(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.
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...
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