This side of the grass is greener

I've been sick for the past few days, which, when combined with not having school Thursday or Friday, meant that I slept in far too late and did far too few productive things each day. I was skyping my friend yesterday, and she asked if I was scared to come home. It is funny now, to be getting closer to returning, and to be having the same "I can't wait but am kind of sad" feeling that I had when I was getting ready to come here. It feels like this abstract idea: it will happen, but I have been waiting for it for so long that I almost feel like it is a fake life. The whole idea that I have even lived in Spain for the past five months also seems pretty fake... each day has felt like normal life, yet at the same time I feel like this has been someone else's life. Like I am watching myself live here, have a daily life here, be a part of the Santander community, but the real me is waiting at home in Steamboat. Which sounds maybe crazy or like I possibly have a mental disorder involving split personalities, which I might, if you ask one or two of my ex's. Really I think the best way to describe it though, and the way I try to every day when I wake up and wonder how this is possibly my life, is that it isn't normal, it isn't average, and it isn't something that can just be put into a few words. This is an experience, one of those that I'll get home and try to explain but know I won't be able too. It is just so different from life in the States, where your schedule is set and teachers have expectations (and degrees in something real) as opposed to a life where every day is different and there is nothing set or promised.

Talking about the idea of being scared to return made me realize that when I get back, I know Steamboat will be the same, but life has been going on there without me. Margaret will probably be taller than me, Emma will be going to her senior prom and then graduating, and friends will be getting married. But even with all of that, even with all the changes, the wonderful thing about returning will be that after a year of transitions, of meeting new people, and having a few weeks during Christmas with the ones who know me already, I will return to family and friends. The people who already know me and love me; that concept is so much sweeter to me now. Being away and being in a place where the closest person you have is your host mom and your skype account makes the idea of being somewhere where your real mom is a phone call away and your friends are a ten minute drive so anticipated. It is funny to think of what I am excited for: things like real classes, professors with a syllabus, normal sized dogs that aren't the size of a football, car keys, and phone calls that are unlimited and free.

But with a month left, I am already starting to worry about the things I will miss from here. Yesterday morning I was woken up by Claudia and Paula who wanted to play with my Memory board game that my mom sent over for Maria. Claudia can't pronounce her "r's" which I just figured out yesterday to be the reason why I never understood what she was saying. During the afternoon, I learned to play Rummikub (maybe you know it? it's a number game kind of similar to Scrabble) with Tete and her daughter and daughter-in-law. For the past five months this has been my life. The catastrophes of Claudia peeing in her bed, Paula having temper tantrums over the type of yogurt Tete gave her, and entire afternoons filled with board games and eating. The other day when I was leaving from babysitting Maria she said "Bye, bye my friend." which is the first civil departure we have had, since normally she gets really angry that I can't stay and decides she hates me. And stringing together four words almost made me cry because after all this time she is finally starting to speak English without being prompted too. It is that life, the pieces of the community that I have become a part of, that I will miss. And the beach, but that's a given.

The last month here will be filled with far too many classes as we try to make up for the lost hours when the Uni couldn't find a professor. It will be filled with shopping and throwing out old things, filled with eating and last minute weekend trips. And most importantly, I am going to focus on being here, not on going home. Because I really can't wait to be back in the States. Seeing everyone again, being back where life is easy and relationships are already set is going to be amazing. But this last month is all I have left here, this part of my life will be done. The part of my life that I have been dreaming about since I left Sweden in the eighth grade. How incredible it is, that I am no longer 15 and fantasizing about living in Europe. Now I am. This is real life. And this last month is it, until next time, that is :)

Wanna be Popeye?

I used to hate spinach when I was little. Well, I liked it with my butter and salt. Mind you, that meant about three table spoons of butter and a ton of salt with a tiny amount of spinach. Tete makes a spinach soup, and it is pretty fantastic and I can now add it to a growing list of foods I now like since coming to Spain. So here is the recipe, in case you want to try it sometime. As I said with the paella, most of her cooking is "you just add a bit of this, or just add however much you want of that..." and most importantly "use as much olive oil as you want, but more is better even if it makes you fat."

What you'll need (ish....):

-1 large can of spinach. You can use fresh spinach if you want, Tete says that you don't need to boil it prior to cooking with, but you might want to anyway. Otherwise, just follow the recipe normally but with your fresh spinach.

-1/3 cup olive oil

-2 large eggs

-paprika

-garlic, three cloves, sliced

- 1/4 cup flour

-2 cups water (as soupy as you want it...)

-1 chicken bullon cube

Okay here's what you do:

First off, drain the water from the spinach if it was canned.

Cut spinach up so it is in small pieces.

In a medium soup pot you are going to heat the olive oil.

Once it is heated up you are going to add the garlic. Cook it till it browns.

Once it browns you will add the flour, mix it quickly.

Now you will add the paprika; Tete uses five or six shakes from the can. I'd guesstimate that is about three teaspoons.

When the flour is mixed in and turns light brown, add the spinach.

Again, mix quickly and try to even out the flour through the spinach.

Now take it off the heat and add two cups of water. (and I'll say it again... however much you want, the more water, the soupier it will be)

Once you add the water you can put it back on the heat to let it cook a little bit.

Break up the chicken bullon and add it to the pot.

Keep cooking it over medium heat while you mix.

Once you've cooked it enough to make it all mixed and even, you'll add the two large eggs.

Remove from heat when you add them, mix them up quickly and then add to heat to cook.

The eggs will turn white when they are done, this really doesn't take much time of cooking, maybe about three minutes.

You can add however much salt you want, depending on if you are like me and are obsessed with salty food, or if you are healthier and don't need to pretend you are a fish who survives on sea water.

Now I officially know two recipes from Tete's kitchen, and hopefully I explained them well enough that you can make them too, if you want. Cause they are pretty delicious, just saying.

What a beautiful day :)

Sometimes, when I see flowers like this or have days like today, I wonder if this is real life. Because the world is awfully beautiful, isn't it? Little love notes from God, I guess :)

Tide pools make me wish I was miniature so I could swim in them. Then again, I suppose that's basically what a lake is for us.

Snapdragons in February :D

Perfect afternoon= starwberries, sun, and Bridget Jones on the beach.

I just checked the weather for this weekend and it says: AM Drizzle. I didn't know that they categorized their types of rain, or that doing so would hinder activities, until I moved here. I can carry on a normal day if it is just AM drizzle, but if it is afternoon torrential downpour I'll need a heads up. Perhaps Colorado should consider something like this, although, similar to Santander, the weather changes about fifteen times a day so what good would that really do.

Today on the bus I was once again that crazy lady making faces at a stranger's baby. About five minutes into a game of peek-a-boo I remembered that not only was I on a bus, but that I was full on baby facing a two year old while the entire evening rush of people on the bus watched. What's a girl to do those, some babies just have to be ogled over.

And now I am going to bed after a day of sleeping in, strawberry eating on the beach, and baby creeping. I hope that back in America, or wherever you are, your day was as beautiful as mine :)

Welcome to Fort Perry

Friday: You know that whole "I could go to class or I could stay in bed...." fight that you have when you are trying to break the whole I am a good student and can't skip class rule? I lose. Nearly all the time. I lost on Friday, when I woke up and went to one hour of Spanish before we headed to Barcelona. I figured that since it was the day after the test and there are only five students, we would probably be getting our test grades back. That was either going to be a really good way to start my weekend, or it was going to ensure a foul mood. So perhaps it was a good thing that upon arriving in class I learned that we were going to spend the first hour discussing the details of how to sign up for the official Spanish language exam that tells you exactly what level you are. It is a sort of SAT type test, and we got a full-detail work up of how to study, online materials, etc. etc. It was after forty five minutes that they mentioned the test was May 30th, two months after we leave.

I'll just preface this next part with a disclaimer: I love Barcelona and would go back in a heartbeat. It is one of my favorite cities in Europe, thus far. And yes, I do happen to have about seven favorite cities but still... I love it.

The weekend was an experience. It is my personal belief that "experience" is best used for situations that are just so absolutely strange/stressful/hilarious that you really can't decide if it rocked or sucked. The flight to Barcelona was painless and we took the bus into the Plaza Catalunya, which is the main center. Our hostel was about a ten minute walk away, which was pretty fabulous since it was only 17 euro a night and included breakfast. We were assigned to room 503, and entered it to find Fort Perry: bed number 11, with six bags of trash, a yellow Santa hat, a cowboy hat, two suitcases, three pairs of shoes, a huge empty can of tuna, and other similar homeless person belongings. Fort Perry, we would learn, is the three month long home of Perry Hicks who is sixty years old and homeless. Well, not homeless, because he lived on the bottom bunk of my bed. This is Fort Perry:

After a bit of Fort Perry freak out time over the stench and inhabitance of a homeless person living in our hostel room, we realized that there were thirteen people assigned to a twelve person room. So either someone was gonna shack up with Perry, or we were gonna be kicking someone out. I made a fantastic first impression on a kid named Ryan, who walked in to the room wearing a towel having not realized it was a mixed dorm room, and informed him that we had a situation since he was in one of our beds. Thus began the list making to determine who was not supposed to be there. Bed six was the culprit. So the manager moved the person sleeping in Bed six's stuff onto the floor and told the kid who was really staying there that he could just send the person down when they got back.

Friday afternoon, following the minor hostel situation in the hostel, we went out to explore. Exploring lead to lunch and a ramble down Las Ramblas, which is a large pedestrian street full of vendors and flower shops. The famous Barcelona market is also located off of Las Ramblas as is a cathedral. After our late lunch/dinner and our walking expedition, we found a grocery for wine and chocolate and headed back to regroup at the hostel. We then remeet three of the boys staying in our room with us: Ryan, the banker who is attempting to have a euro mullet or just got a really terrible pre-trip haircut, Bill/Will who works for his uncle Bill and looks like he spent forty minutes blow drying his hair into a large swoopy poof, and Clever, from Brazil who is studying in Ireland. This progressed into them following us out for the night.

In total, the group was five girls and then our friend Shawn and his friend Max who were staying with their friend Ty who is from Barcelona. Not confusing or anything. So we went to meet up with them with our tag alongs and progressed to wander around for an hour and a half in search of the Dow Jones bar. The bar was probably one of the coolest I have been to: on the wall they have the stock market "prices" of drinks at their highs and lows based off the stock market crash before the Great Depression. On the huge drink board there is also a really big stock market graph of the crash, and at random times the drink market will crash and for a few minutes all the drinks drop to their low prices. We headed home around two, since we were waking up at eight to start sight seeing. Perry was still not "home" when we got back, but in Bed Four the other sixty year old man was sleeping.

The bed situation worked out as follows: I was supposed to be on "top" of Perry, while Amber's feet should have been right by his head in the bunk diagonal to his. Obviously that wasn't going to work out, since there was no way I was going to be sleeping on a bunk with a homeless man and his entire existence and the smell was too awful to sleep on the same level as him with a ceiling of bunk beds trapping his smell into Amber's bed. So she ended up in Jessica's bed, Olivia didn't want to sleep across from the other old guy so I ended up in her bed and she ended up in Christina's. Which meant that when the kid who got kicked out of Bed Six got home to realize that all the beds were taken, he ended up on top of Perry.

Now we get to the really fun part of my night. I was asleep for about an hour when Bill/Will stumbles in and passes out IN my bed. Next to me. You know, no big deal or anything, let's spoon and pretend like we know each other because that is totally fine and normal. For the next hour I laid awake contemplating my escape options. Either suffer through sleeping next to a stranger, or sleep by Perry, or try to fit a third girl into the beds of the other girls. The result was me laying awake and continuously shoving Bill/Will over and squishing myself up again the side of the wall. Let's just say that I was not a happy girl the next morning, and will absolutely never stay in a mixed dorm room again. Between random kids passing out in my bed, a sixty year old homeless man and two guys snoring, by the time the alarms went off we were all about to die from horror and exhaustion. Oh, I forgot to mention that Perry joined us at around four thirty. At which time he started going through all his "trash" bags searching for a snack. The general sound of people chewing makes me pretty much want to barf, so I was about ready to smother him with his Santa hat, and if it weren't for my utter fear of his massive hair and lack of clothing I might have.

As I said... it was an experience.

So begins Saturday: breakfast, and then we went in search of the beach. Christina hurt her Achilles tendon last week, and I have a stress fracture in my foot, so we were gimping along down the subway steps and ended up at the Port of Barcelona. That's when the boys met up with us, after our failure at finding the beach. We spent the morning walking around the center area and sight seeing. The Segrada Familia Cathedral was (pause as I attempt to find a word) amazing/strange/unlike anything I have ever seen. We didn't go in, which I am kind of bummed about, but the line was two hours long and since we only had one day (half of which would be spent lost) we didn't have time to go inside. But based off the postcards, if you go there, you should definitely wait and go in. At noon, we headed back to our hostel to switch rooms (Thank. God.) We got moved into a room of Irish students who were spending five days getting belligerently drunk.... you always think that Irish people drink a lot but until you witness the amount they consume it just is an understatement/thought.

The boys didn't want to wait so they headed to lunch and told us to meet them at the subway stop so we could go together. Which, of course, meant that when we got off we got lost and after an hour and a half of trying to find them gave up and split a huge homemade paella and sangria. Somewhere during our journey around the whole city we managed to get stuck in one of the train stations... apparently the metro passes let you in the gates for the train station but once you realize that isn't where you want to be, they don't let you back out. Turns out you have to have a special train ticket to swipe yourself out, which meant that I got to explain to a really unimpressed security lady that we had accidentally gotten stuck and could she please let us out. And so we were given special "Exit Only" passes that they have for the special people like us who get stuck on the wrong side of the barriers. If only it was a Hogwarts barrier or something like that, then getting stuck would be fine. Then we began our trek to the Park Guell (also known as the Gaudi Park.) By trek I mean that you literally hike up a mountain to get there. Half of it is escalators, and the other half is to work off the sangria you are drinking/get your ass in shape. By this point Chris and I were pretty much ready to cut off our feet and just crawl up the hill, but I am proud to say that we survived. The view from the park is gorgeous and you can see the Segrada Familia standing above all the other buildings like it owns the place. Which it does.

In the Gaudi Park, which is a park full of buildings that Gaudi designed, there is a large plaza type area. I just realized maybe you don't know who Gaudi is??? He was an architect. That's actually all I know since I pretty much fail at things like that. But now you know... he designed lots of popular architecture way back when. In the plaza there are all the guys who sell things like bracelettes, sunglasses, little trinkets, and tourist type things. The only issue is that they are mostly illegal immigrants, so whenever the police show up they all scoop up their sheets of chachkies (tourist trinkets) and book it. I would gladly have them on any college track team or perhaps they could sign up for the Spanish Olympic Walking Team that I think needs to exist. Because they run faster than me if Perry tried to get in my bed.

After the park we headed back to the hostel to give our feet a bit of a nap and love. Later we set out for dinner, which we got at an Indian restaurant. It wasn't as great as Doner Kebab, but what is? Then I spent 15 euro on dried fruit and chocolate, as a present to myself for surviving sleeping in a bed with a stranger. And the latest issue of The Economist, which I spent the night reading while the group went out. Due to the whole not being able to walk issue, I didn't go out with the group and instead spent a few hours listening to the Irish group play some really crude and stupid drinking games before they left for the night. However, I was able to nurse my inner nerd with some politics and business news and get a few hours of sleep before people started getting back at five. Cumulatively I got probably seven hours of sleep the entire weekend, which is actually not bad compared the the three that the rest of the group got.

That rings us up to today. This morning we were up at seven thirty, breakfast at eight, and on the phone getting directions to the train station to go to the airport at eight thirty. The subway to the train station took it's sweet time getting there... the supposed ten minute ride took us twenty minutes, which meant that we got off the subway six minutes before the train was leaving for the airport. Which meant that Chris and I got to commit murder on our feet running in a semi-panic/freak out through the train station trying to figure out where it was leaving from. Once in the airport we had one final crisis involving Lauren leaving her passport at the security point. Which thankfully was waiting for us when we went running back.

And the thing is, after this whole eventful psychotic weekend, all I want to do is eat some cheese. Some nachos or just one of those huge bricks of cheddar that my mom gets at Safeway. Because after Fort Perry, after a fractured foot being abused all weekend, after some fantastic small streets and adventures and after some of the strangest experiences of my life: I just want some cheese. What a surprise, right?

It's been one of those days

Part of being away rocks: new culture, new food, new friends, new country. But part of it, the part that means you are an ocean away when someone back home dies, the part of it that means that when you have a really crap day and want to call and cry to your sister, or the part that means that you count the days till going home when you really wish you were counting the days you still go to stay... that part isn't so great.

Growing up in Steamboat means that every time there is a death, which seems to be far too frequently, it hits home. Literally. Either you knew the person, or you know their family and friends. Today I found out that the brother of a boy in my grade died. So all those memories of the deaths we had in high school, middle school, in our families and in our community come right back. And if it isn't you that lost a loved one, you feel for them just as much because at some point in the recent past, that was you. And you spend each day thanking God that everyone you love is alive. That is how we grow up. That is the bittersweet side of a small town: you have the support and the suffering of each person in the community.

So tonight I don't really have a funny story to tell, or something happy to report about being in Spain. Tonight is one of those "I wish I was home" nights; in part, because Steamboat lost Brad Bonner today, and in part because it's been one of those all around crawl in bed and eat chocolate kind of days. Instead, I am settling for some Nyquil and setting my alarm for eight am to drag myself to Spanish. And then I will head to Barcelona for the weekend, and on Sunday I will have at least one funny story for you, along with a ton of pictures. And I will be counting my blessings: the people in my life, the journey I am on, the trip I will take tomorrow, and I will be sending lots of love and prayers to Steamboat.

RIP Ex-Boyfriend, and Girlfriend Appreciation Day

Today I am taking a moment to remember the lost loves of my life. Those boys that I was so desperately in love with that the total disappointment of receiving six roses instead of twelve was overlooked. The boys that I was sure were "the One" and the boys that I knew weren't but was with simply for the ability to say I had a Valentine. As I look back at the past five Valentine obtained years I am highly embarrassed to say that I can only remember one of them. Theoretically, five Valentines is pretty good for only being twenty years old. But this year, it is kind of a relief to be able to say that I don't even want a Valentine. This year I know that I won't be getting any roses but I also know that I won't be sitting around waiting and fantasizing about the perfect date that would actually never live up to my expectations.

A few of my closest girlfriends are going through breakups right now, and looking back at last July and at the sheer amount of mopping and ice cream eating that I did, I am just 100% relieved that I don't have some boy to deal with. That doesn't really flatter the male population very much, but due to recent behavior on the male part, I am just really wondering where the good ones are? Now don't get me wrong, a few of my friends have some pretty awesome boyfriends. Okay wait. Let me rephrase and say that I know one girl with an awesome boyfriend and they started dating when they were like thirteen and are going to get married. Oh, and one other one but she's graduated and is getting married in May. And he is 29. So that really doesn't count either. Let's just say that today, despite the appearance of total relationship bliss on Facebook as girls spout off statuses about how fabulous their boyfriend is, a good number of them will actually be fuming with secret rage that they boyfriend didn't pick up on the hints about the massage or necklace they wanted.

My sophomore year on Valentine's Day I was getting ready to go to State for skiing. That morning at school I received a delivery of six roses from Boyfriend One. Those six looked kind of sad compared to the 24 that Jasmin received, but still, two girls in the school were delivered roses so I wasn't going to complain... except that I was secretly pissed that her non-boyfriend gave her 24 and mine only gave me six. What is that about? Later that night, after having drive to Vail with my six roses riding along between my feet on the floor I was given a yellow rose and a chocolate marshmallow heart from a kid on our ski team. That one took the cake. If you give me a marshmallow anything you win. Gold star. So then I had roses from Boyfriend One and Non-Boyfriend Two. And that is my one Valentine's story. I shall try to remember last year's and the years before, but don't get your hopes up.

Thus, I have decided that today I will spend in thankful remembrance of ex-boyfriends. Thankful because I am not with them anymore and thankful because at one point they gave me roses today. Some girls might find today rather depressing, seeing all the couples going around kissing and pretending like they are competing for a who loves each other most award. However I would like to point out that we won't be the ones being disappointed as we go to bed tonight because no boyfriends will be failing to live up to our expectations. I have spent more than my fair share of time sitting around for days before thinking of all the adorable things "he" might be doing for me. Just yesterday, I was talking to a friend about how Macaroni Grill isn't exactly Valentine's dinner material. So then I decided maybe that was just what he was telling her and then he would show up and take her somewhere really fantastic. And so beings the utter inability for a boy to win on Valentine's. Whatever brilliant plan they have could never live up to our fantasies. Unless you are going for the all out wedding proposal with candles, roses, puppies and violins style shebang. Each year boys sit round stressing about what to do (or in some cases just forget that they should be stressing and thus forget about it all together) and girls sit around fantasizing about their perfect date. Unfortunately for boys unless they turned into famous country singers or actors with six packs and loads of cash driving really hot cars and then cooking for us in their huge house while serving us wine on their roof that overlooks the Eifle Tower, New York or such, they are at a loss. Although what fails to astound me is how boys seem to miss the hints that nearly every girl drops starting a month before Valentine's.

"Ohhh, I have always wanted to go to the Cheesecake Factory."

"Ohh they are my favorite band! I think they are playing in Denver soon... I'd love to go."

"Ohhh look how gorgeous that necklace is, I love it!"

Hellooooo. The national government should put out some kind of national warning to men the month before reminding them to start paying a fraction more attention to what their girlfriends are saying the month before Valentine's, anniversaries, birthdays, Christmas, etc. Gloria and I had a long conversation today about how, after a certain number of Valentine's, it is easier to just expect a piece of shit for your gift so that whatever it is that they actually give you rocks. It isn't only the American boys who seem to miss all hints dropped, because in her experience Spanish boys are just as clueless. And how many times do we hear "I didn't know what to get you..." and wonder how that could be possible when, for a month, we have been pointing out specific things we want. Alas, something just doesn't click between the hints and the present purchasing.

The main issue of Valentine's Day is that it really has no significance other than to test your boyfriend on his ability to plan the perfect date and get the perfect present. I am also anti-girlfriend given gifts because we all know Valentine's is really more of a girlfriend appreciation day. What boys plan for as a gift, girls plan for as their status. It is all about what corny and precious status you can put up after your guy takes you on "the best date ever." No girl wants to be the one who, the next day when with all her friends discussing last night says "Oh... yeah... we went to Olive Garden and he gave me dyed daisies from Safeway." Which, if it really was the best date ever, you won't be sitting in your bed one year later at a total loss of what you even did last year on Valentine's.

Now don't get me wrong, I am just as corny as the next girl. But what fun is it knowing that the only reason your guy is putting in so much effort is a holiday of girlfriend anticipation and judgement. If a guy pulled out Valentine's quality dates on a semi-regular basis I can pretty much say that he'd be the most desired guy around. Frankly, if a guy showed up at my house with a huge pizza and Coke and Disney movies and cookies that he attempted to bake and let me sit around in my underwear with a pony tail I would probably be in heaven. Not to mention if he could pull off some genuine compliments other than "You are so beautiful, you are so great, blah blah blah." Also, avoiding fighting or ruining the night with: insecurity, jealously, lack of adequate pizza or drinking the last Coke would be stellar. But there we go with my ideal Valentine that no boy would be able to think of unless I explicitly said: Hey, go to the gym and get a six pack, wear a really great pair of jeans, make me a country mix CD, bring cheese pizza and a Victoria's Secret gift card, and actually tell me something you really like about me instead of that I look pretty, and we'll be golden. Maybe that should be the solution: telling your guy what you want. But that takes all the fun out of it. Cause the only reason that sophomore year Valentine's was so fabulous was because not only did I get roses delivered to school but I also got a random extra yellow rose AND a marshmallow chocolate heart which happen to be among my favorite candy. So that lucky guess (or lack of options when at the store) resulted in the only Valentine of my recollection that was at all surprising.

So, we are doomed. Because boys will never fully live up to expectation and if they do, then the next year they are screwed because we'll be expecting something even better. And girls are set up to be left totally crushed when they get taken to Olive Garden instead of the Cheesecake Factory. Or when that little box they are hoping has the necklace they want actually has a note about how you are pretty inside of it.

As I spend this Valentine's being single and enjoying a cup of tea and a book, I would just like to say that I have a few amendmants to make to Valentine's. First: it shall be renamed Girlfriend Appreciation Day, since that's what it is and thus eliminates girls going overboard and out doing their boyfriend on the one day boys should be allowed to think they rock at planning dates on. Two: girls should be banned from Facebook for the 24 hours after their Valentine's date. Three: all single ladies should be given roses by the government and free pedicures. Four: all boyfriends should be given one get out of jail free card when they totally screw up and don't get her what she wants. And Five: today should actually be about remembering everyone you love in your life and taking an extra few minutes to tell them what you really love about them instead of just "Oh baby you are so gorgeous (yes thank you I know, I spent five hours getting ready why didn't you shave you tool.)"

And to all my fellow single ladies, if he liked it he shoulda put a ring on it, not dumped it, or lost it :) and to all you girls with boyfriends, cut them a little slack cause they just don't have the imaginations that we do. And that really isn't their fault. So tonight watch the Bachelor and pretend your boyfriend took you on whatever date Brad will take a girl on tonight. I promise it will make you forget for two hours the fact that you are secretly furious at your date. And if your guy actually pulled today off, please don't put it as your status because all of us single ladies are pretending all men suck today so as to avoid feeling sad at all. You can tell us about it tomorrow.

Paella from the kitchen of Tete!

This might be the worst recipe you've ever read, beware.

Okay here is what you are going to need:

calamari

large shrimp

small shrimp

clams in the shell

scallops

(for these, you can use as much as you'd like. Literally. Tete uses about 10 large shrimp, two cups of calamari, three cups of clams in the shell, and two cups of scallops.)

green and red peppers, cut up into small pieces-- about three cups total

fish and shell fish soup broth (I think you can buy this in the states but am not positive.)

two cloves of garlic, crushed

a tablespoon of cilantro crushed

one lemon

rice bomba (not sure what that type is in English, but it is tiny and

white!) (one kilo)

salt

paella mix (you can buy this in a dry pack, Ducros is the brand here but any work!)

four chicken bullon cubes

one cup of Olive oil (but as Tete says: the more you use the better, it makes you fat but it is best.)

half a cup of peas

half a cup sliced carrots

So you are going to use the most massive pot you have. But not a deep one... does that make sense?

Heat the olive oil up and you are going to add the veggies to the oil to cook them. Rinse all of the seafood really well, and add the calamari, scallops, clams and small shrimp to the cooking veggies. You're going to cook this until the peppers are soft. Now you will add the kilo of rice to the cooking pan. You can use as much or as little rice as you want, but for however much you use, you will use double the amount of water+soup broth. S

o for one kilo rice, add two kilo of water and broth. Mix everything up so that it can cook evenly.

You are going to let it cook at just under a boil for twenty minutes. While it is cooking you will add the bullon cubes, crushed up. And you will add the cilantro and garlic and lemon. Then add the paella mix. Stir everything up and then taste the broth... if you want it to be saltier add some salt! Once you have added everything you are going to lay the ten shrimp on top of the paella to cook.Half way through you will flip them onto their other side to cook. After you have cooked the paella for 20 minutes you can put a towel over the paella to keep it warm and moist.

There you go! That is how you make Tete's paella :)

How to make friends

Claudia and Paula :)

February.

Just some parenting videos in the club. Normal.

Of course by the time we all looked at the camera and the same time, they weren't smiling.

The original printing press at the Santander newspaper.

Gecko!!!

Last night Tete's granddaughters were over. Claudia is three ish and Paula is four ish, and thanks to my abundant supply of toys for Maria, I am the new popular girl in the house. I spent last night playing a card memory game with them while waiting to go out. The issue with going out in Spain is that if you arrive before 11:30 it is obvious that you are not Spanish. And by the time we go out, I am ready to be asleep. Okay lie: by the time it is nine pm I am ready to go to bed. But I make a valiant effort to be Spanish.

When we did go out, we went to an "erasmus" party, which is the international student organization that we aren't actually a part of but crashed their party anyway. The only issue is that everyone already knew each other and there were like 32 American students all from the same school in the States. So we ended up sitting in a corner wondering how to make friends. Unfortunately, I hadn't brought my Belle doll or plastic animals so that option was out. In the other corner were two friendless boys with a friendless girl. This resulted in our watching the parenting show that was for some reason being played in the club. You never know when you will need some tips on how to show your kid how to crack an egg or what veggies to eat. Or maybe it was a reminder of what you don't want to happen: show parenting shows as a subtle reminder of why you don't actually want to go home with that beer-goggle cute boy. After about thirty minutes of feeling like the coolest kids around, one of the friendless boys came over and asked if we were speaking English, and our little circle gained three which therefore means we have three friends now. Win.

Other than meeting a kid from Britain and obsessing over his accent, and aside from the daffodil that I picked at three in the morning when I walked home in true Theresa Cutter and Brittany Long late night flower robbery form, playing with the girls was the best part of my night. I now have a stellar collection of drawings in my school notebook of flowers and trees from Paula and was woken up at eight this morning by Claudia coming in my room and poking me, asking if I was awake. All the times that we jumped on Kristian when we were at his house in Denver telling him to wake up are coming back to haunt me, but in a good way. Today Tete is going to teach me to make paella, and I am going to limp around the house in an attempt to make my foot stop being a jerk and hurting. Which means that maybe a few things on my to-do list will get done.

But maybe I shall adventure outside in an attempt to find a hilarious story to tell you, although being groped by old women isn't exactly how I was planning on spending my year here. I mean, Spanish boys are one thing and heaven knows they don't know the "keep your hands to your self" phrase, but yesterday, it was taken to a whooole new level. Rawrrrrrr.

I am also going to add some pictures from the newspaper visiting field trip we went on yesterday. I don't have a super awesome story about the newspaper, aside from that when the huge fire happened for three days way back when, the paper continued to be published even though they were in the middle of the fire. Since beginning back in the time of the dinosaurs a hundred years ago, they have never missed a day of publishing. Which either means that they had a death wish involving burning to death or they are just very dedicated to publishing the striking news of Santander. Which on a good day will beat that of Steamboat, although the Record is yet to find a comically equal match. And I am going to include a picture of a gecko that I almost stepped on, because there was a GECKO outside in February. And a daffodil. Is this real life?

Wait I did what?

There are a few phrases that any person living in a foreign country should know:

1. I don't know what you are saying.

2. Where is the bathroom.

3. You are ugly/a perv/creepy, now leave me alone or I will hit you with my bag.

4. I am lost. (but do not ask for directions because even if you can ask that question, you probably won't be able to understand the response.)

5. A beer, please.

However, just responding with "Yes." is never a good idea. We visited the regional newspaper today, El Diario. On the bus, a woman asked me if the next stop was a long way away. I would like to say that I understood that immediately, but I was preoccupied with my still ongoing mental battle that going on the "field trip" was a good life decision as opposed to staying in bed. So, when she asked me, I just said "Si!" like I knew exactly what was going on. The fact that I really had no idea how far away the bus stop was had no hindrance on my response. Upon realizing that I was actually being asked a legitimate question, I told her that I wasn't actually sure how far away it was. What a help I am, right?

Saying "Yes" seems to be my go-to response to things today, because after I stopped for my post-tanning donut (yes, a tad anti-healthy but sometimes you've gotta give in.) I started limping along up the hill to my house like a real classy lady: donut in hand, beach bag falling off my shoulder in a "excuse me while I stuff my face" kind of way, shorts riding up one side of my still albino rear-end and let's just not get into the hair situation. Half way up the hill I was contemplating if it would be better to have a fake leg than to deal with trying to figure out what was going on with my inability to walk. This really pleasant mental image was disrupted by a woman screaming "NINA" over and over again. Now, I am all about old Spanish women getting in fights, as it is far more interesting than futbol. Turning around, I saw an orange haired woman racing up the hill like she was trying out for the olympic walking team (which I think there really should be.) It wasn't until everyone had stopped and was staring at me that I realized her screams were not directed at another old woman or her husband, but at me. The conversation that followed went something along the lines of (in my fabulous translation):

Orange lady: BLAH BLAH BLAH (something I didn't understand)

Me: Si?

Orange lady: BLAH BLAH BLAH (commence patting me down and grabbing at my bag.)

Me: I don't understand what is going on.... did you lose something?

Orange lady: (points at my wallet in my bag at which point I think maybe I grabbed her shopping recite in Lupa and she really wanted to keep it or something, so I open my wallet and show her and she started yelling again.) BLAH BLAH BLAH

Me: I don't have your wallet if that is what you are asking.

Orange lady: YES YOU DO THE GIRL IN THE STORE SAID YOU DO.

Me: HAHAHA WHAT. You can look in my bag if you want. Go for it. Look, I have an orange peel in my pocket. (start unloading beach bag onto steps: Cosmo, iPod, keys, athletic tape, towel, spoon, more orange peel, at which point I think she realize that I was not the person who stole her wallet or was too scared to see what else I had in my bag because she said...)

Orange lady: YOU don't have it. HMPPPPP. Who has it?

Me: Uhm, I don't know? (Oh, maybe the punk that told you I stole it? Hm? Good distraction for her to book it off with your money while I hobble around like a fool with a donut. Obviously high tailing it away from you because I stole your stuff. Good call.)

I would just like to say that I have learned my lesson and from now on will just simply says "NO SE." to every question unless I am actually paying attention to the person when they are talking to me. And I am going to be sure that the next time a crazy lady tries to go through my bag, I have a clever response ready about how I am too limpy and boring to steal her stuff and to please leave me alone and go search for someone a little faster than me.

Pee-del-dee

Today was the day of squatting children.

First was Leo, who is in Maria's class and is four. He proclaimed "TENGO PISSSSS" loudly and repeatedly as his mother carried him running to the fence line while trying to pull off his pants.

Then was Marcos, also in Maria's class, who didn't even bother announcing it until it was over. In his precious little school uniform while eating his afternoon snack of churrizo.

Then was a little girl who was probably about three who just took off her pants and squatted in the middle of the jump rope game her older sister was playing.

I am proud to announce that children in Spain would survive if camping or out in the wilderness without a bathroom. Because even when one is available, it seems they find it much more enjoyable to just be one with nature.

That's what I love about Sundays...

Hello, gorgeous yellow tree :)

The random church I always take pictures of, but up close this time.

Another pretty tree.

Flowers in Santillana Del Mar on Saturday

On my run :) Life. Is. Good. and so is God.

The church at sunset.

Puertochico.

The Living Part of La Vida Loca

It is sixty and sunny today in Santander. It is also the day before my first test, and the day that I have to make a half hour power point on tourism in Seville, in Spanish.

Of course, in true procrastination fashion, I left my laptop and gave up my Youtube search for a flamenco video that didn't contain creepy old men, and went on a run. Over the past few months, I have spent so much time sitting around stressing out about any of the following: money, homework, grades, classes back in the US that I'm not taking, failing at life when I get back, failing at life here, not being fluent in Spanish, getting fat on Spanish food, boys, not having the right wardrobe, not being able to think of blog things to write about, not being able to find things, and worst but not least, not taking advantage of where I live. It seems silly, if you think about it, to be stressed out about being stressed out. But you'd be by surprised the number of times I find myself stressed about my stress. And about being too tired to go salsa dancing or too tempted to say no to flan.

Today on my run (okay so more like walk walk walk jog walk walk walk jog) I was thinking about the whole concept of moments that take your breath away. For example, the jog, jog part of that walking combo. Or, for me, every time that the sun comes out and I get to look at the ocean and have one of those "Is this real life" moments. I've had a lot of those, this year. Some really awesome, some heartbreaking, and some where I absolutely have no words to explain it. Like the first time I dreamed in Spanish (and the only time, whatever) and forgot who I was, where I was, what I was, etc. Or when the sun was red one morning when I walked to school but the clouds were all purple. There are just some of those moments that you feel like you exist in this weird floaty universe of non-existence. Since that makes sense, and everything.

Basically the point of this rant is that I think we get so caught up in what we should be doing, what we have to do on our to-do list, and what everyone else is doing that we aren't, that we forget why we are alive. We forget to take an hour or two a day to enjoy life. Maybe that extra two points on a test won't be worth it in the long run, or short run, cause maybe you'll get hit by a bus on your way to the test. And if you did, wouldn't you rather have spent a little bit of each day doing something you love? Living the part of la vida loca that we get so caught up in?

Let's pretend kilos are the same as pounds

The Surgeon General did a great job about making it clear that cigarettes were bad. Gold star, Surgeon General. Yet nobody has felt the need to send out a mass warning about the effects of a Spanish diet on an American. I made the horrible mistake of getting on a scale the other day. I tend to avoid them at all costs, since they never lead to happiness. For me, in the past, I was either freaking out about not weighing enough to give blood, or I was secretly rejoicing over having a valid excuse to not have to get stuck with a massive needle, thus excusing me from a moral dilemma. But, for the sake of trying to prove the Swedish scale wrong, I used our scale here to see if I was, in fact, above a weight that should be letting me squish into my jeans. Thus the beginning of my distaste for the kilo to pounds conversion. Not that I was entirely surprised, seeing as my only form of activity is walking home from schools/bars/eating and my main food intake is, to my horror and pride, 3,300 calories a day when I let my mother feed me her desired amount. Thus my warning: unless you wish to consume a thousand extra calories a day, prepare for a battle of wills against your host mother, her cooking, and your thighs.

You need to come to Spain with a knowledge that the diet is absolutely impossible to hate, love or avoid. Because if I let you come here to study abroad and you don't know that you will gain weight, well that's just rude of me. Maybe you won't get fat but that adorable dress from H&M four months ago? Not gonna happen. Here's the main issue: salt and second helpings. Those are the religiously followed rules of a Spanish house. Luckily my Spanish mother's worst nightmare is gaining two kilo, so when I told her I gained six (plus.......) she about had a heart attack and told me that she was so sorry, that I must be depressed, and that we would eat cauliflour ever day for a month. That's the new plan. Which is heart breaking because that means that all the salty garbanzo beans, all the late night flan and all of the wine drinking is probably coming to an end. Instead, as a reward for my new "heath" kick, aka the removal of taking second, third and fourth helpings, I am going to go every Sunday and have something famously fabulous like my favorite patatas bravas or manchego cheese. I figure if I stop eating as if it the Passover, then perhaps I shall be able to appreciate the really awesome food that much more. And if I stop consuming 8,000mg more than the recommended amount perhaps I shall stop feeling like a beached whale. Those things would be nice.

Biarittz, Bayonne, Brie, Baguettes, and a Banana

There is something about being three that makes you very sure that the threat "You aren't allowed to come to my party." is the end all, be all of a life. Somewhere between the boogers being whipped on my peacoat and Maria telling a random four year old girl that she was really ugly with really ugly eyes, Maria withdrew my invitation to her party. I suspect that she was hoping that I would immediately break down into uncontrollable sobbing and grief over this. The whole telling a stranger that you think they are ugly deal didn't really go over too well with me, but the whole reprimanding her and telling her to apologize didn't go over well with her. Maria has figured out that if she cries long enough, if she kicks her mom and then refuses to apologize, or if she is flat out rude and then says sorry, she will get a reward. Usually it comes in the form of a bonbon or a sucker. The whole tricking your mom into giving you candy in exchange for misbehavior is rather genius and horrifying. On the other side of the Maria story though, there is this really sweet girl who loves sharing and being polite. On her own terms.

After my night with Maria, I Skyped my mom, totally mortified that perhaps I might end up with a little girl that would know exactly how to get what she wanted. This prompted my conclusion that if I ever have kids, and if they by some horrible act of God are an eighth as crazy as poor Maria, then I shall be forced to send them to my mother for the rest of their lives.

Then today I spent about forty five minutes talking with Gloria and Mayte about the things little kids get away with and how anyone in their right mind can overlook bad behavior like they do. It certainly isn't just a Spanish trend; working in a ski resort town in customer service since I was fifteen taught me the value of selective hearing and a permanent smile. And I have to thank my mom for forcing me to stand in the corner until I finished my meals when I was little because I am sure that is why I was able to survive last night when I found out dinner was a full can of mushrooms, fried, with a few piece of bread.

That meal was kind of a let down after my last weekend. We had Friday off school so we got up at the cracky crack of dawn (okay more like three hours before since the sun is particularly lazy right now and sleeps in far later than I am allowed too) at 5:30 to make it on a bus at 7:00. Santander is a resort town, which means that in the off season, you are subject to limited bus hours. The whole process of getting to the station was more work than nearly the rest of the trip. The bus took us to Hendaye, which is right over the border of France and Spain. We spent about an hour and a half there, wandering first into a no trespassing area that turned out to be the railroad tracks, and then down to a little outcropping that overlooked the little port.

From Hendaye we took a short train into Biarittz where we managed to get on a bus to the tourism office and book a hotel. Friday we spent the day exploring and eating mass amounts of brie. Prior to France I had not eaten brie, or a banana, in probably ten plus years. Both of those changed, so despite a few too many bottles of wine and a Frenchman telling me that I am not normal (thanks for pointing out the obvious when a girl is crying over a lack of cute boys) I can say that it was a highly productive weekend.

Friday night we ended up walking around in the rain until we found an Indian restaurant for dinner. Somehow Christina and I ended up ordering chicken and an Indian style salmon to our order, which turned out to be the most fantastic mistake ever. Add one more thing to the list of foods I now love. That makes it actually three foods that I lost my total fear of in a matter of 72 hours. Saturday we walked out on the coast of Biarittz after a breakfast of chocolate bread... yum yum yum. Last week's effort to eat healthy and do the ab ripper every night was immediately un-done when I found out that the man in the bakery near our apartment spoke English and was really friendly. If you are nice to me AND you can offer to cut bread in English, you are fabulous, in my opinion.

I am kind of sad to report that despite their reputation as being rude and cold, the French outshone the Spanish on hospitality and kindness. Except the whole "you are not normal" accusing man in the hotel. Rude. Prior to coming to Spain I thought everyone here was all about the two kisses and loving everyone and having a great happy family life together. Not so much. Except the kisses part. They do love their kisses. Which is kind of strange since they don't want to be your friend. Who knows. Anyway, I love the French people and want to transplant them into Santander as soon as possible.

Saturday afternoon we got on a bus to Bayonne, which was my favorite of the three towns we went too. I have a thing for tiny streets and lots of shops and lots and lots and lots of food. Emma had sent me on a mission for a chocolate chip cookie that came in a yellow wrapper. So when Lauren came walking up with her panini in a yellow wrapper, I knew: my four month desperation for a cookie had come to an end. And let me just inform you that I have no idea what the name of the place is, but if you go to Bayonne you must find that cookie. It is a matter of life or significantly near death depression. Saturday night we returned to Biarittz and massacred six packages of Brie cheese and a three foot long and five inch wide baguette and two jars of fig jam and twelve bottles of wine in about thirty minutes. As I said, any good that I did on my whole "getting fabulously in-shape before returning home" plan was undone. And I have no regrets. All I have now is an immense desire to consume massive amounts of Brie at a high pace. I could skip the wine though, probably for the next ten years. At least now I can replace with with bananas, salmon and Brie.

Sunday morning we got up and went to San Jean de Luz, where I ate my first non-McDonalds/non-airport cheeseburger since getting to Spain. If you can't guess this let me just put this plain and simple: I LOVE FRANCE. And I love the food. More than I can say.

France inspired me to start a blog list about all of the foods I will be able to eat when I get home. So I am starting a recipe book for when I have my apartment next year. I fail at getting any comments on my blog, mostly because I think the page views each day are simple from me checking to see if anyone cares, but if you by some chance do have a really easy, delicious recipe, you should give me it. I will return the favor, I promise! Because.....

I am going to learn how to make Paella. And flan. So I will bribe you. If you supply me with successfully fabulous easy delicious recipes, I shall teach you my secret Spanish home cooking ways. God willing I can figure it out.