The Spain Chronicles

Feria de Jerez- A Sherry Fueled Journey to the Depths of Southern Spain...

2008-06-04T10:49:00.009+02:00

How can I explain feria?

Imagine running around an unfamiliar town in a heavily ruffled flamenco dress and increasingly painful high heels for four days straight, surviving on very little sleep, a steady diet of fried fish and endless amounts of sherry. You continuously weave your way through the dirt floor of the fairgrounds to visit the endless rows of makeshift bars set up for the occasion, each time you cross the road you manage to narrowly escape being crushed by the horse drawn carriages that repeatedly cruise by, filled with more sherry-guzzling revellers. The large flower in your hair is begining to itch and your earlobes are killing you from the weight of the giant gaudy earrings they made you wear, but you are too busy staring at the packs of people that fill the bars dancing methodically in pairs to the wildly repetitive yet strangely addictive Sevillanas music that blares away endlessly in the background : that my friends is just a mere glimpse at what the thoroughly exhausting yet wildly exhilarating Spanish phenomenon of feria is all about...

Feria, is in fact a series of huge celebrations that take place every year typically after Easter in many of the towns in southern Spain. Each town hosts its own individual feria , the most famous taking place in the largest cities of the Andalusian province: Seville and Jerez de La Frontera. Although Seville’s feria is probably the most well-known outside of Spain and tends to attract the most tourists, it is known for being extremely exclusive and difficult to enjoy if you are not lucky enough to be invited into the private tents by any of the locals. Visitors don’t get to truly experience the real party, as they are often left on the street trying in vain to peer through the barriers even if just to get a quick peek at all the locals boozing it up in the members-only tents called casetas. The feria in Jerez may not be as famous as Seville's in foreign circles, but it is definitely more friendly since almost all the casetas are open to the public. You can rub elbows with the natives and feel like you are really a part of the action.

Lucky for me, my sister Melissa’s boyfriend (Alvaro) happens to be from Jerez, so this year we had a perfect opportunity to experience feria first-hand with the added bonus of having a native Jerezano and his family as our hosts.

Seeing that Melissa, Ade and I had never been to feria before, we spent the weeks leading up to the event trying to learn what to expect by bombarding Alvaro with questions at all hours. Melissa and I even went so far as to subject the poor man to impromptu fashion shows in order for him to give us his opinion on different outfits and deem whether they were appropriate or not to take with us for the days we wouldn’t have to be decked out in full flamenco regalia.

Tourists that go to feria don’t usually wear flamenco outfits, and those that do are often ridiculed mercilessly behind their backs by the locals (as Alvaro confessed sheepishly to us) since most of the rental dresses for tourists are so out of style they look as if the person came straight off the set of a low-budget 1950s bullfighting movie. However, Melissa and I were not your typical tourists, since we were always accompanied by a large group of locals dressed in traditional feria gear we were of course expected to do the same and assimilate as much as possible. Prior to feria we literally spent weeks scouring Madrid looking for some nice rental dresses and accompany us to the different rental stores, at first I thought it was out of his love for the tradition of feria but later I began to suspect that it was in order to ensure that we wouldn't show up in something that would convert all of us into social pariahs.

After all, feria fashion is a HUGE deal in the south- there is even a special flamenco fashion week held every year to dictate the trends for the upcoming year! Flamenco dresses are typically worn by local women, although they definitely don’t wear them for the entire week of partying. For one, flamenco dresses are extremely expensive- if the average woman is dropping a few hundred euros or in some cases thousands on each new dress, they most likely are not going to purchase more than one new one a year . That being said, no local woman would be caught dead wearing the same dress more than once in that same week of feria- it is considered a social faux pas of sorts, of course I have no idea what would actually happen if someone did do it: the dresses seem like they could potentially be really flammable with all those ruffles , so maybe the fashion offenders are tied to flaming bales of hay by the local flamenco police in fiery revenge for their refusal to diversify their dress choices? I kind of wish someone had done it and been publicly ridiculed for it in my presence so I could have at least sat down with a glass of sherry and a bucket of fried fish to watch the angry mob go to work on them from a safe distance. Fortunately for Melissa and I, our rental dresses went undetected and we blended in seamlessly with the crowd. That is of course until the Sevillanas music came on, that is where Melissa and I very obviously parted ways. ..

My sister has always had the annoying and somewhat alarming habit of being heavily influenced by her surroundings in a very short span of time. As children, on vacations in Virginia Beach with my parents- it would only take a few days before Melissa would, like some kind of demonic little doll, begin speaking with a southern twang and using words like “y’all” and “reckon” that would make the hair on the back of my mother’s neck stand on end. When she dated an Argentinian guy a few years back, I remember being overcome by the strong urge to punch her every time I would hear her speak Spanish in an accent reminiscent of a childhood roaming the Pampa on horseback and a lifetime of dancing tango in the smoky bars of Buenos Aires.
So it really came as no surprise when after only a week of intensive practicing at home with Alvaro and on her own with only the help an outdated instructional DVD, Melissa began to dance the complex Sevillanas dance with the ease and dexterity of someone who had been dancing her entire life. As for myself, I admit that Ade and I didn’t really bother to practice as often as Melissa, however when desperately avoiding public ridicule in your boyfriend’s hometown is the impetus for your learning... things tend to move a bit more swiftly. The Sevillanas dance is made up of 4 parts set to highly repetitive music sung typically by what sounds like large groups of slightly overweight sixty year old men with chest hair. Sadly, Ade and I had only managed to learn (barely) parts 1&2 by the time feria rolled around, leaving us in a stressful predicament... should we throw caution to the wind and attempt some kind of dual improvisation for when parts 3&4 came on? Or was it wiser to just keep repeating parts 1&2 in an effort to attract the least amount of attention possible and pray that no one notices? Not a decision for the faint-hearted, especially when just before the music starts you foolishly glance over to see a throng of people congratulating your sister who is now being hailed as the Ginger Rogers of flamenco.

I won’t give you the satisfaction of knowing how our attempt at dancing went, I will let you imagine it by telling you that as soon as the music stopped -as if some flamenco godfather had given the order from a secret backroom after watching us on a surveillance link- some kind of swiftly executed intervention took place. Before Ade and I realized what was going on, other more experienced dancers had swooped in to separate us and take each of us under their wings in an effort to guide us through the next attempt. Although our dancing improved a bit under the tutelage of our new partners, the eternal question shall forever go unanswered: was it all an act of kindness or just the work of an elaborate underground militia whose sole purpose is to uphold the sanctity of the dance and do everything in their power to prevent foreigners from unwittingly upsetting the fiery flamenco gods with their two left castanets?

Scotland vacation: Attack of the Pink Wellies....

2008-04-02T13:50:00.021+02:00

For those of you who haven't heard, after months of anticipation I finally escaped to Scotland for 5 days during Easter break with Ade, Gabi and Chema. We flew into Edinburgh, spent a night there and then in our puke-green, diesel-fuelled Renault Picasso rental car we traversed the beautiful Scottish countryside stopping in tiny towns until reaching the island of Mull in the West Highlands.

For years I have been obsessed with the way Scottish people speak, every time I have been lucky enough to casually overhear someone speaking in a thick Scottish accent I would barely be able to contain my excitement. So you can only imagine the level of giddiness my trusty travel companions had to deal with as we disembarked the plane and I stepped into my lifelong dream: a land where I was fully surrounded by millions of Scottish people speaking in varying degrees of unintelligible English all day long. Although the time had finally come for me to step foot in Scotland and immerse myself in the accent I had for so long tried unsuccessfully to mimic, I was disappointed with my inability to understand everything that was said to me. Luckily, Ade was able to act at times as our makeshift British interpreter; otherwise the rest of us would probably still be at the airport car rental desk staring blankly at the nice woman who works there not knowing what on earth she was trying to say. Although the fact that he is English came in quite handy when trying to decipher things that had been somehow lost in translation, it did preoccupy us a bit as we didn’t know if he would encounter any blatant anti-English hostility as we drove further into the countryside (for those of you that don’t know: a large percentage of Scots believe Scotland should be an independent nation and not part of the United Kingdom) but luckily for us, everyone we met seemed to be pretty much over the whole “oh you invaded our country for centuries on end and took away our independence” thing and we ended up having a great, violence-free time.

Edinburgh, for those of you like me that didn't know this, is actually pronounced ed-in-BUR-uh. I actually was the subject of relentless teasing prior to our trip when I mistakenly said edin-BERG, much like the time I pronounced Trafalgar Square in London- TRAFF-elger square instead of Traf-FAHL-ger: I thought the cab driver was going to have a heart attack he was laughing so hard. So, by taking the time to including the correct pronunciation I am merely trying to spare you the embarassment I have already suffered at the hands of the phonetically informed elite.

Aside from being annoyed by its incredibly illogical pronunciation, I couldn't help falling for the magnificent landscape; the city is surrounded by snow-capped mountains and sits on the banks of the Firth of Forth which flows out into the choppy waters of the North Sea. Aesthetically speaking, it is probably one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen, in fact I would even venture to say that I would gladly entertain the thought of moving to Edinburgh despite the inclement weather and the potentially disastrous effects it could have on my hair... now that’s love!

One of my favourite things to see in Edinburgh was the enormous castle that sits high on a rocky crag overlooking the city. Passing through all the tiny streets that lead up to the castle, you can’t help but imagine how amazing it must have been to live there centuries ago- well I guess, aside from that time when the plague almost completely ravaged the city...

From Edinburgh, our road trip took us to a tiny town on the banks of Loch Lomond: Balfron Station. We spent the night at a bed and breakfast farm belonging to this really sweet couple that have dedicated their lives to the breeding of alpacas. I don’t know if any of you have ever seen an alpaca before, but they are WEIRD looking, I think I remember Ade describing them as looking like tiny giraffes with furry crash helmets on. They have very soft fluffy wool and knobby little hyper-extended knees; the couple were even nice enough to let us feed them so we were able to get pretty close. Looking a bit like highly evolved sheep (mainly just taller and a bit more intelligent, but with a look in their eye that makes you feel as if they could pull out a pipe and newspaper and sit in the living room with you at any given moment) they don’t have any upper teeth so they basically nibble the food out of your hand by using a combination of their big lips and lower teeth. A bit slimy, but at least they have miraculously managed to survive as a species all these years with no upper teeth, right? The worst was that after feeding time we went to eat our huge fried breakfast and it wasn’t until after eating that I realized I hadn’t remembered to wash my filthy alpaca hands! I couldn’t stop laughing as I showed everyone my dirty little paw, thank God I was using utensils and didn’t have to eat anything with my hands at breakfast!! In any case, I’ll admit it was pretty gross. I guess it just further demonstrates the fact that I am not accustomed to life on a farm, although I could definitely get used to wearing my pink wellie boots on a regular basis- it is seriously so much fun to stomp around in the mud and not worry about ruining your shoes, I feel like everyone in Scotland is happy and generally in a good mood just because they get to do that on a regular basis!
Well, after making sure my hands were free of any remaining alpaca slime we said goodbye to our hosts. I think I may have even scared the poor woman a bit, I was so happy and overcome with love for her and her alpacas that my goodbye handshake suddenly turned into a crushing goodbye bear hug, I'm sure she will think twice from now on about taking on guests coming from overly-demonstrative Southern Europe!

Back in our green Picasso, we took one last look back at the farm that had been our Scottish foster home for a night and resumed our journey through the Scottish countryside onward to the town of Oban where the ferry would be waiting to take us at last to the island of Mull and sadly to the last leg of our Scottish adventure...

Business travelers beware- Samsonite Sucks!

2007-11-30T17:34:00.000+01:00

Business travel seems quite glamourous on the exterior. After all, who wouldn't enjoy jetting off to foreign lands, staying in posh hotels and entertaining clients at chic restaurants on the corporate account? But in reality underneath the glitzy, champagne soaked facade lies a much different world.

Waking up at ungodly hours of the morning to catch flights, breaking a heel on the mosaic-tiled sloping streets of Lisbon while on the way to a meeting, enduring endless airport taxi lines and sitting in traffic for hours : I thought I had seen it all when it came to the downside of business travel. That is, until this past Wednesday...

After arriving in Lisbon on Tuesday for a full day of meetings and a client dinner, I woke up early on Wednesday to catch a morning flight to Oporto and see a few more clients.

After my meetings and a bit of lunch, I took a taxi to the airport ready to finally go home, relax and unpack. As my belongings passed through the x-ray machine I reluctantly submitted myself to a brief frisking by a very large and stern-looking security guard, who then asked me to open my bag as they needed to check something they had seen inside. After going through my stuff and determining that I did not pose any type of national threat , I began to zip my bag shut. I managed to get 3/4 of the way around before the zipper broke off into the palm of my hand!

There I was, completely stranded in the middle of a Portuguese airport teetering around on highly impractical 4-inch heels (as usual...), and trying desperately to figure out how I would be able to lug my half-open suitcase all the way to the departure gate without leaving a trail of face creams and assorted lingerie in my wake.

Naturally, in order to think more clearly and seeing that I had a full hour to kill before boarding I headed where any other person in my dilemna would go to seek answers...the bar! I wheeled my increasingly precarious load towards the nearest concession area and drowned my sorrows in a much-needed pint of fabulous portuguese beer (Superbock- definitely recommend it!) and a bag of potato chips.

It was perfect timing actually, at that point the case had begun to open a bit more and the beer succeeded in making me a bit more nonchalant about the fact that some contents (none of which were embarassing, thank God!) were now starting to be fully visible as they edged nearer to completely spilling out of the side of my bag . I inched closer to my gate while slowly wheeling my case along in front of me so that I would see if anything did fall out, desperately praying all the while that it would at least stay closed long enough to get there. Miraculously I managed to make it to the departure gate and fell into a seat. Not only was I exhausted from the stress of having balanced the case throughout the 15 minute walk there, but also from having to deal with all of the people who felt obliged to stop me along the way just to inform me that my bag was open- as if it were perfectly normal behavior to roll a suitcase in front of you while walking at a snail's pace and staring intently at the floor to see if anything falls....!

As I sat in despair in front of the gate I had a beer-fueled MacGyver moment and actually thought I could repair the zipper myself. I must have looked like a complete idiot as i sat with my suitcase on my lap making endless futile attempts at reconnecting a broken zipper for at least 10 minutes. Like an assembly line worker intent on my task I continued to stubbornly fiddle with the zipper until I was forced to stop when I realized in horror that I had managed to break it completely, and that the suitcase was now fully open with no chance of closing on its own. Up until that moment I had probably been about 70% screwed, but now I was completely and totally doomed. How would I get it on the plane now? It was too heavy to carry, should I just attempt to wear all my clothes at once? I couldn't even go back and consult the beer oracle for advice because I couldn't move the bag anywhere without all my stuff falling out! So in one last attempt to seek counsel before accepting defeat and crumbling onto the floor in a puddle of tears, I pulled out my phone and decided to call the smartest person I know- Ade. Surely his enormous brain could come up with a way for me to get out of this predicament.
I phoned him up and proceeded to explain the entire scenario to him, listening patiently to the fit of laughter my story provoked. Finally when he was again able to speak he began to ask me questions about the content of my bag :

Ade: -ok, tosser*, let's see... do you have any rope? haha

(*british slang, basically means dumb-ass)

Me: -not funny, obviously I don't have any rope or I would have used it already!

Ade: -any long scarves?

Me: - No

Ade: -any pantyhose?

Me: - Yes, I have some on but what the hell does that have to do with...wait...I have another pair...Oh!... oh my god, you're a genius!!!

In an instant I was on my hands and knees fishing through my belongings, and almost screamed in delight as I proceeded to pull out a pair of tights and hold them over my head triumphantly to show the world what I had found...as if it were a rare truffle or a gold nugget that I had discovered instead of just some crappy black fishnets. Of course, upon learning that they were fishnets, my telephonic guru succumbed to another attack of hysterical laughter, at which point I bid him farewell and thanked him for his wise counsel- I now had work to do.

Back on my hands and knees and to the bewilderment of all in my nearby vicinity I began to tie the stockings around my suitcase like a gift in order to hold it shut. Miraculously, the tights stretched far enough to cover the case, hold it all together, and save the day just in time for me to board the plane- as I finally made my way down the ramp with my rather primitive-looking baggage in tow, I wept silent tears of gratitude for the still underappreciated, yet in my opinion unrivalled invention of all time: Lycra.

(the finished product, isn't Samsonite supposed to last longer than you do? )

I am clumsy, ...hear me fall!

2007-09-03T19:45:00.000+02:00

I'll admit it, I am a huge klutz.

Yes, possibly I may be the clumsiest, most accident-prone person you will ever know.

When I wake up in the morning, there is usually an 85% chance that I will injure myself in some way before I even reach the bathroom- no joke.
Luckily, not everyone knows this about me, but those that do are constantly watching me as they feel I am a danger to myself in many situations (especially those involving fire, glass, and/or sudden changes in elevation)

As a child, I would stumble home on a daily basis covered in scrapes and bruises while my sister returned uninjured...my parents couldnt understand why. it made no sense, we played the same games and were always together-were my little sister and cousins taking turns beating me up? or was I just that incredibly accident-prone? The nightly rituals of antibacterial cream and bandage applications had become second nature. My grandmother would look on, horrified, and say that I would never be able to wear skirts as an adult because my legs were going to eventually look as if someone had run them over with a tractor.

Luckily, by the time I reached high school I had discovered that although I was not very graceful I was very good at walking in high heels. Heels changed my life! No matter how ungainly a woman is, if she walks well in heels she is afforded at least 200 extra glamour points instantly.

My excellent abilities as a skilled high heel-wearer have enabled me to pass under the radar and in turn keep my clumsy nature hidden from public knowledge (more or less). Not many will believe that the same girl that is able to run at full-speed on cobblestone in 5 inch strappy heels( at an incline) is virtually incapable of walking across her living room without violently slamming her shoulder into the same corner of the same wall every day. Yes, I that have walked many a white-washed mountain village of Andalucia in 6 inch platform wedges cannot cut vegetables without supervision and have nearly beheaded myself on several occasions by merely losing my footing in the shower.

Seeing that you all now know my dark little secret, you may find it amazing that I dared to do something no sane clumsy person of my age would ever do.....I went mountain biking for the first time! I dont know what came over me at the time, but when Ade asked if I would accompany him on a bike ride through the Casa de Campo park here in Madrid I quickly responded "yes", even though in my head I was frantically trying to recall the last time I had actually been on a bike at all!The last memory I have of biking regularly was when i was 10, I would go for daily rides on my pink Huffy dirt bike in the parking lot next door - but that bike's brakes were located on the pedals and I dont think it even had any gears! What had I gotten myself into? I smiled at him feigning confidence when in reality I had just hammered the last nail into my coffin- this would be the end of me. How was I going to survive an hour and a half long OFF-ROAD bike ride when i can't even manage to walk very far without tripping! I was convinced I would never make it back alive.

The day came for the trip, and Ade arrived outfitted in his biking gear. He handed me a helmet and announced that we would be biking to the park. TRAFFIC??? Im not sure if my eyes bulged out of my head or not at the thought of actually riding a bike in Madrid traffic, but at that point I was sure that I would never even make it to the actual park! We set off, and miraculously I managed to arrive at the park in one piece although I probably came very close to taking out a few old people and baby carriages on the way. As we began the trek I was feeling a bit more confident, the scenery was breathtaking and it was really liberating being able to ride over mountain paths filled with sudden drops and crazy branches and roots everywhere. However my feelings of euphoria quickly plummeted when we reached a series of hills that were so painful to get up that it was as if I had never used my leg muscles before in my entire life. Is this what Clara felt when she took her first steps towards Heidi? The pain was excruciating. As I struggled to the summit I envisioned each of my hamstrings snapping in two like tightly wound little rubber bands, would he have to carry me out of here? Also, the pain in my butt was becoming UNBEARABLE.... I remember laughing that afternoon as he mentioned he had an extra pair of padded biker shorts for me- I though it was the most ridiculous thing in the world for me to even consider wearing butt padding when that is one area where I am quite well padded naturally! haha Clearly I had been wrong. Biking has had no effect on Cuban evolution, as I can tell you first-hand that Cuban genetic butt padding does not offer very good protection against rock hard bicycle seats especially not after 1 hour of riding. I felt as if I would never be able to sit down again, wincing every time I had to rest my full weight on the seat. As I hallucinated about rooms filled with padded sofas and big plush chairs where I could rest my aching rump- I managed somehow to get to the top of the last huge hill. "We're almost done, Rodriguez, all you have to do is keep to the right to avoid a lot of the ditches and rocks, and you'll be in the clear!!" and in an instant Ade is making his way down the hill at lightning speed as I stare down the long path and mentally prepare myself for the long ride down.

I kick off and as I begin to pick up speed another biker starts heading up the hill, I am going faster than I have ever gone in my life and soon begin to panic that I may be too close to him- will I accidentally hit him on the way down? Am I insured for this kind of thing? Before I can think about any other obstacles I begin to pick up so much speed that the bike commences to move from side to side and I realize that I am losing control. I begin to imagine the moment in E.T.when Elliot's bike shakes so violently that it looks as if it is going to fall to pieces but instead gloriously takes flight- only I seem to be the only one flying as my bike hits the ground, my head crashes against the handlebars and into the ground and that little bastard E.T. is nowhere to be found.

(post-accident me)

I dont remember trying to scream as i fell, but apparently I must have because my mouth was open when I hit the ground- I know this because as other bikers rushed to my aid and asked me how I was I could only make a sound as if I were trying to cough up a hairball- my throat had filled up with dried grass and dirt. I managed to clear my throat in time to see Ade running toward me white as a sheet as I tried to smile weakly- later he explained that from a distance since my mouth was full of dirt as I opened my mouth to smile he thought I had knocked out all my teeth!!

We managed to get me home and all cleaned up, and although the scrapes on my face looked pretty gross at first they eventually went away in 5 days which was great seeing that I had a wedding to go to that following weekend! It was strange seeing how differently people look at you on the street when your face is covered in scabs- either they stare unabashedly or they look away and avoid you altogether. I found myself walking with my head down a lot just to avoid eye contact- very weird.

In any case, I'm happy to report that there were no lasting effects aside from the fact that I felt like I was 10 all over again walking around with my knees completely scraped up for a good 3 weeks... my parents almost killed me themselves after finding out that I tried to be like a "normal kid"- they were very adamant that I realize my limitations as an accident prone person and not continue to put myself into situations that could result in maiming or death. I can't say that I wont ever try biking again, I liked the freedom of off-roading and the feeling of recklessness it gives you to ride over rough terrain with just a sliver of a path in sight. But for now if I ever decide to embark on another biking adventure at least I will remember to wear several layers of padded pants, to use my brakes while going downhill even if 5 yr old kids with training wheels pass me, and to never leave the house without investing in a full crash helmet- who knows maybe I will start a trend?

(this photo was taken 1 week after....look no scars!! thanks, neosporin!!)

Bachelorette Night Planning for Dummies...

2007-07-10T17:13:00.000+02:00

One of the worst parts of living so far way is that you often miss out on milestone events in your friends' and family's lives. I guess I would have to count myself luckier than most, as I was able to travel back to the states to see all of my closest friends and cousins get married. But unfortunately, due to the high costs of transatlantic travel (and my apparent inability to inspire any random single millionaires to just throw some free airline tickets my way) I had to miss out on everyone's bachelorette parties. So naturally, this posed a bit of a problem when i was faced with the challenge of planning one for Gabi! How could someone so poorly schooled in all of this bachelorette business actually organize one herself?

After all, the only bachelorette party I really had ever managed to go to was my cousin Patty's since it was held a few days before her wedding in Miami. But that was about 5 years ago! I was so inexperienced that surely everyone would laugh at my feeble attempts to act like I was "in" with the bachelorette scene! Also, we're in Spain- I had heard horror stories of parties here where all the girls are forced to wear big phallic head adornements or where the entire party would revel in humiliating the bride at every turn only to finish off the night by leaving her tied to a lampost in the middle of the city dressed as a slutty cat!!...

Although plagued with a complete lack of knowledge about the whole experience, I at least knew that I did not want to incoporate any of the traditional Spanish bachelorette customs that I had been hearing about. Gabi would most definitely have killed me if I had dressed her up in flamenco gear and carted her to a drag queen extravaganza...not to say that that wouldnt make for a great party, I know plenty of girls here that have been to parties like that and have had a blast, but each bride is very different and I knew this one would want something a bit more low key.

Needless to say I was extremely nervous about planning such a big day, yet somehow I managed to pick and confirm a date for the festivities and even began to map out the day's events. As the date grew closer and I became more immersed in the party planning I was plagued by horrific daydreams in which I would imagine everything turning out to be a total disaster : 20 women sitting in a blacklit cafeteria (for those of you that don't know this about me, I officially detest blacklight- I refuse to go to bars that have it. Aside from the fact that they make everyone look like they have rotted teeth, they also highlight lint and otherwise invisible stains on peoples clothing- kind of like a cross between CSI and zombies ) bored out of their minds as I lead them in games like "Pin the Cojones on Fabio" with a midget exotic dancer grinding away in the background to the Macarena...

I would awaken from these disturbing visions in a cold sweat, yet with newfound purpose- there was no way I would make Gabi suffer through an excrutiating night of lame innuendos and tiny male strippers, I was more committed to my duty than ever!

After weeks of planning and biting my tongue in order to not spoil any of the planned suprises, the big day arrived and luckily went off without a hitch- we all ended up having a fabulous time and didnt end up stumbling home until 7 the next morning. And when I say stumbling, I really mean stumbling- Gabi and I hit the floor big time in the dance club we were in when I had the bright idea that it would be so much more fun if we used the handcuffs we had given her to handcuff ourselves together! In a drunken haze I managed to secure the handcuffs on both of our wrists as we balanced our cuba libres in our other hands and proceeded to make our way through the club. (fun fact: in Spanish the word for handcuffs is esposas, which literally means WIVES! hahaha gotta love those crazy spaniards...)

Unfortunately we didnt get too far before taking a massive nosedive and landing on our knees while trying to navigate some stairs with our increasingly compromised sense of depth perception. Luckily we were drunk enough to no longer have the ability to understand that we should have been mortified and instead laughed it off without a care in the world, our only reminder of the incident being the unsightly matching knee bruises we were left with the day after.

Nursing my injury and thinking about how I would be condemned to wearing long pants to cover it in the scorching heat of the weeks ahead, I was at least happy that my secret was safe- noone had guessed that I really had no idea what I was doing! I spent the rest of the week gloating in triumph, I would have probably strutted a bit too... if I hadnt had to limp!

In-flight entertainment

2007-06-14T11:27:00.000+02:00

Hola again!

Wow, still can't believe how I made such a big deal about my comeback and then didn't write anything for almost 7 months! Sorry for the delay, but I will just chalk it up to an unusual period of relative stability compounded with a newfound (yet short-lived) ability to avoid ridiculous situations...but don't worry it seems to have worn off somehow and I appear to be back to normal- well, if you can call it that!

I actually just got back from a 10 day sojourn to the motherland, it was great to be back in new york with the familia and my friends even though it was so humid that aside from being insanely shiny in all pictures taken of me while there, I also was rocking a permanent hipafro* (*hispanic afro) throughout my entire stay. That was the toughest to deal with, especially since I also made a special trip back to Williamstown for my 10 year college reunion and spent 3 days with friends some of which I hadn't seen in ages! Unfortunately, those that hadnt seen me in a long time now think that over the years I became afflicted with a serious case of very puffy hair...

I returned from williamstown extremely hungover yet high on sour patch kids since I bought a big bag of them for the 3 hour drive. The sugar rush didnt last long though, and by the time I hopped back on a plane for my flight to Madrid the following evening I was doing everything in my power to keep from passing out before they handed out the dinner trays. I had originally checked in online through Continental's website which allowed me to pick my own seat, and seeing that one of my short-term goals in life is to always sit as close as possible to the front of the plane, I chose seat 7C.
As I trudged my way to the seat trying desperately to keep my eyes open, I noticed that not only was my seat in the first row right after business class, but it was also an emergency exit row which meant I would be able to stretch out my legs for the entire flight- so exciting!
I sat down and buckled my seat belt, tensing up a bit when I noticed how closely my row was positioned to the main door. What would happen if some unruly passenger attempted to open it during the flight? My row would be the first to be sucked out, one false move by an enraged traveller and I would be hurtled into the abyss... Maybe the exit row was more dangerous than I had anticipated! Yet soon enough, my fleeting moments of panic gave way to a surge of what I like to call my "American Competitiveness" as I realized how enviable my spot really was...my proximity to the main door meant that I was sitting in pole position and would probably be the very first person to exit the plane. At the thought of beating out crowds of noisy travellers to get to the head of the typically long customs line, I nestled into my chair with a smug grin on my face and every once in a while would throw a few glances of feigned empathy toward the sad looking people making their way to their seats somewhere in the bowels of the plane.
As the rest of the passengers filed in, I noticed that the two seats next to me were still empty, so naturally I began to fantasize that they would never be filled and that I would be able to lie across three seats and fall into a deep sleep for the entire flight.

My dream was soon shattered by a noisy texan drawl, I looked up to see an older couple chatting away loudly in their unmistakeable twang as they settled into the two empty seats to my left. Personally, I hate it when people on planes try to make small talk with me. I know it probably reeks of antisocial behavior but I really try to avoid eye contact as much as possible when seated next to other people just to avoid having to talk with them...so of course after a quick half-smile and nod to acknowledge their presence I buried my nose in my book. The woman was seated right next to me and her husband in the window seat- at first glance I could tell that they were not frequent flyers, they were carrying tons of stuff and began crossing themselves and praying loudly during takeoff. When we reached cruising altitude, dinner was served- from their deafiningly loud conversations I was able to deduce that they were very excited about what appeared to be their very first transatlantic flight. My suspicions were confirmed when the drink cart rolled around and they unknowingly ordered soda, only to change to wine when they saw me happily unscrewing my little bottle of chardonnay.

After dinner, I pushed my seat back and finally started to doze off for a bit when interrupted by the sound of rustling plastic...I opened my eyes to see the Texan couple pulling an endless supply of packages out of a seemingly bottomless bag. Since the noise they were making made it impossible to sleep I stared in awe as the spectacle before me unfolded and the husband proceeded to "teach" his wife the proper way to travel.
He first pulled out matching red fleece blankets which appeared to have been recently purchased as they were still in the packaging, explaining to his wife (and to the flight attendants and passengers online for the bathroom that began crowding around in amusement) that the blankets were specially lined to combat the "harsh" conditions inside the airplane. After placing the enormous red blankets on their laps, they each ceremoniously removed their socks and shoes in order to slip on their special "airplane socks". The special socks, according to the wise Texan, are worn by all long-haul air travellers and would work to increase circulation and to apparently "protect" their feet.

"From what??" -I muttered under my breath-"Frostbite?... deadly strains of airplane fungi??"

I continued to watch them partly out of fascination and partly out of helpess irritation- there was no way I would get any rest while they were loudly outfitting themselves for the flight so I had no choice other than to listen to the rest of the show. The husband then whipped out from another plastic bag two large rubbery blue vinyl bags which they then began to inflate at a ridiculously slow and laborious pace. I suffered through every breath as they meticulously inflated these large blue cushions, wondering the entire time where on earth they would fit them among the growing pile of accessories. The flight attendants and passengers waiting for the bathroom at this point had formed a small throng directly in front of our row to watch the absurdity of the scene as it unfolded before them, a flight attendant calling out " watch out sir, you may pass out from inflating those things before you even get to use them!" which drew laughs from the ever-expanding crowd of onlookers. I cringed deeper and deeper into my seat growing more tired of the inflatable circus with each raspy breath they took as they inflated what they later explained to be "flight cushions". Although they looked like mini rafts, they were inflatable seats that can be apparently placed on your airplane seat for a passenger to then sit on top of. Personally, they didnt look very comfortable seeing that if you sit on top of an inflatable cushion while seated in an already tiny airplane seat it lifts you so high up that you cant even reach the armrests comfortably and you become wedged even further into the narrow space. In any case, they finally managed to position themselves on their raft-thrones but in their excitement failed to notice that in their overzealous attempts at filling them quickly they had had managed to overinflate them by quite a bit. The newlys crafted seats were bursting at the seams and as soon as the Texans sat down suddenly both cushions began to emit a series of horrific hissing and whining noises as the extra air squeezed itsself out. As the shrieking cushions exhaled under the weight of the Texans, I squirmed in my chair trying to escape the noise that began to feel as if someone were drilling a hole inside my head with a blunt screw. At this point they had positioned themselves on the hissing raft long enough for the noise to miraculously stop and for me to regain my sanity, I looked over to see that although they had wrapped themselves from head to toe in their red fleece cocoons and their feet were encased in their ridiculous airline compression socks- they had begun inflating neck pillows too!!! At least the neck pillows took less time to fill than the blue seat rafts, and in a short time they had finished inflating them and had placed them behind their necks. And for the finale they pulled out two silk sleeping masks (one pink, one blue- of course) from yet ANOTHER plastic bag and placed them over their eyes. I must say that I was thankful that they had whipped out the sleeping masks, because by then I just couldnt wipe the silly grin off my face. I tried desperately to tense up every muscle in my body just to prevent me from breaking into a fit of giggles. I really dont know how I managed to contain myself, especially since it's always harder not to laugh after a bottle of wine at 30 thousand feet!
After placing the silky eye masks on their faces and going to sleep the stunned crowd dispersed, I was left alone again with my swaddled, and now sightless row-mates. I have to admit I couldnt stop staring at them, I had never seen anyone bring so many needless accessories onboard a plane in my life- and yet they looked so happy in their inflatable fleece-lined dreamland that I think i may have felt a pang of jealousy...maybe if I had made eye contact at least once they would have offered me some compression socks too???

Im Baaaaaack......

2006-11-29T17:35:00.000+01:00

After a temporary hiatus, our heroine is back and with a fully stocked arsenal of bizarre life experiences just waiting to be recorded for your reading pleasure!
Did you miss me? :0)

Well... here we are again!
Its been a loooong time since I last wrote and believe me, it definitely was not because my life had suddenly become tediously mundane or even quasi-normal for that matter. No need to worry, faithful readers, my life is still an endless string of crazy coincidences and unheard of situations so there is no doubt in my mind that I still have the capactity to entertain the masses by merely chronicling the pitifully funny details of my daily existence...enjoy!

Sheepskin is Highly Flammable

2006-11-29T16:39:00.000+01:00

One of favorite things to do on Sundays is curl up on my huge red couch with my green silk shorts pajamas and my Ugg boots to watch t.v. The boots, for those of you that are not familiar with Uggs, are made of sheepskin and are incredibly comfortable - they are really soft and fully lined to keep your feet at the perfect temperature in all types of weather.
As I lounged dreamily on the couch in my preferred lounging attire, I could feel the heat of the sun as it shone through my balcony doors. Surprisingly enough it made me feel quite warm despite the chilly weather outside and the fact that I was only wearing flimsy shorts.
As I lazily considered how strong the sun was shining on such a chilly October day I was awoken out of my daze by an odd smell. Why did it suddenly smell like smoke? "Oh God, did I leave eggs hard-boiling for over an hour again and char another saucepan?"- I thought to myself.
Just as I was about to race to the kitchen, I realized that all around me a cloud of thin white smoke had developed. My eyes darted frantically all over the room in a frutiless attempt to discover the source of the fire but everything looked intact... and then,
I looked down.

The smoke appeared to be coming... from my left Ugg!!! A tiny brown spot (almost like a cigarette burn) was forming on my previously impeccable white boot and gradually burning its way through the sheepskin... the thin cloud of smoke rising up from it was now heading towards the ceiling. Inexplicable, I could not fathom what the hell was going on around me:
Were my boots spontaneously combusting?
Was I?
So many horrific images raced through my head as I tried to understand what was happening, and then my eyes rested on the vanity mirror I had left on the living room floor earlier after a brief eyebrow tweezing session. The mirror was positioned at a 45 degree angle from my boot and a ray of sun from the balcony was shining directly into it, another beam of refracted light was at the same time busy burning its way through my boot.
I jumped up and patted down my burning Ugg to stop the fire, still reeling from my discovery. How could this really be happening? I thought that only highly skilled cub scouts and McGyver were able to start fires with mirrors, how could this happen to me and my ridiculously overpriced boots????
Well, my friends, some mysteries are just better left unexplained and as I have (unfortunately? fortunately?) grown accustomed to having things happen to me that just dont seem happen to anyone else (unless you count characters on mexican soap operas, of course ) I have learned just not to ask.
Oh, and to only keep my mirrors in windowless rooms from now on, just in case....

Mariachis Asesinos

2006-11-29T16:05:00.000+01:00

This year, for my birthday I decided I was going to fully embrace passing the 30yr mark and celebrate with my head held high my official crossing into the unknown pastures of 31....

I organized a party at home with friends, music, booze, cake and Melissa - all the essential ingredients for a successfull bash. It was sooooo much fun, I was really happy that everyone showed up to celebrate with us. My only complaint was that my one birthday wish didnt come true.... live mariachis!

I don't know why I became obsessed with the idea of hiring a group of mariachis to serenade me at my party(I know, Melissa called it the epitome of self-centeredness, but I dont care!). I guess ever since I was little I have always loved the idea of serenades as they appear in those old mexican movies...an unsuspecting girl on her balcony surprised by a whole band of mariachis singing to her below just seemed so romantic. I began to envision how my birthday serenade would be: 4 chubby mariachis in sparkly tight suits and guitars singing Mexican love songs while walking up my street towards my balcony, as I basked in the glow of the undivided birthday attention. But then my overactive imagination would kick in and I would start to imagine the little hoodlum kids that sometimes hang out in my neighborhood, and my serenade dream would go horribly awry. .. I imagined the kids beating the crap out of the poor mariachis with their instruments and making fun of their sparkly pants. The kids would leave laughing, as my little chubby troubadors lay bleeding in the street under my balcony- their broken guitar remains lying in a pool of blood.... horrible, I know. Unfortunately, (or possibly fortunately for the mariachis) the dream was not meant to be... they turned out to be way too expensive so I had to give up all hopes of a birthday serenade. But dont worry, next year I will not be deterred! And forget Mexico, I may go to LA to find me some bad-ass mexican mariachis for my 32nd, and I will make sure they are packing in case any little madrileño punks try to mess with them!

Polish Kickboxing

2005-10-07T16:52:00.000+02:00

Melissa and I regularly attend a kickboxing class here in Madrid, taught by a lovely polish girl named Angelica. Actually, the class is really called cardiobox, or something to that effect so technically it's not AUTHENTIC kickboxing. Although, when I am in the class, I get so into it that I really feel like I am learning skills that I would be able to use against a potential attacker. But then when class is over, I come down off my endorphin high and realize that we are really just doing glorified aerobics with some punching and kicking coreography thrown in to make us feel like bad-asses... potential attackers may only be thwarted when they fall on the floor laughing at me as I strike my Daniel Russo "Stork on a rock" pose to fend them off.
I mean, every time I have tried to show Pepe my rolling floor kick, he ends up laughing hysterically as I proceed to fall on my ass...I am starting to come to terms with the fact that I am probably the dorkiest and clumsiest kickboxer alive.
When Melissa was living with my parents in New York she went on a fitness kick and started training with a puerto-rican ex-kickboxer 5 times a week. Not only did she lose about 20 pounds, but girlfriend was also pretty strong. When she showed up in Madrid that summer she was so incredibly ripped that I could have grated cheese on her abs. So needless to say, thanks to all of her previous training, Melissa is the teacher's pet of our class. She goes out of her way to be the best in every class and even butters up the teacher by lending her copies of Oxygen magazine. Pepe finds Oxygen highly amusing, he couldn't believe how a common theme for their covers is the recurring image of a c.40 year old VERY TAN fitness model with a BULGING horse-neck and muscles in aTINY workout suit hoisting her toddler in the air with one hand to show how she regained her strength and her "girlish figure" after childbirth. I think he was a bit frightened by it if you ask me...Anyway, so since Melissa and I usually go together to class, Angelica discovered early on that we are sisters and in her broken English/Spanish combo language she has taken to calling us by the collective name "Seeestah".
The worst is that we really answer to it, when we are together and also separately!
A typical conversation with Angelica when Melissa is not in that day's class would be:

ANGELICA: "Hola Seestah!!, ohh nooo! wheere ees Sistah?"
ME: "Hola Angelica! um, Seestah couldnt make it today, Seestah is sick"
ANGELICA: "ahh haha oookaaay Seestah! Well, we work out weethout seestah today
then!! hahaha"

So as you can see our collective name can also be used to refer to us individually...ingenious right?

Angelica's Polish accent at first made her a bit hard to understand, but now I think it is almost musical the way she floats between English and Spanish never really mastering either one, yet effectively getting her point across to a room full of mostly monolingual spaniards (The Spanish are really not known for their mastery of non-Spanish languages I must add...). She always begins the class by yelling "NEW NEW?? NUEEEVO?? NUEEVO??" so that anyone that has not taken kickboxing previously can identify themselves. Most new people don't really understand her at first but every once in a while a few hands will be raised. After showing us a few basic moves like the "HOOOOK" and the "UPPEEEHRCUT"we begin...
Now, as I mentioned before, Melissa is the star of the show. An undisputable fact that has cruelly highlighted what my role has come to be over time ...class buffoon. Although I put all of my effort into every class, for some reason every time Melissa catches a glimpse of me in the mirror she has to stop herself from giggling. Worse off, when we have to do group excercises I always end up doing something wrong.
The worst was the day that we had to do some sort of stretching excercise where, by the seemingly effortless act of crossing your feet you would turn to face the mirror and continue with another stretch. Well as I swung one leg across the other and began my turn, I could feel that something wasn't right. Much to my chagrin I looked up to see that I had miraculously turned in the wrong way and that while everyone was now staring at the mirror to look back at their reflection in unison, my ass was where my head should have been and I was facing the wall. Needless to say everyone burst out laughing and I turned bright red. As I slowly maneuvered myself around to the correct position...Angelica just shook her head and after shooting a knowing glance to her wingman and student #1 ,Melissa- she just smiled and playfully chided me by simply saying ..."Oh Seestah!!!"

2005-06-14T16:14:00.000+02:00

ham leg in a "jamonero"

My First Ham

2005-06-14T16:07:00.000+02:00

I have to take the opportunity to share with all of you what I consider to be a rite of passage,
an unforgettable experience that will forever mark my true assimilation into the Spanish community...my first ham.
Yes, I know, it may seem a bit hard to believe but this week I fulfilled a lifelong dream when I joined the ranks of carniverous Spaniards everywhere and became the proud owner of my very own severed and cured ham leg! I have to admit, it was a very emotional experience - for years I have entered random spanish bars only to stare longingly at the juicy, hooved pork leg hidden away in the corner.
But coveting pig legs from afar was just not enough, I secretly prayed that somedayI would be so lucky as to have one of my very own. Little did I know that that day would come so soon.

My ham was delivered on Sunday by Gabi and Chema, they picked it up for me on a weekend trip to Caceres (city 2 hours outside of madrid). My ham is about 2 feet long and is currently covered in what looks almost like a little white shroud. It lies immobile on my kitchen counter waiting for me to display it proudly to the world. But, before I can do anything with it I must complete the first part of the ham ritual- finding the perfect stand.
The ham stand, also known as a jamonero (ham-o-ner-o) is a wooden vice that holds the ham in place in order for it to be cut away at safely. The jamonero is comprised of two wooden slabs with a metal rod that holds the ham leg firmly by its tiny ankle, calling to mind the elegant strength of a male figure skater's grasp when lifting his partner's leg gracefully into the air...(if living in Spain has taught me anything its that there is so much poetry in ham yet so few out there that can appreciate its intricate beauty)
The ham leg can be kept in this "holder" at room temperature for what seems like years, depending of course on each household's affinity for cured pork. Like a misterious and neverending fountain of ham, a holy pork relic if you will, it is partially veiled with a dishrag and uncovered for years on end only when the proud owner intends to saw away at it to either make a sandwich or a nice ham platter for guests.
Ham is an integral part of Spanish society so it is only natural that I should feel so much closer to my fellow Madrileños now that I too own a severed ham leg. I now hold my head up high when walking the streets of Madrid, and whenever I pass a fellow citizen of this fine city, our eyes meet with a knowing smile..I too have a dishrag-covered pig leg in my kitchen that will provide me with cured ham for years to come.

2004-12-20T18:49:00.000+01:00

melissa with Patty and Madison Nicole- our soon to be new baby cousin

2004-12-20T18:48:00.000+01:00

versailles- the cuban headquarters on calle 8

2004-12-20T18:47:00.000+01:00

me with mom and yiya at the wedding

Grace's wedding- Miami

2004-12-20T18:15:00.000+01:00

I had such a great time at my cousin Grace's wedding in Miami.
I went for 4 days and was able to spend quality time with my extended family.

Whenever I go toMiami I feel like I am time-travelling to the epicenter of the Cuban universe.
I was not born in Cuba and still have never actually PHYSICALLY been there, but whenever I set foot in Miami I feel like I have been transported to a parallel Cuban universe where Cubans enjoy the liberties shared by all American citizens, but speak in Spanish all day and mention Castro at least 4 or 5 times in whatever conversation they may be having.
Ok, I may be exaggerating a little... but as an American-born woman of 100% Cuban parents, Miami is truly a place that makes you realize that you are not alone- there are other kids out there that instead of potato chips in their lunch bags had to pack chicken croquetas wrapped in foil paper, while the other kids asked them with horrified look son their faces if they were really eating fried bananas...Once I am actually in the heart of Miami I feel an inexplicable bond that arises from the immediate familiarity I feel with everything around me. People speaking with Cuban accents, the smell of frijoles negros and little old men with guayabera shirts remind you of every family meal you have ever eaten, every great-uncle you have ever met and every story you have ever heard about the island. Whenever I go there I feel like a part of me awakens, and I feel closer than ever to my family and to my culture.

Ok, I may be exaggerating a little... but I think I speak for all offspring of Cuban exiles everywhere (regardless as to wether they grew up in Miami or not) when I say that Cuba is much more than an island to us. Cuba, for us, is actually more like the ghost of a dead relative that passed away long before we were born. A blurry, yet oddly familiar image that is conjured with every old photograph we see, and every old song we hear. We grow up listening to stories about Cuba and even come to memorize gossip about entire neighborhoods of people that we will probably never meet, but who remain as familiar to us as if we had grown up with them ourselves. These memories that are not my own, yet they are so alive to me that I can easily recite family anecdotes as if I had actually been there when they took place: my mother as a young girl in Cuba riding her bike to go see every single American movie that was shown in the local theater, or my grandmother's stories about growing up on a sugar cane plantation and helping to raise her brothers and sisters, or even stories of my father as a boy with a BB-gun wandering the countryside with his dog behind his grandmother's farmhouse.

For now, since I have yet to go there, I can only continue to imagine what Cuba is like and endlessly reconstruct it in my mind. Miami completes my fuzzy reproduction of Cuba, it brings the color, the noise, the smells and the music to what I can only imagine Cuba was like when my family lived there.

2004-11-21T18:11:00.000+01:00

Pepe carving his first turkey

Thanksgiving in Spain

2004-11-20T17:41:00.000+01:00

I love living in a foreign country, for all for the times I had wished for a bagel shop down the street, there are some moments that make it all worthwhile...

Thanksgiving, as you know, is a mind-boggling holiday to some non-Americans. The more questions I was bombarded with about Thanksgiving day by curious spaniards, the more I reflected on how LITTLE I actually know about this wonderful tradition! However, I did find comfort in meeting other Americans who were even more clueless than I was....

As my luggage was being inspected in Miami Airport before boarding my flight back to Madrid( I had gone a few days for my cousin's wedding) , the inspector began some irritating small talk. I think this is some kind of technique they learn in baggage inspection night school, in order to put the traveler "at ease" while they rummage through your dirty underwear and socks looking for explosives. When he found out I was living in Madrid, he asked me if the spaniards celebrate Thanksgiving with Turkey as well! For a minute there I was caught off guard, I actually had to think for a moment before answering that the Spaniards in fact DO NOT celebrate Thanksgiving. He looked confused but didn't seem to care that much, and as I headed to my gate I realized that so many of us have no idea what the hell Thanksgiving even means or what it stands for!
Things took a turn for the worse upon my arrival: my boyfriend Pepe- who is Colombian- asked me what Thanksgiving really was as we headed to a friend's turkey dinner. Sweating profusely, I tried to act confident as I explained that Thanksgiving was a celebratory feast to remember the famous dinner when pilgrims and native americans broke bread together to celebrate the survival of the pilgrim's first winter...I went on and on about the beautiful meal and the foods introduced by the natives that still are eaten today- corn, squash, pumpkin, etc.
Gleaming in triumph after my impressive explanation I looked at Pepe and was met with a huge grin.

- "So, did was it before or after the lovely dinner that the pilgrims decided to slaughter the indians and take all of their lands? Did they not like the food?"

He laughed all the way to the dinner, as I pouted and tried without luck to come up with a good comeback. Luckily, revenge in the end was mine as Pepe was given the surprise honor of carving his very first turkey....

Grandes Pelotas de Fuegoooooo

2004-10-20T10:20:00.000+02:00

The night started off as all good nights usually do: kicking back a few mojitos in a fun bar and getting one round for free. What could get any better than that? Just wait...
We met up with Mabel's mexican friend at a different place with tons of music to dance to and a transvestite DJ: clearly two telltale components for the makings of a fun night!We spent the whole night dancing like we were trying out for the lead in a remake of Flashdance and I unfortunately decided to forgo my usual vodka tonics for something to help keep my energy up- red bull and vodka. I am surprised I didn't try and bust into a full on backhandspring because I truly felt like an Olympian the entire night, thank God they didn't play the Galcian Muñeira because i would have made a serious ass out of myself -just think of the amazing heights I could have achieved with my kicks! For those of you that are not from Jersey, the Galician capital of the US, the muñeira is this crazy irish-jig-like dance the Galicians do when they are happy (i.e. weddings?) and when they are hammered(i.e. everyone we hung with in Gabi's town this summer?) In Gabi's town in Galicia they played it at least once a night in all of the barsNow that I think about it the Muñeira is more complex than a jig, it actually looks a bit like a mix between Irish step dancing and (those of you that were once in eight grade will know what I am talking about) the rogger rabbit.
Anyway, high on Red bull I joined the gang on our next adventure- the mexicans (they suddenly multiplied and there were now around 4)wanted to take us somewhere really fun! And together we forged on as they led us to the strangest place I have ever been to or will ever be again...
We stop in front of a steel door with a tiny rectangular window in it, exactly like those speakeasy joints that were around during the Prohibition. One of the Mexicans utters some sketchy password and miraculously the steel door creaks openand a whole new side of Madrid unfolded before our bloodshot eyes!
A small staircase leads you into the underbelly of the Madrid late-night scene, soon we were seated at a long communal table surrounded by complete strangers and before I knew what was happening a beer was shoved into my hand. At my side, oneof the Mexicans happily ate a bowl full of what looked like spaghetti- was I hallucinating?Then, the music begins.
A tall dark spaniard with perfect english starts jamming away on an upright piano on some sort of make shift stage area that everyone's undivided attention seems to now be intently focused on. He is standing up and playing the hell out of the pianoand singing his heart out to songs you would never DREAM of hearing in a sketchy Madrid basement bar!
"Piano Man", "Great Balls of Fire", "Hey Jude", I think he even played a BonJovi song from the Slippery When Wet album- the most amazing part was that EVERYONE in the place was singing along as loud as they possibly could!! Song after song, we sang and swayed- beers in hand, bonding with our unkown neighbors in the unique comraderie that emerges among perfect strangers when listening to American oldies.
Mabel and I were transported to another era singing about stuff we hadn't even thought about since high school.It all came back to me as I screamed out lyrics, secretly proud of my perfect English pronunciation in a roomful of Spaniards and of course our own band of Mexicans. The night, or morning, I should say seemed to go on forever- and finally when Gina took home her pay for loooove for the last time and the big wheels couldn't keep on turning I stumbled with my newfound musical family into the painful Sunday morning sunshine. We all went our separate ways and left the oldies cave behind but the memories from that night just keep ...STAYING ALIVE
(hahahah sorry I couldn't resist!!! hahahaha)

Brunch at Alyson's

2004-10-10T18:10:00.000+02:00

I have to admit, I began stressing about the brunch menu days before.
This was to be the first of the monthly party rotations- every month we would take turns hosting little parties at our houses as an excuse to get together on a regular basis. I happened to be the first volunteer. Maybe it was because I had just finished reading Mrs. Dalloway and was in an 'ultimate hostess' state of mind, or maybe it was just because I was craving bloody marys. Who knows. Whatever the case, from the moment I sent out the invitations I began stressing about every detail until I had managed to drive everyone around me (read: Gabi and Chema) completely insane.

So many things to do, would I have enough time to do it all?

First thing to address was the state of my apartment- suddenly I couldn't stop thinking about how bare my walls looked, maybe I should run to the museum on my lunch hour and find some nice prints to hang? Or what about rugs? God, my wood floors look so barren! Maybe I should buy wood polish and skate around like the butlers in 'Annie' with rags tied to my feet to make them shinier? No, the real problem was the couch... I had time, I could buy yarn, print out knitting instructions from the internet and knit a nice colorful throw to put on it! The one I have was beginning to looks so ratty...

These were just some of the ridiculous thoughts clouding my brain days before my brunch was to take place. Impractical as always, I became obsessed with obscure details that were virtually impossible to take care of with so little time. What was supposed to be a simple brunch was rapidly turning into a costly apartment renovation...
The truth is whenever I plan parties here, I suddenly feel more American than ever. I guess I equate being American with being more detail-oriented , competitive and much more susceptible to stress. These aspects of my personality take over when I am in full party-planning mode and I start to act much more like I did when I lived in New York. I drink way more coffee, I walk faster to save time, I spend my lunch hour running errands instead of cooking and leisurely eating my meals at home. I even begin in-depth research to prepare my menu- I spend hours researching the food network website for drink and food recipes and then design and send my brunch invitation by evite. My competitive side awakens from its 3yr sangria-induced coma and turns what could have been a simple event into a high-stress contest to see how I can make my party so great that it will forever be remembered as the BEST party EVER. Come to think of it, I don't know if it really has to do with being American at all, maybe I'm just crazy. But I can honestly say that I have never noticed any of my Spanish friends stressing about get togethers as much as I do. I think they don't like to waste precious energy on getting frantic over a party when they could easily use it towards something more productive- like just going out to eat instead.

I admit it, my anal-retentive attention to detail was incredibly annoying. I even began frantically searching for new "cutting-edge" brunch recipes at least a week in advance. No, not your typical eggs benedict or egg mcmuffin type recipe, I preferred browsing through web pages of how to make Mexican huevos rancheros with homemade mole reduction sauce and detailed instructions on how to make whole grain Arab inspired hummus wraps with grape leaves and figs in the hopes of finding THE recipe of ALL brunch recipes. (In case you're wondering, I finally opted for Italian frittatas which actually turned out to be pretty easy to make.)
Days before, I made frequent trips to the market to begin collecting ingredients- that is, after having bought a brand new notebook to jot down the countless lists I was making.
My elaborate lists covered every possible aspect of the brunch: invitation list, shopping list, entree list, decorations list, diagram of how to organize food on table, etc.
As you can tell, I had quite a bit of time on my hands...Melissa even was gracious enough to cater to my insanity and make me a prep list the night before detailing what ingredients I should chop first and the order in which all of my courses should be cooked. So not only was I slowly going crazy but I was also obviously surrounded by enablers...

Well, the morning of the big day I woke up 4 hours early to begin chopping. Melissa was still asleep and I wanted to impress her with my chef skills. I even made sure to hold the knife just like she had shown me to so many times before, even though it was starting to make my hand cramp up. Two hours later, I lovingly gazed on my piles of chopped spinach and mushrooms- they looked so professional! Melissa's jaw was going to drop when she saw how much my cutting skills had improved!
Soon enough, Melissa indeed stumbled into the kitchen as I beamed, knife in hand, and gestured towards the fresh piles of vegetables.

"Oh my GOD" she said, as her jaw did indeed drop. My chest swelled with pride, until I saw that she was looking at my choppings in horrified disbelief.

"Why the f**K did you buy 3 kilos of parsley???"

Confused, I looked at the assorted bowls and explained to her that the enormous pile of green wasn't parsley at all, it was spinach! After a long pause, she began to laugh uncontrollably.
She leaned against the kitchen door and laughed hysterically at how I had chopped the spinach, mushrooms and tomatoes into what she later described as "the size of pinheads".
Apparently I had chopped my vegetables so tiny that they now resembled herbs! They were so small I could probably just sprinkle them on the fritattas in salt and pepper shakers...Stress again enveloped me, OH GOD, NOW WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO????

The brunch would be ruined by my tiny vegetables! What minutes before had been my pride and joy, suddenly looked like hamster food and I couldn't imagine what I was going to do now that I had single-handedly ruined the main entree of my brunch! When she finished laughing, Melissa managed to calm me down and we overcame the mincing disaster, luckily the frittatas turned out to be pretty small so the vegetable size didn' t make that big of a difference after all.

Aside from the chopping nightmare and some spilled champagne, the brunch was a success and we all had a great time. Gabi and I even managed to orchestrate the suprise attendance of Chemas cousins from Segovia without him finding out until the last minute! The bloody Mary's and Mimosas were flowing and as the day wore on, my apron (see photos below) inspired me to put on impromptu flamenco dance shows from time to time.
To sum it all up , aside from all of the stress, and the callous I now have on my pinky from following proper knife-grasping protocol.. I can't wait to do it again!!

the chef resting in her flamenco apron, check out everyone filling up their plates in the background!

posing with the segovia posse, the surprise visit from Chema's cousins went off without a hitch!

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

2004-09-20T19:34:00.000+02:00

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....

2004-09-17T18:52:00.000+02:00

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....

2004-09-13T16:53:00.000+02:00

(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...!

2004-09-03T13:02:00.000+02:00

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. ..

Marbella: Sun, Fried fish and Lots of Champagne!

2004-08-24T17:39:00.000+02:00

As soon as we hopped into the cab that would take us from Malaga Airport to the beachside resort of Marbella- we knew we were in for a good time...The fat bald, sweaty man with the REALLY thick andalusian accent did not come up for breath during the entire 45 minute ride. He talked (and talked and talked and talked....) about EVERYTHING: how hookers pay cab fares, how transvestites like to flirt with him, how all men everywhere cheat and how it's really women that drive their poor men to cheat because they always fake headaches when their husbands want sex...we were dizzy from the nonstop chatter and to make matters worse he happened to be one of those people that needs to make eye-contact while talking- even when driving! Unfortunately, having chosen the seat directly behind him, I watched in horror as he proceeded to adjust the rearview mirror- not to improve his view of the road- but so that we could maintain eye contact throughout the entire conversation! I could only sit and envy melissa as she dozed in and out of consciousness while I had to stare into his eyes and fake laugh throughout the entire ride to make him think I was listening.

Just when Melissa and I were going to point out that his wife's constant sex-induced migraines are probably directly related to his nasty-ass body odor, we arrived at the Gran Hotel Guadalpin! The hotel was amazing! Much nicer than we had expected, and as soon as the bellhop left us alone in our room we reverted to our back-country Mahopac-Cuban selves and ran around in the complimentary hooded bathrobes and slippers laughing and taking pictures while racing to pop open a bottle of barbadillo wine from the minibar accompanied by a fresh can of pringles...we even had a very cute terrace with a fabulous view of the BP gas station next door!

Ok, the view sucked but the room was awesome...

After a day at the beach on Saturday complete with a huge lunch of beer and fried Andalusian fish, we headed back to our lovely room and began beautifying for our big night on the town. Unfortunately my beloved hair dryer decided to die at that moment, and as many of you can probably imagine I wanted to throw myself off the terrace in desperation. Fortunately I somehow manged to control my hair in such a humidity charged environment and we finished glamming ourselves up for the nightly festivities. This was a big night after all, Melissa was unleashing her powerful miniskirt on the unsuspecting inhabitants of Marbella and we had already seen the damage it had inflicted on the Madrileños...

We headed to the hotel terrace to listen to a Cuban band that happend to be playing there that night. Tables had been set up with candles around the illuminated outdoor pool...so romantic and so....RESERVED! All of the tables had reserved signs on them. What a nightmare, our romantic evening was going to be cut short just because we were the only idiots that hadn't called to reserve a table. Like magic, the young maitre'd asks us if we have a reservation, we tell him no, after a fleeting look of concern which I think was more for dramatic emphasis than anything else, he leads us to a lovely table by the entrance. Shocked, we sit down and begin to revel in our good luck when he asks us what we would like to drink. We were still a bit giddy from having snagged such a good table and couldn't decide, so we asked for few minutes to think about it... After those few minutes he returned, but not to take our drink order- he arrived with two glasses of amazing champagne and a bowl filled with chilled strawberries... at this point I begin trying to calculate how many other nights Melissa and I have left to go out to dinner alone before she leaves - if we are managing to do so well in Marbella, there is no telling what we can achieve with her miniskirt in Madrid! If we add Gabi to the mix and head to the airport when we get back maybe we can work on getting free plane tickets somewhere! My mind is racing with possible ways to exploit melissa, her mini and femininity in general- when the food arrives.
As we ate our 2 courses of complimentary appetizers that we never ordered, we realized that the Cuban band we had been so excited to see was really not that good, they were in fact the quietest bunch of Cubans I had ever seen in my life, no energy whatsoever! From my experience I can tell you that Cubans are not quiet, ever. And especially not a Cuban band! There is usually more noise at my parents house during dinner than in a small nightclub and we are only five people! These bland Cubans confused us, and we began an in-depth discussion on whether they were even Cuban at all- they were so lame, maybe they were Dominicans? When suddenly they brought over the fabulous bottle of Moet that Melissa had ordered for my birthday! We sucked it down with dinner while listening to a few more songs and asked our waiter for the check- it was time to head out to the ritzy clubs in Puerto Banus!The check finally arrives and to our shock it comes to a measly 20 euros... did they make a mistake? Do we say something? Do we hope they don't notice? Just then our friend the maitre'd glides over and announces that the 80 euro bottle of champagne is on the house and that they would like to invite us to dessert as well...

"Anything you girls would like- Dessert? Liqueur? Coffee?..."

Of course, never known to be shy and especially not with a few champagnes in me, I blurt out-

"I'll have a vodka tonic! thanks!" and smile ...

Melissa stifles a laugh and orders a rum and coke ....by far one of the BEST dinners ever!

(Melissa in full Marbella beach mode!)

Galicia Trip Number 2!

2004-08-18T16:53:00.000+02:00

We had SUCH a great time in Galicia this weekend with Gabs and Chema. We went back to Gabi's town, Puebla de Caramiñal in the Rias Baixas region- it is so beautiful!
We rolled in on Friday and headed out for a night out on the town...but Friday never really ended, it just kind of bleeded into saturday as we samba-d our way out of the last bar at around 9am all while eating enormous calamari sandwiches (they had a takeout window in the bar! my kind of place!) We went directly home, JUST to grab our bikinis and head out once again to hit the beach! I do not recommend this for people over 30, I have one more yr left but I think I am definitely reaching the end of my prime...I think I must have actually passed out while sprawled on the sand, Gabi and Chema later explained that they had moved their towels away from mine because my excessively loud snoring started to bother them...

The highlight of the trip was the albariño festival in Cambados- rows of stands with people preparing any kind of shellfish imagineable all accompanied by amazing Albariño wine.
As you can see by the pictures we ate our faces off- and all for about 10 bucks a person!

Well I am headed off to Marbella this weekend to celebrate my birthday on the beach with Melissa... I'll be sure to let you know how it goes!

Gabi and I eating cigalas at the Albariño festival

Melissa chowing down

Chema ate more than anyone!

Ernesto digging in!

Always a Gentile, never a Sephardic Bride...

2004-08-13T09:20:00.000+02:00

Part 1 : A night to remember...

This weekend was one of the most beautiful, and exciting to date as I was able to experience first hand what it's like to partake in a Sephardic wedding ceremony.

Just some background for those of you that do not know what the heck I am talking about (Sandra you can skip this part obviously...) Basically what I have learned (please correct me if I screw up) is that the Judaism can be divided into two different cultural branches: Ashkenazim and Sephardim. Most of the Jewish people you and I know are Ashkenazim, meaning that they are descendants of European Jews. Sephardim, on the other hand are also Jewish but their roots are in the North of Africa, Iraq (Babylon), Syria, Greece, Turkey Spain and Portugal.

So, as some of you already know, I went to see my friend Esther marry her longtime argentine- boyfriend in Malaga, Spain yesterday. She is originally from a Spanish colony located in the north of Africa. She is Jewish as is her boyfriend, but while his family emigrated from Poland in the 30's to Argentina making him Ashkenazi, her family is of Sephardic heritage.

Well, first off, the wedding celebrations actually started off on Thursday with a ceremony called Noche BERBERISCA. It is a Sephardic ceremony where the bride wears a traditional costume (heavy moorish influence – lots of gold detailing and she wears a gold crown and sits on a gold throne while people paint her hands with henna to symbolize fertility) . Unforunately I missed it but I saw pictures and it looked amazing….

The open-air wedding ceremony was on Sunday on an amazing hilltop overlooking the sea. There was tons of chanting (mainly the rabbi) and singing going on during the ceremony in what I think was yiddish and some arabic as well?) Luckily there was someone narrating each step of the ceremony because it was quite long and with all of the chanting in other languages you couldn’t really follow too well…. At one point it seemed as if every male relative went up to the chuppah at some point to help the rabbi chant as well - needless to say I was fascinated! The best part was when the women (all seated on the left- men were to the right) began to make these crazy arab whooping noises, it sounded like an Indian war cry - they would do this throughout the night it definitely got everyone all riled up!

Part 2: Argentine Jews are extremely rowdy and of course ridiculously charming, amazing dancers

I was happy to aid some clueless gentile guests as to the intricate steps of the hava nagila , but the highlight had to be watching the rowdy Argentine/Venezuelan boys hoist up the bride and groom on whatever furniture was handy at the moment.
First they were lifted on chairs and thrown around with an almost frightening force, I definitely thought little Esther would go flying at one point and land on the top ofthe cake. Then they made them stand on a tabletop and dance and sing to this crazy song that I only wish I knew the words to because everyone around me was having a blast singing it- the table scene was also scary because they were SO HIGH UP and on this flimsy piece of wood! I still can' t believe they didn’t fall… newlywed Jewish couples are risk takers!! The boys kept linking hands and spinning themselves around with WAY too much energy though as the night the wore on, impending disaster was in the air and it actually reared its ugly head when the boys decided to all jump up on one of the catering tables (thank God/Jehovah it was empty!)
These South American Jewish boys are quite jumpy, after climbing on the table it came crashing down in the middle of their dance and they all fell in a heap including a friend of the groom who appeared to be physically disabled (prior to the accident of course). I though they had definitely killed him! Luckily he was more resilient than he looked and got back on his feet rather quickly. So everyone moved into the dance area where the salsa band was playing and the Argentine/Venezuelans proceeded to dance everyone under the table. They even danced everyone under the table while dancing ON the tables! Then they started throwing afro wigs and crazy feather masks and noisemakers into the crowd- it was suddenly a New Years party and there was not a man in the place without an afro wig on!
I ended up dancing the rest of the night with a lovely jewish boy aptly named after the just hebrew King Salomon, he would have been shorter than me had it not been for the enormous wig so everything seemed to work out well while we danced- he was a tiny jewish fred astaire, amazing dancer! And as we discussed the wonders of the blending of Judaic cultures all under one big chuppah- I really felt for just one fleeting moment like a member of the tribe….

Navigating Finnish Culture- One shotglass at a time...

2004-06-14T19:37:00.000+02:00

(Finnish National Flag)

The past month or so I have been travelling alot for work, I even was asked to attend an event we hosted in Helsinki ....quite entertaining.

The Finns are VERY BLOND and VERY QUIET, so imagine their shock at meeting a very non-blond, extremely loud person of hispanic descent- by the end of my stay I thought they were going to offer me my own talk show, hahaha!

Being one of the two women present, I was able to chat up all of the Finnish dudes and learn a bit about their strange culture. From what I was able to gather in such a short time, I have put together a brief list of observations in order to shed some light on what makes Finnish people tick:

1. Finns drink SOOOOO MUCH!
2. Finns are really bad about small talk and would rather be silent than say something stupid just for the sake of keeping a conversation alive. Thus, there are many long silent pauses in conversations with a Finn.
3. Finns are extremely honest, the few things they say are very to the point. They have no problem telling you that what you just said is a load of crap. Just dont expect them to tell you why, remember they dont like to talk!
4. Finns love saunas, they all have saunas in their houses. Apparently alot of business deals are done in saunas and people go in the suana with the whole family....NEKKID!
5. Finns get LOADED anywhere there is alcohol present, this includes airplanes. In fact, on each of my flights there were large bottles of cognac and champagne wedged in with the orange juice and coffee on the breakfast cart!
6. They don't like Sweden- take every opportunity to let you know that all Swedish people suck and especially that all Swedish men are gay

Needless to say the Finnish people are fascinating, their silence is a bit unnerving at first and makes you feel like you are crazy because suddenly you become aware of how much you are talking just to fill the long empty silences in your conversations. But once you get past that, and once the first 4 rounds of drinks are thrown back, things change completely and the crowd actually gets pretty rowdy. Suddenly, they all get really red and really loud and alot of jumping takes place, and next thing you know one of them is in front of you singing "Mony-Mony" in an off-key falsetto voice, while another walks by with a tie on his head and hands you your third shot of a horrific national liquor that you can't pronounce and that makes your stomach turn because it smells exactly like Jagermeister . Suddenly you remember why you swore it off after your first year of college, and then you are dancing and singing alone in Spanish with your walkman on your way out of a bar while several Finns stare at you thinking you are cool because you are not from Finland while you secretly think about how if any of your friends could see you now they would know how much of a loser moment you were having ... you wake up the next morning with a pounding headache and realize that the trail of pistachio shells on your hotel room floor leads directly from the minibar to your bed and that the noise you are hearing is the television that has been on all night, you notice that you fell asleep fully clothed including your jacket and that for some reason every single light in your room is on...

No, my friends, Finland is not for the faint of heart or for the faint of

liver - but for those of you that do venture to this strange land of the towheaded verbally-impaired, be prepared for an unforgettable time- actually I guess that would depend on how much Jager you actually drink...

(Salmiakki Koskenkorva- the icky Jaeger stuff!)

Welcome to the Spain Chronicles!

2004-05-01T12:54:00.000+02:00

The daily adventures of Alyson in Spain...