Fashion week...hemlines aren't the only things that are short this season!

Well, these past two weeks have been chock full of new experiences, as always never a dull moment in these parts.Gabi and I started off on a rather good note when she scored us passes to see a show during Madrid Fashion Week. We met outside of her office, she happened to get out pretty late that day and we were pressed for time. So naturally we sat down to have a beer before running to the show, hahaha. So post-beer, we were working with only 20 minutes to spare (Spanish time management is an ancient art, I am proud to be mastering it so quickly).

We sprinted through the Madrid metro system to change trains and all the while we discussed the horrible smell that just wouldn't go away. We agreed it was too bad to be coming from either of us, this was no "oops i forgot to put on deodorant today" kind of odor, this was a "my netherloins have never known soap" kind of smell and it was makingus sick. So distressed were we about the pungent smell that repeatedly violated our nostrils, that we didnt realize that we had taken one of the metro trains in the OPPOSITE direction! Luckily the error was caught in time, and we reached the convention center only 15 minutes after the start of the show. As we tried to slither unnoticed into the back of the audience,which we had no problem doing since noone really cared who we were- they were too busy either looking at the models or trying to make out famous faces in the crowd, we shared a few giggles thinking about how slick we were that even with our train misshap we didnt miss the show.When suddenly we were jolted out of our smug little world by the lights flicking on and people getting out of their seats,the show was over! Yes, we had arrived 15 minutes late to a 30 minute show. What kind of a hack was this guy anyway? His mediochre talent was only capable of cranking out enough designs to fill a 30 minute show??? We trudged out of the convention center and back to the metro with the rest of the plebians that, like us, neither had access to a car nor was willing to shell out money for a 20 euro cab ride.

On our way home, we concluded that it had actually been a fun experience even if we did miss half the show. Plus, we got to rub elbows with people that were not even half as cool as we thought they would be since most of them came back to the metro with us! I think we each secretly rated ourselves a notch higher on the coolmeter that day, oh wait I think that comment might make me lose the notch I added...damn.

I was Segovian in another life....

This past weekend we went to Segovia to celebrate Chema's little brother Carlos' birthday at his family's home. The trip itself almost didn't happen, due to the inexplicable way in which a fun Friday night miracuously transformed itsself into a painful Saturday morning at 7:30! How did that happen? I had no idea, all I knew was that it was now 11:30, I had slept about 4 hours and the phone would not stop ringing. It was Gabi's fourth wake up call of the morning, we were going to miss the bus if I didnt get up... and at that moment I could have cared less. Actually, I was so annoyed that I considered throwing the still ringing phone across the room. ThenI remembered that I paid 90 euros for it recently and throwing it would probably result in irreparable damage so I decided to answer instead, unfortunately I was physically incapable of controlling the stream of insults that flew out of my mouth when I heard Gabi's perky good morning chirp on the other end of the line- but I think she took it all in stride considering the long night I had.

I decided to listen to her and started getting ready so we wouldnt miss the bus, I think I packed with my eyes closed which proved to be quite misfortunate later in the weekend when I would discover mismatched shoes and no extra underwear were part of what I had chosen to take with me. In any case the pain I went through was worth it because they were all smiles when I finally managed to drag my ass down to the bus station and after a quick breakfast of champions (beer and tortilla) begin our sojourn to Chema's hometown... Segovia!

Home to an impressive Roman aqueduct, a fairy-tale castle, and a beautiful cathedral- Segovia is, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful and romantic cities in Spain. Also, the most typical dish is roasted suckling pig- can it get any better that that? As we all know, for Cubans roast pig is a way of life. It is one of the four major Cuban food groups: Assorted fried things, Pork, Rice, and Beans. Because of the important role pork plays in the Cuban-American diet, I can honestly tell you that I consider myself to be quite a pork connoiseur. It is more than a food for me, I have learned to equate roasted pig with happiness due to the amount of times we would serve it at festive occasions.Just the thought of a roasted pig makes me feel happy, when I am depressed I would probably prefer to dig into a bag of pork rinds instead of a brownie sundae. So I guess what I am trying to say is that if I say Segovian pork is good, just take my word for it. Aside from the great food, one of my favorite parts of the city is how incredibly old and mysterious it is. C's house is RIGHT NEXT to the cathedral, and one of our nights there we ate dinner on their rooftop terrace in order to enjoy the amazing view. Unbelievable.

I know I am dramatic, but I can honestly say that the way they illuminate the cathedral so that it looks so warm and golden at night and how it takes up so much of the sky and casts shadows over the hundreds of orange tiled roofs making you just want to lie on the shingles and watch the moon mist over for the rest of the night- made me spend the next few hours after dinner trying to imagine what kind of people had lived in the house centuries before.... sounds romantic right? Kind of ...until I remembered the Inquisition and began thinking about the fact that Chema's house is in what was then the old Jewish quarter and to top it off one of his best friends is a direct descendant of Torquemada! He was one of the most famous names of the Inquisition- an exceptionally violent Grand Inquisitor - in any case, that freaked me out in a major way and I actually had a hard time getting to sleep.

Life after Melissa....

(Melissa with a FRIGODEDO- some crazy spanish ice pop that conveniently can be worn on the finger of your choice! Guess which she chose? hahaha)

As Melissa has officially gone back to New York, I have been trying to keep myself occupied which means I have embarked on yet another "Life Organization" routine in order to sort out my hectic life. My first plan of action was to finally listen to what Pepe has been telling me all along and start buying my meat products from the open-air market down the street where they are significantly cheaper than in the regular supermarkets.

Basically, I go with my little roller-cart to the market and walk among the different stands to buy fruit, veggies, fish and meat products. It definitely is a bit daunting at first: rows of skinned rabbits and featherless, headless chickens adorn the ratty stands and the stone floors are covered with a slippery layer of fish scales and grimy lettuce that can prove extremely hazardous when in heels (as I usually am..hehehe). It's unclear which is more unsettling as you make your way around the place- the cold dead stare of the lamb heads or the hungry looks from the stand-owners that let you know you are the only woman under 50 in the entire market. If that doesn't scare you, then the seemingly harmless old ladies will as they roll their shopping carts over your feet and ruthlessly cut you in line if you are not paying attention. I brave the marketplace at least once a week and am slowly learning alot about the metric system and how to ask for different cuts of poultry and meat. Last week I asked for two chicken breasts cut into filets and accidentally ended up with about 3 weeks worth of chicken. Granted, it only cost me about 6 euros and I was able to freeze it, but it was definitely a learning experience- I have never eaten so much chicken in one week. The mere thought of anything chicken-related right now makes me dry-heave.

Another aspect of post-Melissa existence here in Madrid has been my long-awaited return to the gym- an integral part of this "Life Organization project" being a newly-devised grueling fitness regime. Our gym here in Madrid (Gabi and Chema are also members) is yuppie-central.
Yuppies here are referred to as pijos (pronounced-: pee-ho) and they can be spotted a mile away because they usually travel in herds and enjoy wearing similiar outfits.
Our gym is almost like their home-base, a pijo-land of sorts- where all pijos converge to work out together and chat - mostly chat. Tons of these pretty madrileños hit the machines there daily, and from what we have observed their favorite pastime appears to be scoping each other out in the weight room. Gabi and I don't understand this whole "picking up at the gym" concept. Of course, we also don't work out in full makeup and we belong to the minority of women in the gym that actually sweat profusely during spinning class. There are girls that come into class with heaving bosoms spilling out of miniscule sports bras flashing tons of jewelry and freshly glossed lips. They usually like to position themselves in the front row so everyone can check out their guns as they bend over the handlebars during the stretching segments. Standard attire for the pijo gym-goers is quite entertaining to look at for those of us who don the typical blackstretch pants with any top as long as it covers my midriff ensemble. The men either go for the soccer shorts and white sneakers athletic ensemble to show that they really prefer organized sports, or they opt for the ultra-yuppie look which consists of a polo shirt or even two layered on top of each other with the collar(s) turned up and some type of puka shell necklace. From my observations this outfit works as some sort of pijo mating call for all of the carefully made up heaving bosom girls. Since Ralph Lauren is grossly overpriced here wearing a polo (or two) to sweat away in at the gym says a great deal about one's disposable income levels.

So as you can see between the market and the gym I have been keeping very busy with my new highly structured post-Melissa life...it's been almost like having an inside-view to opposing ends of the Madrid social spectrum. Quite enlightening, although after seeing the sweaty polo-wearers in action I am almost beginning to prefer the lamb heads...

MY Birthday Weekend, COCK-full of fun...!

We decided to celebrate my birthday last Friday night, with a low-key cake and dinner soiree at my house. Gabi, Chema, Carolina, Melissa and I sat around and stuffed ourselves with birthday cake (made by chef melissa) which was delicious of course, but unfortunately I almost lost conciousness while trying to blow out the trick candles.
After a few drinks at home we made our way to a fabulously-named place to kick off my birthday night: BAR COCK. I chose this bar, no not for the catchy name, but for the simple fact that it is one of the few bars in Madrid that specializes in making cocktails. Cocktails are actually an endangered species here, noone really makes them and the Spanish are definitely not used to drinking them. On more than one occasion Gabi and I have been met with open mouth stares and looks of extreme disapproval from nearby Spaniards for the simple crime of enjoying a few bloody marys at 3 in the afternoon or ordering a couple of long Island Ice Teas with lunch! Can you believe them?!!!
Spaniards usually drink beer or vermouth (yes, straight vermouth) during the day and reserve the hard-core "drinks" for their late night boozing. They do not mess around with their alcohol here, a typical "drink" consists of a tube glass HALF TO 3/4 of the way FILLED with the hard liquor of your choice, accompanied by a tiny splash of the carbonated beverage of your choice to mix it with. Now maybe it's because I am from New York where cocktails are a standard part of the local nightlife, or maybe it is because I just love vodka, I don't know, but I what I do know is that no matter how long I live in Spain, and no matter how assimilated I may feel here I will never understand why noone on the peninsula is capable of making a decent dirty Martini. I miss them so much that I have taken to making them at home, which makes me feel a bit like an old french brothel owner.Soooo as you can imagine I had very high hopes for this big ol'Cock bar thinking that maybe I would find a place that will finally get it right!

I can't even begin to describe how incredibly disappointed I was when the "Dirty Martini" I ordered turned out to be nothing more than a nasty gin concoction with a few olives thrown in that I was forced to sip with gritted teeth throughout the course of the night. Yuck!

Nevertheless, we had a great time and proceeded to head to the next bar: Suite, which was unfortunately about to close.Luckily there was enough time to have one quick drink and people-watch for awhile. This place is located near the center of Madrid yet it is still far enough away from the tourist traps to attract the mullet/faux-hawk-sporting alterna-crowd. We've gone there quite a few times actually, and the best visit by far has got to be the day we spotted our spinning instructor in the dark sweaty dance club upstairs... She is a short muscular yet feminine chick with a bleached butchy haircut and a... HUMUNGOUS ASS (I am Cuban, I have seen quite a few gargantuan asses in my day, some of them in my very own family, but never have I seen the likes of this). Gabi and I actually nicknamed her "libelula" which means dragonfly in Spanish, because we happened to catch sight of her in the women's locker room one day, where she likes to prance around naked,and we noticed that she has a very large colorful dragonfly tattoed on one of her impossibly large rump cheeks. So anytime we see her we can't help calling her by her favorite insect name.

Ok, I lost track there for a minute...anyhow the night ended in the wee hours of the morning after stopping off at yet another placewith a one syllable name: Room. Melissa and I walked home and fell into bed. It took me a while to fall asleep, I was too busyfinishing off the rest of the potato chip bag we had left on the couch earlier in the evening, but as I chomped away I couldnt helpthinking how weird it is to be turning 29! My mom had toddlers at that age, and I on the other hand can't even manage to keep a plant alive for more than a few weeks. ..