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.