So you had a bad day...

I told you the story about the man who was in Hiroshima when it got bombed. Then, a few days later, he drove to Nagasaki to be with his family, which in turn, got bombed on the day he arrived. If you survive two atomic bombs, then you can say you've got the worst (or best?) luck in the world.

Santander can't exactly top that. But it comes relatively close. Close enough for me to rethink my "worst day ever" that involved tripping on my computer cable and soaring into my closet thus breaking the clothes rack and getting in a fight with my teacher about a lack of homework.

Get this: in the last part of the 1800's, there was a cargo ship docked in the port of Santander. Back then, apparently, they didn't understand dynamite. And felt it was a good idea to break cargo regulations and load the ship up with 500 cases of dynamite, instead of the maximum 20. Don't push the limit or anything, oh genius ones. Something about Santanderians makes them very inclined towards lighting things on fire, because as hundreds of spectators gathered, the ship began to burn. It probably seemed like a nice way to spend your evening, watching a massive ship slowly smolder and sink. Someone in that crowd must have really irritated the Big Man in the Clouds, because what happens next is just sheer stupidity and fate.

A small boat called the Juliet (ironic?) was sent out to blast bullets into the water around the ship. I am not entirely sure what they thought that would do; perhaps it was to create holes in the boat to make it sink faster? At the same time, those still on board were using sledge hammers to smash out the metal shafts in the side of the boat. The thing about dynamite is that it doesn't explode by being light on fire. It explodes when there is a loud vibrating noise. Don't ask me to explain that because that's just what my British culture teacher told me, and he is British so just go with it. The combination of the vibrations from the bullets smashing into the boat and the metal clashing of the unlucky sailors resulted in the explosion of 500 units of dynamite. The Juliet, to put it bluntly, was never found. Although they did find a piece of the anchor of the cargo ship on the other side of the bay. And some pieces of bodies and other interesting things. The Cathedral and the entire bay area was obviously destroyed, and those eager boat watchers were, well, smited. As I said, God wasn't smiling down that day.

Jump a few years ahead: in 1941, the entire city center burned down. It was one of those summer nights when the southern wind was blowing really dry and warm air through Santander, the type of wind that brings out the sangria, the salsa dancing, and the summer loving to the terraces at night. Ohhh la la, right? Not so much. Because some really brilliant person decided to let their house catch on fire. Which, thanks to the southern wind which everyone was out enjoying, meant that the small house fire turned into the homelessness of thousands of people and the destruction of the city. Way to go, buddy. Way. To. Go. I bet his neighbors were wondering what on earth he was doing in his house lighting things on fire when he should have been out on his terrace drinking like everyone else. What an epic fail.

The center has been rebuilt now, and everyone is pretty much done mourning their lost houses and friends and family. In the place of their twice replaced houses and un-replaced families, they have bitterness towards neighbors (and I just thought it was because I am American and overly-smiley. Nope. I might be the next one to burn the city down for all they know.) You can't exactly blame them for being really protective of their houses when hooligans keep coming along and blowing them up. And their kids? Yeah, I'd probably be a little overly protective as well.

Who do you call?

I tend to stumble upon things. Most of the really fabulous areas of cities that I have found have been accidents. Some people, mostly children, according to my culture teacher, stumble apon Homospeians and other ancient humans. The culture class has evolved into an ancient civilizations class; the result is two hours Monday and Wednesday learning about caves and Lucy... she's one hot mama. I'll add a picture so you know how attractive we used to be, in our earlier stages of life. Our professor actually met the man who discovered Lucy, who lived about 3.2 million years ago in a valley in Africa, when he was "taking a rest" while searching for fossils. He told our teacher that he leaned back, put his hand down behind him, and there she was. Well, she being her leg bone and by the afternoon there were swarms of people freaking out about the skeleton. The Altimira cave, which I visited last semester, was discovered by a six year old girl. I am just wondering what the hell she did when she found it? Who do you even call, if you happen to find a skeleton? Or a cave full of paintings of animals. A six year old boy discovered another set of caves, but he happened to be the son of an archeologist so his exclamation was probably: "Oh, excuse me Daddy, there happen to be ancient hand prints all over this wall, just thought you'd like to know." What happens if I am just walking around and happen upon Lucy's brother... I certainly wouldn't have the slightest idea what to do in that situation. I suppose I'd call up someone at the Altimira cave, since that's the only place I can relate to it. Or perhaps that would yield the attention of Obama? If the majority, or shall I say all of the ancient specimen of human have been discovered in the European region, then perhaps they should hand out fliers on airplanes: What to do if you happen to find your great-great-great-great to the thousandth power grandfather, and who to contact. Seems like it would be awfully helpful. My teacher found a rock in th Picos de Europa which is between 350 and 370 million years old. He can tell that based off these crustacian fossils in the rock. The rock was sitting up on a sheep fence, used to make sure none of those wooly little buddies escaped. How he managed to get the nice hunky slab of rock down the Picos alive I would love to know. Hiking down with my backpack about killed me, and he has a 30 year old daughter to give you a time stamp on how old he is. He probably just popped it in his pack, no big deal, and frolicked down the mountain in a British manner.

I love everything British. Today, Lee told us that he loves scanners. And that he spend the weekend "scanning like mad." British people just have a fantastic, hilarious vocabulary that I think I find far too amusing because I am the only one who seems to find him overly hilarious. He made a comment about us having to adapt to his British humor, and I would like to credit Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging as well as Bridget Jones for teaching me just how much funnier the Brits are than Americans. The moral of this story is that while learning about carnivorous humans, I regularly end up being the one laughing by myself over his sentence structure and word choice.

On a not so British note, I managed to be fabulously American last weekend and walked into a nursing home thinking it was a cathedral. I'm not entirely sure why I thought it was one, other than the San Mamo inscription and the massive church bells, but the Cathedral is actually named San Anton in Bilbao, which I knew because we spent about an hour talking about it the previous Wednesday. Regardless, I made the fantastic decision to follow a little old man into the "cathedral" and didn't really notice the security guard or nursing home smell. It was after I had walked through four doors wondering where the actual church part was when I walked into a room full of wheel chairs, oxygen tanks, and abuelas knitting excessive amounts of scarves while the abuelos played cards. I would love to have a little Spanish grandma knitting for me, but since I didn't I attem

pted to appear to be looking for someone, coming to the "conclusion" they weren't there, while hiding my huge camera under my scarf and turn to leave. The security guard gave me one of those half eyebrow raised but half scowl looks that I normally get when I sass off to my mom or talk about boys to my dad. If you were to give me a choice between stumbling upon a really ancient skeleton or a nursing home full of ancient abuelos, I'll take the skeleton. Next time around.

This is Lucy. I bet you all know where your great looks come from now.

Round Three

Body Shop is having a sale. A sale involving 50% off everything. That means that the Satsuma hand lotion that is normally $10 in the States is down to 1,50 euro. Which means that I, in a fit of joy and satsuma induced euphoria, was ready to stock up on a lifetime supply of purse sized bottles.

Remembering pin numbers, phone numbers, or my email account passwords has never really be my life talent. But, I can proudly say that after three months, I do actually know my PIN for my BancoSantander debit card. I'll even tell you what it is, since you are never going to be able to steal my credit card since, I just found out, it is canceled. 1642. 1642. 1642. I studied that number on the bus every time I rode. I programmed it into my phone to remind me just in case I forgot. I know that number.

So when the woman in the Body Shop told me that my card was declined and that my PIN was wrong, thus seperating me from deliciously scented hands, I was furious. Furious enough to immediately get on the bus, get off the bus due to the bus driver needing a smoke break, get on a new bus, go home and get my passport, go to BancoSantander by my house, then get directed to a different BancoSantander, get on the wrong bus, switch buses again, and finally arrive at the "correct" office.

I am not sure if it is just BancoSantander, or if I am just doomed to be the one person that can't seem to get along with banks. That is, before Shuana at Wellsfargo, who has made me a dedicated customer who enjoys popping by to tell her my life stories, since she cares and all. Except that she really does. She is not only a great banker who can operate her computer without having to call in every IT person on site, but also has the ability to interact with fantastic social skills. BancoSantander is Shauna's opposite. They use phones that still have cords attaching them to the humongous platform with square inch buttons and flashing lights. I didn't even know those existed still, having not seen one in probably seven or eight years. The last one I remember was on our wall at home, and it might even be farther back when we got ride of it. My banking fiasco began last October... with the whole "missing" card in the mail and then the replacement a month and a half later.

When I asked the man at the bank today why my card was mysteriously canceled he told me: Well, it appears that you had two cards, and we received one of them so then we just canceled both of them.

Just to further explain: this means that the initial card I ordered October 2nd just arrived within the last week. To their office. That prompted their obviously logical brains to come to the conclusion that because I suddenly had two cards, the best solution was to.... cancel both? What? Que? No entiendo. So, for the third time in three months, I will be getting a new card. And, like the herring and mystery meat, I am losing this war.

As our tour guide Culture teacher said: there are things you will love, and things you will hate.

Okay, well you know what? I hate you, BancoSantander. And you are making me fairly homesick for Shauna. Who, on God's green Earth, gets homesick for their banker.

Also, we went to the Museo de Bella Artes today. Our professor warned us not to go into the "Jardines de las Delicias." I figured maybe because it was 11am and it would induce massive amounts of hunger, being a garden of the delicious, and all. Maybe a different kind of hunger than stomach rumbling, if you like a "garden" of naked babies and crotch shots of women who appear to have had a bad dye job of blue in their Southern seas, or are in the process of getting a wax. We also visited the house of Enrique Menedez Pelayo, for whom my university is named, and I realized when I got home today that I still have no idea why he is famous. I know that he loved to read, and was highly impressed by his library of 43,000 antique books that he donated to Santander, but I have no idea why he was so impressive, other than that. I mean, for me, if you give anyone an antique book you are fantastic, let alone 43,000. But I should probably figure out why everything is named after him. Or how he could afford to buy all those books. Cause I need to start saving if I plan on having a library as impressive as his when I grow up. For me, a bunch of antique books has a far more "Jardines de las Delicias" and far more cultural weight than the ability to paint some very in detail female anatomy.

Don't ask, don't tell, right?

It could have been liverwurst. It could have been cafeteria grade beef compressed in a vice and sliced into layers. It could have been chopped and pattied chicken. It could have been finely ground canned beef luncheon meat. It could have been the meat they make dog food out of. It certainly smelled like it.

It was flat and grey and squishy but hard and dark and had a strange layer of wrapping around it that was possibly fat or possibly plastic. The gravy it was cooked with was a type of French onion gravy that was planned to mask the identity of my mystery meat. Then, on top, further trying to provide camoflauge were the potatoes. Personally, I love my potatoes pealed, boiled, mashed up with butter and salt. Not dry, out of a box, water added and put in the microwave.

But, as far as I was concerned, it was a steak. And as I sliced and mushed and hide the meat under the potatoes attempting to make it look like I ate it, I tried to figure out how long I could prolong the "eating." Theoretically, the longer it took the "more" I would appear to have eatten. Except that meant taking lots of tiny bites. Which left me contemplating if the tiny bites were more painful that eating huge chunks and inhaling it, quick and easy.

I considered asking Tete what it was; is it better to know, or to just really hope that it was something that was alive at some point, and not the innards of an animal.

We're about zero for two right now: herring the other night for dinner and now mystery meat.

Meals are doing about as great at being delicious as the Broncos did having any type of respectable plays. This has left me eating the Cheese Its that Emma sent me like it is my job. When Tete asked me what Emma sent in the box that I got on Tuesday, there was that awkward silence where I tried to think of something in the box that wasn't food, tampons or an embarrassingly huge Toblerone that weighs about as much as a small dog, child, or cheese burger. The result was a choppy explanation that Emma sent me lots of vitamins... a seven year supply, judging by the size of the box.

Speaking of awkward, I have encountered a slight issue in the past few days. My goal for this semester, other than getting a six pack while simultaneously drinking sangria as much as possible before returning to the States, is to expand my vocabulary. This would, theoretically, be easy in Spain. The only problem is that I am interested in learning words that they just don't have here. There is no way to convey the full meaning of "awkward" or "sassy" or "fiesty" or "RUDE." Seeing as rude is my main form of expressing displeasure towards, well, anyone, this has caused me far too many missed chances at telling boys off on the bus. What are you supposed to say to a rude teenage boy when he oogles you like a perv on creeper steroids if you can't effectively say "RUDE." to him. Flipping them off is a tad excessive; there is just such deeper disgust with behavior if they understand the weight that being rude carries.

Or how do you explain that moment when you see someone you really dislike and you have to say hi because you are forced to in a social situation but you both want to either throw up or kick them in the mouth? That is just awkward.

And don't even get me started on trying to explain sassy or fiesty to a Spanish person. They just have no idea. Like if you try to explain why country music is so fabulous to someone who didn't grow up with it. Something just doesn't click. Or, to give you a more perfect example: trying to explain to a Spanish mom that you don't need a five course meal for lunch and dinner, but you'd like something other than cookies for breakfast. Somethings just get lost in translation. Although luckily those haven't involved Tom Hanks living in an airport, like in that terrible movie.

Excuse me while I freak out about the weather

It is January. And it is currently 61 degrees in Santander, Spain. And I am currently having a minor terror attack that, if this weather continues, I will fully adopt the mentality of an endless Spring Break.

There are the rare weeks in February, in Steamboat, where it gets up to like 45 or 50 degrees, all the snow starts to melt, and I'll whip out a bikini and sit in the back yard. Sure, it is nice and warm and reminds you that killing yourself at the prospect of snow for the following four months isn't wise. It is usually conviniently attached to Blues Break, so you can mildly kick the mid-winter depression in the ass and ensure that you will survive until mid-June with it is finally warm enough to emerge from your house with less than four layers of clothing and a puffy coat.

Seville was, theoretically, my escape for a mental break. You know, the warm South of Spain curing my post freezing to near death in Sweden blues. Except that really, Sweden was the cause of way too much joy at seeing snow. After the near constant rain in November and December, a solid and dry form of precipitation seemed like the best Christmas present ever (after, of course, the Broncos win.) Seville blessed my mom and I with only one day of rain. I got a nice dose of vitamin D and was spoiled with ten days of delicious parent-purchased food and mother wisdom. I returned to Santander with a semi-sour attitude; it was raining and cold and I wasn't quite ready to eat excessive fried food again. God had other plans for this semester though... it took me about as long as it takes me to figure out my things are missing and automatically know that Emma is probably wearing it to know that this semester was going to be fabulous.

As I mentioned earlier, I came into study abroad with some kind of unrealistic expectations. First off, I was sure that upon arriving I would rock at Spanish, know all the people at the school, travel to lots of places for really cheap, and be fat on really great food. While portions of all of those have come true, I started this semester with no expectations. I hadn't received the list of students, so I had no preconceived judgments made about them. And Gloria walked off the bus with a bob and blonde highlights, at which point I knew right away everything was going to be different.

The first week that the new group was here consisted of completely clear and beautiful days. Save for a few days in the fall when it was warm enough to whip out a bikini, I can safely say these have been the most breathtaking days in Santander so far. Which is good, because I think making a good first impression is vital. So, thank the Lord, Santander was a bit of a show off this week. Or, I would go as far to say, it full on went for the wow and awe effect. After falling in love with Seville, this week was the re-seduction of my heart and love for Santander. Now if I could only find American football on in a bar, I would be able to say that it is my favorite city in the world. Sorry Steamboat, but crystal clear water and tanning on a Sunday afternoon in sixty degree weather with my Spanish mama just kicked you out of first place.

Mini Fashionistas

There is something totally adorable about Spanish kids. When I was three, I wasn't wearing cute little jumpers with matching tights and boots. I wasn't wearing little sweater vests over dresses and tiny peacoats. My American Girl Doll was, but I was spending most my time in overalls or some form of floral print pants that my mom sewed. And we can't forget the excessive butterfly tee-shirts or the baseball caps. Being fashion forward was, obviously, my number one life goal.

In Spain, it is a great day when I can walk down the street and feel like I am dressed half as well as the little boys in strollers. Maria, my three year old t

hat I nanny (not mine daughter wise, just possessively because she's adorable) has countless pairs of tiny little boots, slippers, summer sneakers, and Keds. If I could resize them, I would love to be the owner of her wardrobe.

Maria's mom asked me on Monday if I would like to start picking her up from school. Any opportunity to be around little kids (in a totally not pedophile, drive by elementary schools every day way) sounds great to me. I love kids; most the time, I wish that I could just go back to being five years old and not having to worry about real life. Monica walked with me today, to show me how to pick up Maria.

I have been "nannying/babysitting/teaching English too" Maria since mid-October. One would think that, after all this time, I would be able to immediately see her in a crowd and know with total confidence which one she was. But there was the fleeting second that, as we walked through the masses of three and four year olds, all of whom were wearing identical uniforms with matching backpacks and ponytails, that I doubted my abilities to find her. I could just see it: Tuesday would roll around, I would show up to pick

her up, and theoretically gotten the time right, and would not be able to tell which one she was. Then I would have to wait for all the other little kids to get picked up, and find the last one, crying in a corner, and take her home. Good plan. Luckily that moment was about two seconds and then I saw her bossing a little boy into giving her his yogurt drink. That girl knows what she wants, and knows exactly how to get it. God willing, next Tuesday when I pick her up, I won't have that worst case scenario happen and become the world's worst future mother.

Just to show you what a fashionable little girl I was....

Just a few pictures from the beach today :)

When the tide goes out...

And, I found this quote today, and thought it was worth sharing. Here's to the last two and a half months!

Promise yourself to be so strong that nothing can disturb your peace of mind.

Talk health, happiness, and prosperity to every person you meet.

Make all your friends feel like there is something in them.

Look at the sunny side of everything and make your optimism come true.

Think only of the best, to work only for the best, and expect only the best.

Be just as enthusiastic about the success of others as you are about your own.

Forget the mistakes of the past and press on the greater achievements of the future.

Wear a cheerful countenance at all times and give every living person you meet a smile.

Give so much time to the improvement of yourself that you have no time to criticize others.

Be too large for worry, too noble for anger, and too strong for fear, and too happy to permit the presence of trouble.

Cell Suicide

I got rainboots. I think I told you that. Therefore, the rainy forecast was met, this morning, with a tad too much enthusiasm. There is something irresistable about puddles when you have on rubber boots; having been prepared for the rain, I set my alarm for half an hour early to provide lots of rain/puddle walking this morning. Of course, the whole waking up early deal failed. Normally, I show up to the first day of class about fifteen to twenty minutes early due to a chronic fear that I will show up at the wrong class room or at the wrong time. Even with my over-eager planning, the distraction of puddles was enough to waste the extra fifteen minutes I had planned for, and cause me to be the last one to show up to class. I would really like to say this is abnormal, but aside from the first day/test days when I show up way too early, normally I have to run half way to school because I am late.

Puddle jumping is great and all, but I have rain boots and a beach. So obviously this was my next area of water testing the boots. Just a note for anyone who might be interested in walking around in an ocean in rainboots: the tide is usually a lot higher than you will expect. I would love to say that my boots have a magic ability to prevents water from going in the top buuutttt they don't. Thus when the nice huge pretty crashing wave came in, I was the really intelligent person whose boots were filled with water. It was about as logical as when I was little and would dance naked in my driveway in the rain, save for my puddleboots. I am not sure what I thought the purpose of wearing them was, since, you know, my entire body was covered in mud and rain. But then again, I found the general need for clothing to be rather a ridiculous though, thus my traditional attire of a cowgirl hat and my mom's boots with no other clothes on. Or the absence of underwear on the majority of my kindergarten days. No wonder I had so many boyfriends back then, right? I mean, who doesn't want a swings date with a girl who wears dresses and no panties. Little pervs.

Anyway, to partner up with my prime geniosity of filling my boots with ocean, I also was smart enough to brag about not having broken my Spanish phone yet. Which spurred one of the new girls asking if I had insurance, which obviously was the death certificate of my phone. A trusty fifteen minutes later, I dropped my school bag and managed to crack the screen of my cell right down the middle. There must be some kind of career that I could get, testing how breakable phones are. If you gave me that army proof/bomb proof hideous and huge phone from Verison, I promise you that after a year with me, it would have committed suicide. Despite my two fabulous moments of blonde-osity, I didn't trip or run into anything yesterday, so at least I had something going right, right? The main point of this is that while I manage to do really stupid things sometimes, at least I wear undies now.

Yay for a new baby group!

Just a few pictures from my walk last night :)

The new group is here! Which is causing me to have massive heart attack amounts of excitement. I made a dashing first impression on the bus yesterday, saying something along the lines of "HI! I AM MICHELLE! I have been here since September so I can like, show you are, ish or something."

The whole introducing myself thing never was my strong point in life. But on the bright side, I feel like a totally in the know kind of person... for example, today, I showed them where the beach and grocery is. Obviously I am very tuned into the most important things in life.

I was thinking about when I started my blog, and how I missed writing about the first few weeks. The whole point of my blog was to record my entire study abroad experience, but I got started a little late. There is something totally embarrassing about writing a blog... mostly cause all the things I think are important really are pretty trivial. So it took a bit to get the nerve to actually write one. But anyways, today, watching them all freak out and be terrified about how disorganized everything is put me right back at that "I hate this place what the HELL am I doing here" moments that I went through the first week. I spent so many hours wondering how anything could possibly run as poorly as it did, and stressing about every little uncontrolled detail. From the eating hours to the rain, and not to mention the classes... I was furious. Luckily this time around, I am the one who can tell them "Look, I know that right now it sucks. I know that you are pissed and hate it. But in two weeks, none of these things will matter. You aren't here for school; this is all the experience." If someone had said that to me, in October, I would have punched them in the face and been pretty sure I hated them. However, I think that combined with my knowledge of the basics like bars, patatas bravas and beaches, I was out of punching range.

The last group here was so out of my expectations; we had (in my opinion) two groups; granted this is bound to happen with a group that was bigger than this semester and I'll rephrase and say that I really enjoyed spending time with everyone, regardless of what I feel went on grouping wise. My main hobbies in life involve hiking, reading and eating as opposed to shopping and going out. This was, for further clarification, my main reason for choosing to come to Santander. Regardless of my personal ups and downs of last semester, it was sad to see the first group go. But seeing this new group is so exciting; they will have a new dynamic and I am so excited to see what changes this semester holds. I am hoping that because there are only 12 of them that we will all end up just as one friend group/precious little family that cuddles and eats together.

In traditional ISA style, I found out today that I will actually be coming home on April second, instead of the 11th. Leave it to Spain to forget to tell you things like that. My Spanish mom was so adorable though and told me that if I can't change my dates, I can just stay here with her. So we'll see :)

Anyway, I am going to spend some quality time stalking on Facebook now, and trying to email Julie Rabbitt about getting my ticket home changed. If you ever need a travel guru, she's a goddess. Just so you know.

Also, did you know that somewhere in Kansas 5,000 birds died and fell on the town on New Years after the fireworks? That's the kind of great knowledge you get reading whenparentstext.com.... proving, therefore, that it is educational and justifiable reading/a great way to spend hours of your time.

AND one more thing: to take up my siesta hours, I want to learn about one new topic each week. Things like how a hen can lay so many eggs so fast, all about whales, about politics and stuff. So if you have any suggestions about things that are interesting to you, I promise to research them and learn about them if you comment and tell me what I should learn about! Help curb my excessive Facebooking, please!

Say Cheese!

Boat ride down the river in Seville on our last day. Such a beautiful way to see the city, and to watch little kids get water dumped on them from the tarp roof of the boat!

The Three Kings parade on the fifth of January. On the fourth, the Kings also have a procession for the little kids to give them letters. This was the actual parade though, and featured lots of floats centered around Disney and children's stories.

A peacock in los Jardines del Alcazar.

After a really infuriating trek through the whole city of Jerez, we finally found the Equestrian School. Mom was one happy camper :)

More of the Gardens!

La Catedral en Seville; one of our favorite places to spend an afternoon, due to the three Starbucks that happened to be on the corners around it. What better view from a Starbucks could you possibly ask for?

Momma and I at the Alcazar: the Alcazar is the palace in Seville, it was originally built by the Moors. Just so you know, my great great uncle/grandpa/or something was a Moorish pirate. No big deal or anything.

I also want to live in the gardens of the Alcazar.

This is how I want to spend my afternoons when I am old. Traveling and napping with a precious old husband in the sun.

Other side of the Cathedral in Seville. It still astounds me that they could build this without technology or anything.

A pretty church we found while lost in Seville.

"Hi, it's Mom..."

There must be some kind of mom-alarm that goes off in their mind the second you are in class, telling them that it is a great time to call you. They progress to leave you a voicemail saying "I know you are in class but...." or text you asking why you didn't pick up. I am no fan of voicemails, and have been the student with the ringing phone in the bottom of my backpack a few too many times. There is something totally humiliating about having Taylor Swift singing your ringtone as the entire class watches you search for your phone, when ends up being in your pocket instead of your bag.

Moms, as is their job, do their fair share of humiliating us throughout our lifetime. Usually by the time we move out it slows down a bit; the excessive: Where are you going? Who are you going with? When will you be home? Are you wearing a jacket? Have you eaten six meals? comes to a close as they settle for harassing you mostly on Saturday mornings at eight am after a night out.

After three months living with Tete (my Spanish mom's name of preference that I definitely didn't figure out until two weeks before Christmas) I am used to the jacket demands and the excessive feeding. I thought it was a little overbaring, coming from a particularly laid back family, but remember that I am just her temporary daughter...

Friday night she picked me up from the airport. I had called her telling her I should be in around six thirty, and when the captain of my flight said "Incase you didn't notice, we are experiencing extreme turbulance and can't land.... so...... we are going to circle around then then try to land again.... hopefully that works." I was terrified not for my life, like the screaming and crying woman next to me, but for the wrath that would be Tete when I didn't land on time. I could just see her fretting around, calling the police probably and wondering if I had been abducted by a UFO, Osama Bin Laden, or a child molestor. It was highly reassuring to know the modern day Einstein was our pilot; his very high observation skills and articulate abilities really set my mind at ease knowing that... uhm...... hopefully we would.... you know... land.

The thirty minute delayed arrival set Tete into a storm of worrying. We arrived home following another of her near death car driving experiences. If there is a person walking on the sidewalk on the right, she will swerve into the left lane to avoid hitting them on the sidewalk, regardless of the oncoming traffic. Tete immediately progressed to call her son to ask him if her granddaughter could stay the night. After two calls to his house, she resorted to his cell- another fail. Then his office, in case, you know, he was putting in some late hours on a Friday night. Then his wife's cell- still no answer. Then she started getting very upset, because they weren't answering any of their phones. The fact that they have three children all under the age of 10 didn't seem to be a valid probability as to why they wouldn't be picking up. So she progressed to call her son's wife's sister, just to check if they were there. Then she called her other three children asking if they knew where their brother was. When his friend didn't know either, I was fairly sure she was going to resort to putting out an Amber Alert for her 42 year old son.

When she had exhausted all options and put the phone down, it immediately rang. Alfonzo had spent the last half hour attempting to call her, and was sure that an emergency had occured spurring her frantic calling. One might think that, after 42 years of being Tete's son, he would know by now that emergencies usually involve a lack of milk in the fridge or wanting to babysit.

So now it is Sunday and having exhausted my ability for shop-therapy yesterday and my beach reading, I am probably going to spend the entire day in bed. Yesterday's mission for rainboots went so well that it inspired me to also brave two more stores and buy an extra pair of sneakers. After learning that every single rainboot in Seville was a size 36 and not a 38, the fact that the first store I went into in Santander had the knockoff Hunter boots that I wanted and also had my size inspired great shopping motivation. It was slightly horrifying. Thus, I am also horrified to look at my bank account and am determined that I will only purchase things that are totally necessary. While two sundresses will be fabulous in the summer, I am still left with three sweaters to get me through the next three months of rain and wind. And I am afraid that my motivation yesterday has exhausted any shopping tolerance I might have for the next three months, meaning that I will likely freeze to death and turn into a large human popcicle. Hopefully one of the lime flavor.

In the event of shopping, run.

Some people are capable of spending mass amounts of time looking at clothes, shoes, jackets, socks, jewelry, you know, the normal things. Spending an entire day in a mall or walking from store to store sounds like a fabulous way to spend a day. For the most part, I would claim that this is the female population. There is, I will admit, something fabulous about finding a really awesome deal and walking out of a store with a really great new pair of shoes or dress.

My mom asked Dr. Dudley "What do you do with girls?" when she had me. Despite what she likes to portray- the whole, I am woodsy and outdoorsy and hate girl type things- she is a total shopaholic. If there was a store that has: horse riding boots, ceramics, men's clothing, women's clothing, jewelry, antiques, clocks, flamanco dresses, spices, pots and pans, mugs, tea, shoes, leather, horse riding equipment, or any type of rain boot, we went in it. Or stood wistfully staring in the window, cursing siesta. I am a fairly grumpy person in the mornings, and get very impatient with tourists, and my mom has been a real trooper dealing with me. But let me say that as much as I love her and am excited that I got to have her here, her shopping habits are nearly enough for me to begin binge drinking. Part of me wishes that I did love shopping; I can appreciate stores that have things that are not for tourists, not over priced, and are unique. We found some fabulous little stores that had things that were hand made, and food stores are right up my ally. But going into every possible shoe store in her determination to find me rainboots, only to find that every single store is sold out of normal black size 38 rainboots was nearly deadly.

Yesterday we went to the Alcazar, which is the old palace in Seville. While my mom can spend countless hours going into nearly identical tourist shops, I would voluntarily become homeless if they let me live in the gardens of Alcazar. Avatar was enough to send me into a mild hour long depression thinking about how much better life would be living in a jungle with pretty light up plants. The whole jungle feel and that misty, cool air that you can only find in a few places is delicious. Walking through the forests on the coasts of Oregon was the same; there is just something timeless about the plants and the huge trees. If you ever get cocky, take a walk through a huge garden and you'll remember real quick how small your life is compared to the massive connections of life that somehow continue to grow and have existed for longer than anything you have accomplished.

Ideally, seeing the documents from Christopher Columbus in the Archivo de los Indianos should have had a similar "Wow I am kind of puney" effect. However, I am very sad to report that the museum doesn't actually show you any of the letters he wrote to Spain reporting his discoveries. Although I am fairly sure he left out the mass killings of Indians and general douche-baggery that he participated in. Howard Zinn taught me enough to know that Columbus wasn't the pallio that he claimed to be with the Indians. If you are at all interested in history, Zinn has an earful to spout off. And "Lies My Teacher Told Me" is actually pretty awesome. But I am an AP US History lover so if not, then just know that Columbus was a jerk.

In Spain, Santa is just a fat American. Today is the 5th of January, and in Spain that means the Three Kings are coming tonight. If you have been good and polish your best shoes and leave them outside your door, they will leave you presents in your shoes tonight. I would try that, except that my "best shoes" are my four year old Blow Fish boots and if someone took them I'd be shoeless. One step closer to garden homeless living, but not my priority right now. Last night we ended up randomly walking into a parade of the Magi (Three Kings) and all the little kids gave them letters with their Christmas wishes. This evening we watched the parade, which involved these beautiful floats; my favorite was the Narnia float and the Cinderella float. One word of caution: if you end up at this parade, wear a helmet because the little kiddos on the floats throw their candy like they are trying to assassinate the kid that stole their kindergarten boyfriend or cut in line for the finger paints.

What I also have discovered is that in Seville I have a sudden fabulous sense of direction. Usually I am the one wandering around totally clueless about where I am. It could be a combination of my desire to find patatas bravas, or the food I know is waiting in my room. Our hostel is precious, but the shower situation is kind of frigid. Tomorrow is the dreaded shower day; one gets to a point at which freezing water is no longer able to be avoided. It is crazy that it is Wednesday again... I have been 20 for a week and only have one more full day with Ma. Two very depressing thoughts. I am also in the process of attempting to figure out classes for next semester, and in typical Spanish style am totally clueless about what is going on. As is the school.

As sad as I am for Mom to be leaving, I miss looking out my window and seeing the ocean and all the pervy old men in their swim suits (or not......) regardless of the temperature and the green and the waves and my little Spanish mommy feeding me flan. So here's to the last day tomorrow and to a fabulous week :)

Apples to Apples

Explaining that game, Apples to Apples, to someone Swedish (or, I am assuming, to anyone not of an English speaking origin/from America) is not easy. Something is lost in translation when you try to explain using cards to describe words, like "touchy-feely" being defined by Helen Keller or Michael Jackson or your grandma.

Typically, I love apples. I love the game Apples to Apples, I love apple pie, I love how they smell and most of all I love apples with cheese. Manzana is one of my favorite Spanish words. It sounds kind of seductive and like it should have some sexy meaning... manzannnaaaaaahhhhh. Rawr.

Naming streets in Spain is about as creative as naming buildings was in Sweden (Big Square, Big Palace) and apperantly in Jerez, they ran out of ideas and someone with an apple fixation named multiple streets Manzana. I wish I could tell you that Jerez was a really awesome city full of life and splendor, but unless you are my mom and have a love for the Equestrian School of Riding, stay far, far away. The city consists of lots of streets named Manzana, lots of fast driving cars, lots of churches that are always closed and are located in ghettos, and bodegas (sherry plantations, or however you translate a vineyard of sherry.) On Sunday we got on a bus to Jerez, hoping to arrive in the evening and walk around a precious little pueblo full of horse lovers and little old men drinking sherry while strolling down the limited number of streets. The Jerez we were picturing would never have a need to repeat street names, let alone get desperate enough to name one Manzana.

I'm not telling you Jerez was the arm pit of Spain, but if Steamboat is Seville than Jerez is Oak Creek.

We did have a few lovely experiences with food, mostly involving Spaniards' belief that fried eggs and french fries are the best combo for any meal except breakfast, which you can bet is going to be a cup of cafe con leche and a cigarette. Yummo.

Monday morning we got up "early" at nine and showered (one redeeming quality of Jerez was that you can get a one star hotel for 40 euro and have a hot shower) and made our merry way to the horse school. We were using a map in Eyewitness Travel's book on Seville, and let me just say that if I personally meet anyone who works for Eyewitness, I will strangle them. As the guide at the horse school said, after seeing our map and asking us if we needed help, "Your map is very incorrect." Awesome. If you are just giving us a map for the sake of acting like you know what you are talking about or to fill your book with "Things other guidebooks only tell you about," just leave it out. Because even with Mom's very discrete compass using there was no way any person could possibly find their way around Jerez using that map. Don't question me, because after four hours of walking around with it, I know for a fact it is impossible. The map from the hotel wasn't much better; after I realized that it was pointing to locations that were actually two blocks away we were at least able to end up in the general area. There is just something special about a map that is incorrect... and about the things that I would like to do to the people who created them. Since using a few ineffective guidebooks, I have decided that if I am ever president, I will pass a law saying that anyone to publish a guidebook must have an expenses paid trip for ten individuals (three must be over 50 and first time travelers) and if eight of them can accomplish the trip without major setbacks you may publish. Otherwise, start over. I am wondering what the President is doing that is more important than this?

In the meantime, all I can tell you is to locate a tourist information center asap if you end up in Jerez. I would love to tell you how to get there or where it is, but I can't because there is no map and unless you have mad ninja skills you won't find it. So, in more correct advice words: If you go to Jerez, please stumble upon a tourist information office as soon as possible during your lost wanderings.

Harmful Neglect

Luckily as a child I was never neglected. Sure, there were the days that we walked to school in blizzards and I would shove Emma in snowbanks and Elijiah would smack me with his backpack while riding by on his bike. Or the times that Dad would babysit for "Mom's Weekend Off" when my diet consisted of donuts and licorice (at the time though, that was heaven.) But despite my safe, warm, and 99% sheltered life (it would be 100% if it wasn't for the flasher in Butcherknife) I have not learned how from my parents how to not neglect things. I neglected my beta fish; it never even had a name because I just called it Beta and fed him four times a year yet he lived seven years until he "died" and I flushed him. Being boring seemed like a good reason to give him the fishy death penalty, thus why I am determined that until I live with someone who will make sure I don't love my pet or forget to feed it or flush it down a toilet when it turns grey while refusing to die at a normal fish life span of two years, I shouldn't have pets. And now, like my Beta, I have neglected you.

My mom got here last Wednesday and I am yet to inform you of the insanity that has occured since. Here is a brief overview: tearless (surprisingly) airport reunion, scary bus ride to Center, walk to hostel, salad for dinner, bed, birthday spent running all over in pissing rain (no other explanation) heritage museum, archeological museum, STARBUCKS, swinging in a park, super yummy clams for dinner, taking a shot that was actually not a shot and looking like idiots, bed, more park walking, bus taking, patatas bravas, STARBUCKS, churches, not being able to find food and considering asking a homeless man for a beer and apple, and a ridiculous amount of sleeping. That catches you up to... today. I think. Then again, my memory is kind of a joke and I am fairly sure that wasn't four days worth of stuff. I also sent my blog to a few newspapers, and if this is all they read, they are going to for sure thing I am some run-on sentence queen with little to no writing ability. Which, I am. Well, the run-on queen part anyway.)

Every night before I go to bed, the fifteen thoughts that I can't stop thinking should be put into blog form so that I remember them. Apperantly though, my typing is similar to a mouse running all over the floor with high heels. If, you know, there were high heels the correct size for a mouse. When I was in elementary school we started a program called Type To Learn and I passed all 12 levels in two weeks. So much for a semester worth of practice. Perhaps I should join a competitive typing team. "Hi, I am Michelle, and one interesting thing about me is I got a gold medal in Olympic Speed Typing." At least I would never be at a loss for what to tell peope is unique about me. Usually I say things like "I hate bananas." Super original, that's a conversation piece for ya.

The issue is that with my outrageously loud typing, I tend to be a very annoying person to be in a room with when I have a sudden burst of "I have to write this out right this second" blog energy. It usually results in a twenty minute nervous break down of key pounding. After being chastised for this on a regular basis, I have typing insecurity. Some girls may think they are fat or ugly or have bad hair, but I am terrified to type in front of people who aren't forced to love me, like my mom or Beta.

The second part to my neglection is that I have random busy days and then finally get a few hour chunk to write and of course can't remember anything interesting. (I think I just made that neglection word up. You can call me Dr. Seuss) When I do get those moments of blog inspiration it is usually when I am zoning out in the middle of a class or a two hour walking tour. A side effect of this is that when I do post, it looks kind of nerdy to post three separate blogs on one day. Might as well make it a long one, but I get too distracted so I can't pull that off. At some point, I will go back through here and think of all the details of my day that were more important than the huge paragraph sentence run-on that I gave you. But until I can catch up, I will continue neglecting just a tiny bit and will go eat a Snickers and try to force myself into a blog-spration. (Blog inspiration. I need to cut back on the Tinto de Verano so I stop thinking I am outrageously clever over things that are clearly just the product of crazy and a spelling deficiency.)