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.