ¡Viva castellano!
Wishlist
I wrote this in the written journal. I forgot, then, to write the date.
I wish that I would meet someone that I respect.
I wish that someone would expect more form me.
I wish that I would accomplish something beautiful.
I wish that I would jettison the conditioning of accepting other people's values.
I wish that my actual courage matched the desired.
I wish that I could remember.
I wish that I could better hold a conversation.
I wish that I didn't mind being 32.
I wish that I didn't mind being single.
I wish that I had a talent.
I wish that I were somebody else.
I wish that I could better manage confrontation.
I will remove the attendance policy from the syllabus.
I removed Twitter from the iPhone/iPad.
I will finish reading 'Franny and Zooey' this afternoon.
I will remember that First World problems are still problems.
I wish that I would meet someone that I respect.
I wish that someone would expect more form me.
I wish that I would accomplish something beautiful.
I wish that I would jettison the conditioning of accepting other people's values.
I wish that my actual courage matched the desired.
I wish that I could remember.
I wish that I could better hold a conversation.
I wish that I didn't mind being 32.
I wish that I didn't mind being single.
I wish that I had a talent.
I wish that I were somebody else.
I wish that I could better manage confrontation.
I will remove the attendance policy from the syllabus.
I removed Twitter from the iPhone/iPad.
I will finish reading 'Franny and Zooey' this afternoon.
I will remember that First World problems are still problems.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Redux
Steven and I broke up. Last Saturday, whilst awaiting the Apocalypse, Jessie and I sat that the bar at Butch's enjoying conversation with the bartender (also named Steve). I shared the breakup story with Jessie. He latched onto what hitherto seemed to me the most innocuous detail: Steven's academic elitism. "He threw Michigan State into your face? Not Harvard or Chicago?" This pleasantly derailed my narrative train. Jessie concluded that "you deserve better than that."
I should point out that Jessie and I are not friends. Our relationship is best described as acquaintances. This distinction is not a petty one; though, I welcome a change towards the former. It struck me that we seemed to enjoy the others' company in a neutral setting that's not Lemonjellos. Perhaps he and I will get to know the other more? I also notice that the company of friends and others: Mike, Darcy, mom, Jessie, LJs, brings a lot more peace than any time spent with Steven. Lesson learned. What other lessons learned?
No compromises regarding Ryu. Ryu lives in my house. Nobody changes Ryu's routine (absent a medical reason). Someone doesn't like Ryu on the bed, then let them go home at night. Ryu sleeps wherever he wants.
Someone privileges merchandise over people, let them be alone with their nice things.
If someone cannot be happy where they are, let them be alone and unhappy.
If someone cannot speak with respect to the downtrodden, the homeless, the poor, then let them enjoy alone the sound of their own arrogance.
I should point out that Jessie and I are not friends. Our relationship is best described as acquaintances. This distinction is not a petty one; though, I welcome a change towards the former. It struck me that we seemed to enjoy the others' company in a neutral setting that's not Lemonjellos. Perhaps he and I will get to know the other more? I also notice that the company of friends and others: Mike, Darcy, mom, Jessie, LJs, brings a lot more peace than any time spent with Steven. Lesson learned. What other lessons learned?
No compromises regarding Ryu. Ryu lives in my house. Nobody changes Ryu's routine (absent a medical reason). Someone doesn't like Ryu on the bed, then let them go home at night. Ryu sleeps wherever he wants.
Someone privileges merchandise over people, let them be alone with their nice things.
If someone cannot be happy where they are, let them be alone and unhappy.
If someone cannot speak with respect to the downtrodden, the homeless, the poor, then let them enjoy alone the sound of their own arrogance.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Doomsday Prophet
I saw yesterday a street prophet. He wore a brown sack-cloth. He held a home-made sign: REPENT! The End Is Near!
Jessie and I, along with the passive involvement of Mark and Emily, watched the 21st century John the Baptist - tall with long, wild grey hair - walk along College Avenue. He then walked into the carpark behind the Brewery. He stood near a vehicle we couldn't yet see. We watched him pull the sack-cloth robes over his head. A startling transformation: from preacher to Gap-clothed hippie. He stowed the warning sign. My fellow patrons on the patio took guesses as to what vehicle the man drove. We were delighted to see him reverse from the space and into view to reveal an orange Jeep Wrangler. "Maybe he needs it to navigate the soon-to-be-wasted terrain?" someone wondered. As we watched the cargo-shorted prophet maneuver his 4x4 into the street, we saw then the cherry to top the narrative: a plush viking hat (replete with concave horns) adorning the Wrangler's dashboard. The patio laughed. The herald of the Lord's pending doom must have heard us. He turned to give us a little grin. "He might accidentally get Rapture'd to Valhalla." "Do you think that he's a Minnesota Vikings fan?" Another of our peanut gallery wondered to whom this man prayed: Odin or Favre?
Jessie and I, along with the passive involvement of Mark and Emily, watched the 21st century John the Baptist - tall with long, wild grey hair - walk along College Avenue. He then walked into the carpark behind the Brewery. He stood near a vehicle we couldn't yet see. We watched him pull the sack-cloth robes over his head. A startling transformation: from preacher to Gap-clothed hippie. He stowed the warning sign. My fellow patrons on the patio took guesses as to what vehicle the man drove. We were delighted to see him reverse from the space and into view to reveal an orange Jeep Wrangler. "Maybe he needs it to navigate the soon-to-be-wasted terrain?" someone wondered. As we watched the cargo-shorted prophet maneuver his 4x4 into the street, we saw then the cherry to top the narrative: a plush viking hat (replete with concave horns) adorning the Wrangler's dashboard. The patio laughed. The herald of the Lord's pending doom must have heard us. He turned to give us a little grin. "He might accidentally get Rapture'd to Valhalla." "Do you think that he's a Minnesota Vikings fan?" Another of our peanut gallery wondered to whom this man prayed: Odin or Favre?
Sunday, March 13, 2011
El Mercado de San Miguel
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.
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.
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).
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