Now that I have work to do, All I wanna do is blog.

Thoughts about living in a city:

People are crazy. Period. But there are MANY levels of crazy, there is the friend that drinks a little TOO much, the people that cry a LITTLE TOO often, the people that slowly begin to emulate you to the point of creepiness, etc. etc. But then there are really crazy people, the schizophrenic ones, who have true problems that prevent them from really, well, living normal lives. Its unfortunate and sad, but also, in some situations, a little frightening.

In a city, you encounter the REAL crazies more than, say, a medium sized suburb an hour outside of Chicago. For years, it has been easy to identify the crazy guy on the subway or the side street. It is usally his attire and his voice, often speaking to someone who is clearly not there, that set off the 'crazy alarm'. Let's face it, you know some one is crazy because they are talking to themselves.

Alas, technology has thrown a fork into the whole machine that is IDing a "Real Crazy": the Bluetooth. That darn tiny little earplug, sits hidden away from the casual passerby, while the owner continues their conversation.



Suddenly, everyone talks to themselves! Real conversations! Fights! Demands! In grocery stores, on the subway, on the street, the list goes on! What are we to do? How do we know that the man walking behind us off the bus is a schizophrenic or just a businessman with too many things in his hands?!?!?!

And fashion? Well now its cool to look homeless--its vintage!

So, I am slowly creating a list of IDers to clarify and figure out which is which. Because, let's face it, we need to be aware, its a matter of safety here.

1. Crazy People often speak in a non-language. This is made complex with the addition of many immigrants who choose to speak in their native tongues, some of which, lets be honest, sound a little like crazy talk. Needless to say, when a man is speaking in a language consisting of lets say two-three English words, often along the lines of (pardon the language) "bitch" and "shut up" and a lot of mumbling, well..my friends...that man is crazy.

2. Crazy People will Over React. Now, a stressed out person can act similarly, but will then clearly be embarrassed. The crazy person will continue. Non Stop. Just walk away. They will not notice.

3. When talking on the 'phone' the crazy person WILL NOT stop to allow conversation to flow, they will continue for unbelievably long monologues that exist only in poorly written theatre or, in this case, in their heads.

4. A Crazy Person often walks, well, hurriedly. Also, a similar shuffle is witnessed in the harried business person, but this crazy shuffle is often more even, whereas the crazy is often limping or slightly lopsided. Don't ask why, they just do.

A Post, A Real Solid Post

Well, I guess, I really have surprisingly little to say.

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, and while as I spent it romantically alone (as per usual) I was still surrounded by love from my family far away, in the form of flowers and groceries.

Washington DC is turning out to be a great city, and yesterday, I ventured over to Eastern Market, a place right near where I live. A little flea market/farmer's market, its in the more fun part of Capitol Hill.

See, DC is a neighborhood town, much like my beloved Chicago. You have to know which street to hit, which block to walk, because if you get lost, well, there is not much to see besides Government buildings, newly constructed condos, and falling apart homes.

A few days ago, I walked from the Phillips Collection to my house, a three mile walk. I took a single road, and walking through much of the down town area, I also found that if you looked one direction, you could see new luxury apartments for sale, and if you turned your head the other way, and looked a few blocks down, you could see falling apart gas stations, and rickety looking buildings.

DC is diverse, in its international flavor, filled with Embassies, Ambassadors and Consulates, but also with its Immigrants. See, DC has cupcake places, a startbucks on every corner (along with a sprinkling of Firehook Bakerys, tagline: Washington Born, Washington Bread), a million burger joints (this place is definitely a burger town, the pizza is not so much a speciality) and a hundred different ethnic restaurants.

Just like every city DC is famous for something, here its the GOVERNMENT! Have you seen the Whitehouse? OR the Captiol Buidling? Walked the Mall!?!? Ooohhh! White buildings in Neo Classical styling.

But once you move beyond that, see DC for more than just the CAPITAL, and for a city in and of itself, you slowly begin to see what it can offer in terms of restauarants, art, shopping, entertainment, etc.

On A lighter note:

As an employee of a certain little museum, I have learned a few interesting tidbits of information, I felt would be a bit interesting to share. Some more art historical, some significantly less so...so...

Martha Stewart recently celebrated the Inaguration here in DC by attending a soiree held at our precious little place. Supposedly, she had a man come specially early to walk through the entire building for her, and make sure that all the doors were opened ahead of her...apparently, she would be appaled to open a door for herself. Upon arriving at the gala, she through hissy fit after hissy fit complaing about the food, the lighting, and pretty much anything she could.


Although I could not bear to handle that, I still love Martha!!

Crazy, right??

Anyways, I believe that is about all...
Love everyone
Miss everyone.
Me

The Return...Although Its Not Quite Much To Say

HELLO! WORLD!

I am back. I took a break, really a distraction, but now i am back, tip top tappering away (Chicago reference...try to guess!!!) on my computer.

So, what is my life now? Well with Barry settling in, and work calming down, I am just living life in the big Capital city, on the Capitol.

I am trying, desperately to understand the art world, or whatever little bit of art world I am seeing. Its, quite, well, pretentious.


But, alas, I move on.

Last weekend, my sisters and cousin visited, and while we didn't do exaclty everything I had hoped, we managed to explore DC and see more than just monuments. Namely: The Phillips Collection, and Adams Morgan, the bar neighborhood.

At this point, I am just slowly realized that real adulthood is around the corner, and trying desperately not to freak out my future...

Oh. well.

I miss everyone lots. No funny dreams, but maybe next week..!?!?!?

Love Love
Love
me

Lykke Li Recap

So, I went to a concert last night. The Swedish pop singer Lykke Li performed at the Sixth and I Synagogue in DC's Chinatown area. I went.

To hear a song, click HERE


It began as a day of fesitivities, almost a double birthday party for two of my room mates here, and it continuted until the wee hours of the night, as a danced to the Swedish beats.

See, I had not really thought that it would be, so, well, synogogue-y. There was a huge stained glass window behind the stage, with hebrew letters and a star of david. And I remember thinking that it was the most surreal and strange concert I have ever been to. There were pew-like rows, but as soon as the singer came on stage, there was a mad dash to the front. I somehow was in the very front row, about two feet from the girl. She sang, she danced, and she pretty much brought the house down. It was an overall good concert, but very weird. Something inherently awkward about the whole situtaion, and while some of the crowd seemed into it, alot of people remained sitting and just grooving to the music.

Also, I found out that Lykke Li is 22 years old, so she is my peer, and I cannot help but feel like a failure when I stand in comparison. She is touring the world and performed for sold out concerts, while I am, well, just wandering around.

It was a good time, though, all in all. Lots of fun, Great music.








Just weird arena.

Miss you all,
Love you all,
me.

Too Many Oreos?

I had a very interesting dream, which I will retell starting, now:

It begins with a letter, in my hands, a very serious letter, which I open. Inside the letter reveals that I, little Liza Sorokin, have been invited to meet the President.

So, I am flown to the White House, where I meet Barack Obama. And he sits me down, and informs me that....

He is my real father. I am adopted, and that I am the love child of him and some College hook up.

I begin to cry. I find out he has many such children in the US, that I am the second oldest of these kids, and that I have an older half sister.

I continue crying.

Flash forward: I am in a car. The jeep actually. And I am racing in it, crying and talking on the phone to Joanna. I tell her the news. I cry. She tells me its okay. That althrough they are my adoptive parents, they still love me and everything. She tells me that nothing is different.

Then I realize something.

Wait...I'm a quarter African? That's AWESOME!!!

Anyways...I finally make it hope, tears dripping down my face, and confront my parents for all the lies they told me...the resemblances, the lack of baby pictures, suddenly it all makes sense!!
They tell me they love me, they never wanted me to feel different. But suddenly I do. Its not a blessing, its a terrible curse.

So I cry more.

Then I wake up. I realize my dream had a huge narrative flaw.

I was born in Russia.

Let it Snow?

Well, I woke up this morning to see that the ground was covered in snow! I have no idea that snow could fall in DC, but alas, here it is.

I have been recovering from the horribly violent stomach flu that flushed through my system on Saturday and have not been able to explore DC.

Anyways. nothing new to report. Bleh.

Art Whirled

THIS BEGINS WITH ART BLABBER, so if ya wanna skip it..just scroll down to the YELLOW


So, as you may or may not know, I am currently studying at the Phillips Collection, a small, little museums in DC, but also, the first national Modern Art museum in the nation *(thats what makes us sound fancy...we're not)

As I have been here for a few weeks, I have begun to understand and really see that Art Community at first hand, seeing the people who shape and define what is happening in the little community that is Art in the US. (I would say Art in America but that is the name of a pretty big magazine so...in the US it is). Well, its really interesting to see these people, meet them, and hear them speak. Needless to say, what I am finding is that people talk smart. Jibber jabber laden with with words that I usually need context to understand, conjugations of verbs that I had always thought were nouns, and such. Now, I have always spoken alright, hell, I did host a radio show, but I was never a "speaker" and definitely not one that sounded extremely intelligent.

My struggle has become to figure out whether all this fancy talk means something or whether it is simply pretentious. Really the same goes for modern Art itself. I hear many an arugument of the artist as enlightened one, leader of the people, dreamer of the people, and to me, well, the artist should be expressor of the people, speaker for the people. Works should express something, not nothing. Works to be some real, and if not beautiful, at least emotional and powerful. I am not a Romanticist, I do not need blatancy, but I still need, emotions! Feelings! Ideas! Visual Stimulation!

Needless to say, I struggle with accepting Jackson Pollack as my personal savior.

Here's the deal:
We read a famous little article called Avante Garde and Kitcsh, by Clement Greenberg, and it pretty much argued that high art should maintain this on-high power, above the masses of the people, and that Kitsch is the Normal Rockwell approach that is for, well, 'everyone else.' Now, this was written quite a while ago, and its ideas have since been attacked and bombarded with arguements...but the idea still lingers in my head.

Is art an eltist thing? Inaccesable and illegible? Is it no longer meant for everyone, but only for the few and powerful?

If so, well, it goes against everything I believe.

Being at the National Gallery the week that Barack Obama was sworn in meant that there were A LOT of people from out of town visiting a museum they had never seen. Seeing these families enter the modern wings and explore things that were supposedly 'too difficult' for them to understand was frustrating. Art is to be shared, and spread, and loved, amongst all, and it bothers me to think that some Art Theorists are such elitist jerks.

Anyways...sorry, about my little art rant. ...........................................

Living in Dc as a young adult, and studying here, I have begun to explore the town. I have seen Adams Morgan a great area where I literally at the best falafels in the world. No joke. You visit, I will take you there. There is a block of Adams Morgan FILLED with small restaurants from everywhere, Peru to Pakistan, France to Vietnam. Its incredible. I want to go to all of them...but I don't want to get fat...hrm..or poor...so I probably never will.

DC is a city of government, all the black peacoats, suits and ties, and shiny loafers seems to march into the area where I live only to leave at the end of the day. Needless to say, the nightlife on the Hill is not so great.

Dupont Circle, where my little darling Phillips is located, seems to be a bookstore area. Coffee shops, a few museums, every embassy one could dream of, and bookstores. Its an interesting little place, always bustling with cars, foreign people.

Today, I am going to U Street, the area which is famed for its Ethiopian cuisine, its night life and its overall artsy vibe. Busboys and Poets is a DC Institutions, with spoken word nights, poetry slams, artist readings, coffee and sandwiches. Its main location is in the heart of the U Street neighborhood, along with what seems to be a diverse crowd of neighbors. I will write about my experiences in my next post.

Until then,
Love you all
Miss you all
Me

Post Script:
I forgot to mention, yesterday was the anniversary of Roe V Wade which brought out huge masses of people to the capital, carrying big pro life signs and very bloody vulgar images of aborted things.. Its was brutal and offensive.

All the people with me were as disgusted and offended by the images and actions of these people as I was. Some groups of pre-teens came down to protest almost as a vacation, and I cannot understand why these kids were being used to protest something I am sure they do not understand. Needless to say, the entire day, I was angry and frustrated with these people, howver, I said nothing because they wanted to agitate me and I would not let them.

How can we not just accept the actions of others although they contradict our own life ideals? Acceptance people, is the only way we can all get along, and teaching hate in such an anti-WOMAN way is upsetting for me.

Yeah. I went,. I did it.

We woke up at 7am. There were people yelling outside, police cars zooming past, and noises abound.

We left the house at 8am, after showers and breakfasts, bundled up in our jackets, hats, boots. Its chilly outside today, nicer than before but chilly.

WE walked there. While the Capital is two blocks away, we had to walk about 25 blocks in order to hit an entrance to the inaguration. We walked, we walked, following the masses yearning to be there. To see him. We passed posters, pins, hats, bags, and tees with his face for sale. We passed food vendors. We passed millions of people who had already left, already entered, already prepared for the whole gala.

At 9.30 we made it. We entered, pushed into people, weaseled our ways around, and finally, in the end, settled upon a random spot only about a block or two from the Washington monuement, so we could be a part of history, by watching it on a jumbotron.

Yes. That is how it goes. And seeing the flocks of people when the camera panned out, I realized HOW MANY had decided to be a "part of history" today. Millions. There were millions. And there we stood, body to body, holding eachother warm as the chill began to sink into our bones, and waited.

It was anticlimactic. I mean, he said an oath. He was president. There were introductions. And then a speech which did not seem to be as inspirational as his previous ones were known to be. And then, people filed out. As soon as Obama walked away from the podium, the crowd turned their backs to the TV and towards the exit of the park/land area.

Did you hear the boos? The na-na-na-na hey goodbyes to President Bush? I did. It was mean. I felt bad. He did not do well, but it was just mean spirited.

Did you realize, that for a five minute period, Joe Biden was Vice President to George W. Bush? As Yo Yo Ma and Istzak Perlman played, we had a very interesting leadership situation. Bush was still in charge while Biden was now his VP.

Did you notice that Dick Cheney could not even walk out to the people? That he was the ONLY one who could not stand up? And while the older Bush walked with a cane, he still managed to slowly make his way to the stage. I guess, sometimes, the media is polite enough to not show things, much like the media in the 40s hid FDR's inability to walk, it seems the Dick Cheney's was equally hushed.

Did you know that after Obama, the Clintons recieved the most applause. A commanding applause from an audience that seemed still enamored with the two? Or the one?

It was cold. It was strange. To see the crowds go so crazy when the man, the president, was announced, it was amazing.

To me, however, I could not help but feel something of joy when Barack Obama messed up, when he got confused. This is not a bitter joy, but one more of reality. Barack Obama, no matter how confident and empowering, was scared. As anyone should be, to take on the world in the times of such crisis. For a split second we saw him waiver, we saw him realize the words he was saying, and beyond that, the enormity of this situaition. This was no normal Inaguration . This was an event. A concert, people crowding around, booing and cheering at certain times, coming together, huddling to share warmth, and the share with eachother a moment that America will not soon forget.

I guess, I mean, I didn't think this would be soo gooey. Hell, I felt weird being there, my feelings were too ambivalent. But there was something interesting about the whole situation.

To be honest with you, a lot of the crowd was African American, they had come out to see a man finally overcome what has happend to be one of the greatest struggles in American history. Families came out in troves. Students, of course, huddled in the crowds. Other ethnicities, groups, languages, people, stood shoulder to shoulder. But to me, it was a moment for the African American community. Many argue Barack Obama is not "black" enough, and while his story is not that of the average African American, he has inspired those around him to recognize the reality of the situation.. And something about that momentous second gave me goosebumps. Because, it is truly a great step forward in the American issue of race relations. Of cultural relations. Of diversity. And of acceptance.

Now if only we could have a woman stand there and take the oath. Alas, we have yet to come so far, but just as the woman were the last to have a right to vote, it seems that they too will be the last to have a leader to call their own.

Also, that Reverand Rick Warren was booed, at least of what I could hear, assumingly for his anti-gay, anti-choice stance.

Case of the Missing Mail Box

As I have mentioned before, I happen to be in the heart of the city during the Inaguration not only a new president, but what seems to be a new era in the history of America, one of "change". Well, as we all know, people love the Obamster... (I am trying to figure out my nickname for him... let's see how that goes) and the inaguration is turning into a giant and chaotic thicket of people, music, celebrations, all with the traditional red white and blue color scheme.

Well, in preparation, the area surrounding inaguaration city, or the Capital BUidling, has become a mild police state. Beyond the five cops who appear to be permemantly stationed on the corner of my street (something that will definitely prevent me from my favorite sport, jaywalking) there are helicopters flying over head, and yesterday, a bus drove by blasting some announcement that was fogged by the closed windows of the house. Needless to say, with the influx of what one person has told me is about 25000 police officers and legal-like people, I do feel mildly as if I am living in some sort of police state, one that gone koo-koo bananas the the Obameister..

To continue the interesting developments of my current situation, a few days ago a roommate of mine sent out a few mailings in the mailbox on the corner of our street, right by the permanently parked police. Yesterday, in an attempt to send more things, the same roommate returned to the spot where a mail box once stood to find a new block of cement, and no mailbox in sight. In an attempt to prevent mass destruction, we now have no mailbox on the corner. Removed for public safety, it seems as if our big post box sprouted legs and walked off!! yes. I know, the obvious reasons for the removal, its proximity to the capital and its solid, box like structure make is prime terror quality bomb holding capable, however, the speed that our whole little community has changed is shocking. Within only a few days, it seems like we have become a new town, gone into community lock down, serious and mailboxless, disconnected from writing, we turn to the Barackstar to tell us what to do....Alright, well its not that intense. We just don't have a mailbox..but nonetheless. Its a bit odd.

Anyways, these are my updates. I do plan on attending what I imagine will be quite an even tomorrow... but for now I have to run errands and study.

Miss everyone
Sending my love
Happy MLK day!
Me

Behold! At last! A New POST!

I am a liar.

Or more of a...bender of the truth.

While I have returned to my blog, it does seem I am not as faithful as I once was. The relationship has changed. I have no crazy world travels to talk about.

Why, if anything, my life has gotten, just so-gosh-darn patriotic. I find myself living on Consitution Avenue, seeing American flags on every corner. I can look out the window and see the Capital building. And now, well, its inaguration time.

Yes. The time has come. The time of change. The time when we have a new president, and I while I will refrain from my usual teetering in betweens of the political world, I will merely describe what I have been seeing here, in Washington DC, as a new president prepares to enter office in tee minus two days.

Well, to begin with. My day usually begins with a brisk five block walk to Union Station, the nearest metro to my house, and after this walk, I often enter the station itself in hopes of warming up before my next walk from station to school. In this time, I have walked the station, well, a few times, and the one interesting thing I have seen is the sheer number of Barack Obama merchandise in the stores. There are at least two if not three small, station, stores that sell only Barack Obama gear, hats, scarves, pins, posters, books, life size cuts outs. etc. etc.

And this weekend? Well, beyond the stores devoted to Mr. Obama, there are now outdoor salesman walking the streets with gear, every metro stop, from U Street to Chinatown, has at least one person hawking Obama gear...although it is actually usually a lot more than one person. Oh, did I mention there are sweatshirts with the Obama family picture on it?

The world has gone crazy for Mr. Obama, and DC shows it. The fan fare, the toursits, the parties, the pins! Everywhere, everything here has transformed into a shrine to our future president. And while I am not sure how I feel about this whole thing, the sheer size of this persona and image has grown into something that I have never seen before.

Yesterday, Barack Obama arrived in Union Station, after a train ride accross at least part of the country. Pulling into the station, I am sure he walked past all the stores, although closed, that were built on one promise, him. I cannot understand or comprehend how that can make a person feel, the knowledge that it is his name, his face, his voice, his marketing that literally feeds these store owners, and beyond that, the fact that before he is sworn into office he has become the most famous and most popular president that we may have ever seen. Seeing it, as a regular person, with confused political ideas, and overall ambivalence towards politicians, I cannot help but feel strange. But seeing this as the man himself, as the new demigod of the US, well, I just cannot understand how he may be feeling.

In DC, Why Not Post?

So, I have settled into my life here in DC. Well not settled. Actually, I really haven't done anything. My bags are yet to arrive, along with my parents, so I have just unpacked one bag, and slept one night in the new house where I live.

I am snuggled right in the heart of Capital Hill, a few blocks away from the actual Capital building, and a few from Union Station. The house is big, but also filled with people.

I share a front room, with a bay window over looking my street, and living on the second of three floors. I have the weekend to explore and then I will be starting my life, classes, internship, jobs...who knows what else?

A Sip WIth Less Flavor

So, here I am, simaltaneously counting down the days until I leave and counting down the days I have left. Its a weird little place I am in, resting comfortably in my Spain, getting ready to leave it for my real mom, America.

I study now, a lot, the finals crashing in on me like a surging wave during a thunderstorm of confusion, chaos, and complete emotional indemnity. Alas, I must carry on, studying the literature, art, language, and culture of a nation I have grown to love, appreciate, hate, despise, admire, and know in the past three and a half months. I hope to post more later, but now I am off, to write an essay on Garcia Lorca, a hometown hero of Granada, a poet killed in the Spanish Civil War, and now, the author of the only play I have ever read completely in Spanish.

Sending my love, and getting ready to see everyone soon,
Love
me

Toledo, Spanish Art, Culture...

On to continuing my fanciful retelling of the past weekend,

While most of the weekend was spent in Madrid, the majoirty of our Saturday was spent in La Mancha, walking the cobblestoned streets of Toledo. The city, built upon a very tall, mountain-like hill, looms powerful over you as one approached from the train station (thanks to a modern train system, it is 20 minutes from Madrid to Toledo). Hometown (but NOT birthplace) of EL Greco, his works loomed large in the city, filling catherdrals.

One of his most famous images, a painting of his city, mirrored our walk up to the town. A drizzly and over cast day, the ancient fortress of a town seemed to be exactly like that of his paints. The city, of lurid browns and shaded grays, was a puzzle of a town, a map that seemed like a joke, its history was crushed into the little space within its medieval walls. A history of cultural blending, Jews living amongst nuns, moorish powers looming in the walls, some how mangaed to create the most unique Spanish city I have visited yet.


It was expensive, over priced if you ask me, a tourist trap of 2 euro coffees and little Don Quixote statues, but nonetheless, it was beautiful . I love Toledo, a town apparently famous for its marzipan (mazapan in espanol), it had its own unique personality, one that inspired one of Spain most famous artists, el Greco, and one that inspired me to learn to love Spain once more.

A Chilly Burst of Air

Well, it has officially gotten cold. As I stepped off the Madrid bus I noticed a different type of chill in the air. By the next morning, snow had arrived in the majority of Spain, and while Granada was left unscathed, the bitter wind has blown all the way south into Andalucia.

So, as I waved goodbye to my mom, leaving her in Madrid for the night, I also, unknowingly waved goodbye to autumn. So, here I am, alone, the winter of my trip coinciding perfectly with the actual frost of December.

I have sixteen days until I leave Spain, eleven until I leave Granada. And I finally, after three months, I went to Madrid, the capital, and left Andalucia.

Madrid, the city of lights, of endless nights, of art museums and international people. Half of the metro was foreign, and half of those foreigners were speaking english. The streets were filled all the time, bustling and buzzing with end of November swarms that in America would be directly connected to Thanksgiving, but in Spain, just means another crazy night.

We spent out days in Museusm, eight hours in the Prado, four in the Reina Sofia. Each room unveiling more pieces that I never thought I would ever see, each work enough to define an entire collection. It was overload, but in the most pleasant of ways, a sensory explosion that left me in a state of malaise upon exit.

Madrid was amazing, the food normal, of classic Spanish level, with lots of potatos, eggs, jamon and cheap cheap wine, and my partner in crime, my mommy, was awesome.

I miss you all,
I love you all,
Sincerely,
Me

A Reunion In Madrid

So, I was reunited with my mommy in Madrid, and it was awesome.

Madrid is beautiful and so, well, big. Its spaciousness reminded me of Lisbon, Portugal. Looming neoclassical buildings in light airy blues, rich browns, opening into plazas filled, and I mean FILLED, with people. Little arches opening up into huge spaces, sculptures of Spanish royalty, on horseback, towering over the crowd.


I definitely did not go to any museums, but I will. The Prado, the Reina Sofia, and the Thyss.... Something Gallery are all world famous (although clearly not famous enough for me to remember the name of one, hehe.) It will be nice to visit the museums with someone who, really, taught me to love art, who dragged me through galleries as a kid, who left art books out in the house for me to page through as I slowly grew up, who put the crayon in my right hand (which I would then promptly put in my left hand, my inner southpaw undenialable at even a young age).

Madrid, is, well, European City, exemplified. It has a little less difinitve personality than London, or Amsterdam, or Rome, but it is beautiful and grand nontheless.

Madrid and Momskies

I am counting down until, well tomorrow, when I get to finally leave Granada for the capital of Spain, MADRID!


And best of all? I get to see my mom. Yay!

Haha, I mean, it will be an experience, seeing the city that supposedly represents Spain as its center, both geographically and govermentally. And also, the MUSEUMSSS...will be incredible.

Needless to say I will be doing my homework for the rest of the day, but miss everyone!

Love ya'll
me

Another Day, Another Feelin

Í would like to begin by apologizing, not of the inappropriate accent over that I, I oddly like it, but for my slow spiral into emotion writing. I began this blog to talk about world travels and experiences, cross cultural exchanges and bilingual conversations. I am afraid to admit it, but this little webby site of mine has slowly developed into a creature of my own making, a naval gazing blog pretending to be something it is not. I have been to talk, almost entirely about me, myself, and of course, Í. Well, I am sorry.

I guess, at this point, my adventures here in Spain have become me, and while life has rounded out its roughness, smoothed out its edges, I am still trying to figure out this guy (two thumbs pointed at my chest). It have a little less than one month left, I am returning to Chicago at noon on the 18th. So for now, here I am, in Spain, exploring, savoring and simaltaneously counting down the days until my grand return. I expect flowers, a parade, and no less than three puppies upon my descent back into normalcy.

So, what about Spain? My secret connection, my emotional rock, my HOME. Well, it will weep without me, cry. Alright, maybe not, maybe no one will really care, but I will forever keep this place in my heart. Secretly cuddling my downright Spanishness in the deepest corners of my mind.

I guess, in life, there is no finality but death, and I guess, my relationship with Spain is the same. A living, breathing entity, I have developed a friendship with it, and as soon as I land back in America, I do not know how I will deal without my dear friend. See, I hope to return to Granada one day, to walk Camino de Ronda, visit the Alhambra, climb up to the Mirador, but I do not know when or if ever that will happen. So my goodbye, although hopefully not final, with be indefinite. Hazy. Unclear. Sudden. Sad. Nervous. Excited.

So, here I am, loathing those damn magdelenas (I still hate them) and enjoying the last moments of our life together, preparing for the long distance relationship that I will have after the 18th (I promise to check CNN.com, watching Spanish language TV, try to keep some sort of contact with my friend accross the miles.) I am here, trying to savor the Granada air, inhale the space that is Spain, and enjoy the moments as they gentle evaporate away.

Screw You BREAKFAST GOODS!

Alas, I am alone again, counting down the days until I go to Madrid and whittling away the hours by doing a whole ton of homework. But, since my family has left me once more, I return to the Spain I know. The apartment, the squeaky bed, the awkward exchanges between my señora and myself, the fried food.

I guess the return of family made things easier, hell it made stuff FUN! I was tourguide, translator, and all of it was paid for by someone else! I didnt even clean that much, really. I was no personal slave, trust me. It was a gift to have people who love me and know me back in my life. But, after waiving goodbye to my last visitor, I fought to keep tears from falling down my face. Suddenly, I was alone again, on Gran Via again, with way to many bags and not enough hands, I stumbled onto a bus filled with people who stared at me, and with no one to talk to, I took notice of the glares. At the moment, I was a bag lady, carrying all my supplies of the week back home to Calle Morena, and I felt even more homeless. I knew where I was going, but coming back to the house, the apartment where I have been living for the past two months felt almost as strange as my first night in the place, almost worse because all the excitement was gone.

I guess the reminder of family, of love, was almost a cruel tease. A bit of delicious dessert that is immediately taken away from you, as the tiny flavor still lingers in your mouth. You try to savor it, but it turns into the empty flavor of your mouth before you know it. Here I am, craving home, and I return to the reality that is my life, the normality of my Spanish life. I wake up, at 7.45, get dressed, eat breakfast of cafe con leche and little magdelenas (cupcakes, butter and muffin blending into one unsatisfyingly sweet morning), I walk to class, I sit in composition, I sit in culture, I get another cafe con leche, I return to school, do my emailing and blogging, and then I go to literature, sit for two hours, walk home again for lunch, eat with my señor and penelope, their daughter, take a nap, wake up, walk back to school, use the internet, return home, do homework-read-watch tv with my señora, and go to bed, only to start the day again (sometimes i have art history in the afternoon, or I tutor, I those days I stay at school for lunch). But my life has become routine here, and the change of it took me out of my comfort zone and into a more comfortable one.

This morning, as I sat with my coffee and those damn magdalenas, I realized something. I hate them. I cannot eat them anymore. I do not want to eat them anymore. They are not good for me, they leave me still hungry after I do, and they filled me with the guilt of highly fattening carbohydrates (a war I have been battling, and losing, all my life). They represent Spain to me, right now. I understand them, have developed a method of eating them, know exactly what to expect and how many calories are in each one (about 139). I know them, I get it, but it is not what I want and not what I need. Its how I feel, I understand Spain just enought. Not like an anthropologist studying the culture, but like an outside observer savoring the difference. I see it now, I understand it, but because I am not here for the long run, not willing to accept that magdalenas will be my breakfast forever, I see no need in eating them anymore. They just make me fat. I get it, I see what is different, I see what I am here, I see it, but I will never understand, never grow accustomed to it, especially knowing that I am still going to return.

Clearly, I have begun to grow bitter. But do not get me wrong, it is just one of those mornings, on of those days where I am ready to return, for my GRAND RETURN HOME. But I am still here, still stuffing bready butter in my mouth.


I am sorry for such an angry post, I guess it came out rougher than I meant. I love Spain, do not get me wrong, but today, it is just one of those days, where, thoughts of coming home fill my head and heart wit dizzying joy.

Alas, I have a month, and then who knows when I will return to Spain? It is a country that will always have a piece of my soul, a country that will always represent my time of learning and independance, a country that has taught me not only a language, but life in a way I had never seen. Spain is beautiful, but today, well, I would rather be in Buffalo Grove, chilling with family, going with friends to IHOP. Yes. Sometimes, I must admit, those little mundane things becomes my most vivid dreams.

FAMILY! FRIENDS! VISITORS!!!!

So, I have been serving as faithful tourguide, translator and personal cook for family this week, and in this time I have learned to things,
1. I love my family, and anyplace feels so much more like home with them there.
2. I love Granada, I mean, it is still a gorgeous place...

See, living here you forget, but showing people around, somehow you begin to remember...
We went to the Alhambra, yesterday, and as the sun set over the mountains, and made our way through the Generalife Gardens, our view towering over the majority of the city, took hold of me and shook me. Here I was, living in this place, so beautiful and genuine, and I was taking it for granted. But luckily, having family here, they remind me of how cool and fun it is.

Also, I feel so much better being here. With family to keep me grounded I just feel okay. MEeting the Señora was funny little experience, which consisted of me sitting and talkingwith her, while the other two watched, my every attempt to translate was interrupted with more Spanish from Lola. Ha. Lady loves to talk. Infront of new people. Not so much to me. But oh well.

Outside of that, wandering the streets of Granada has taken on a new element of fun and I am really not wanted anyone to leave me...
Alas, I must be off. But all is well.
miss everyone lots
love everyone lots
me.

Eating Arroz With A Spoon, Not Paella With A Fork

So, today is Saturday, a day of family meals with the kids, in the case of my señora and señor. So, today we had arroz con pollo, which is, essentially, paella minus the ham and seafood. I sat down to a plate of hot, saffrony goodness; rice, chicken, red peppers and artichokes, sitting in a bowl, a thick sauce sticking the pieces together. But there was no fork and knife to cut the huge pieces of cjhicken, just a spoon and bread, to be used to make mouth sized pieces. So, I ate, awkwardly breaking the chicken with the edge of my spoon, and feared that the chicken would slip in the sauce and go flying somewhere in the direction of my señor. Luckily, it did not happen. Nonthless, it was quite the struggle.

I guess, sadly, that is all I have report, nothing very new or exciting here. So...the paella story is the best I can come up with...ha.

Well, I have, as of late, simply been doing homework and living my life here in Spain. I am really just counting down the days until the arrival of my guests, ONE MORE TO GO!! yay.

Miss you all,
love you all
me