Life is Bueno or, I need a Spanish Boyfriend

I´ve been neglecting my blog for over a week now, but with good cause. Last Friday was the test to end all tests, an objective assessment of my language progress, basically a litmus test for whether or not this entire escapade was worth the trouble.

AND....

Turns out it was! I got an 80/100 on the grammer, a 40/40 on the reading and a 9/12 on the writing. I´m pretty sure that´s better than Cervantes did the first time he took it.

So, with my life choices re-validated I decided to go out hard with my friends who were leaving, and then hit the beach for the rest of the weekend.

Careful readers will recall that was actually my second trip to the beach, but, the beaches couldn´t have been more different. Its like the difference between dewey beach and palm springs (not WEST palm springs mind you, that place is a sh-t hole).

So, after dealing with my hangover Saturday morning and after taking every single object, including my shoes and my suit case off the floor (ah, Hobro, will your crazy demands never cease?) I hauled tail for the bus station and the tranquil sights and sands of Cadiz.

((Picture from Friday Night´s Festivities. Unfortunately, it is as blurry as my memory))

Of course, I only had a ¨good idea¨of where the bus station was. which meant I ended up walking around it 5 times before actually reaching it. I think half of my problem with getting lost (other than the fact that I missed the first week of first grade....the ONLY TIME they freaking taught Left and Right, and I´ve been disadvantaged ever since) is that I overthink the asking directions process.

I hate to bother people, and in Spain, I go into the questioning with a heavy conscience, knowing full well that I will a) not clearly ask my questions b) understand even less of what is said in response c) will forget the stuff I do understand almost immediately and d) will probably smack my spanish helper in the head as I attempt to supplement my meagre language skills with overzealous and vaguely menacing hand gestures.

So, who wants to be burdended with all of that?

No one, probably, so I agonize over who to impose on.
¨That group of foreigners? nah they look more lost than me¨
¨That group of nuns? nah they´ll just assume I´m seeking sanctuary¨
¨That nice looking couple? nah they´re still making out, and I just lost track of her hands¨
¨That old guy? Sure! he looks like he´s almost finished talking to that tree!¨

At the end of the day most of my dilemnas are self imposed. The only thing to do is to just keep talking to people. Most people are patient with those who are sincerely trying. And those that aren´t rarely actually leave a mark.

I met an Italian girl here who has found the trick for speaking great Spanish: Date Spanish Men. Of Course! Why hadn´t I thought of this sooner?

Spanish men make the most sense anyway because, well, I´ve got a girlfriend, and even worse, she might actually read this blog and finally, I´ve only actually seen about 7 Spanish women in my entire stay here, and all of them have been topless. --- And if you have ever seen me watch ¨Bikini Cavegirl¨ (the original mind you, not any of those bull shit knockoffs that followed) you´ll know that my conversational skills go through the floor whenever the protagonist (aka, Bikini Cavegirl) drops her furs.

Its a shame too, because I´ve worked out a whole series of catcalls for these mythical Spanish women which will never see the light of day.

¡Tengo Hambre! .....¡Para ti!

Tengo una problema. Tu estas llevando ropa. ¿Peude ayudame?

etc etc

Now, as I´ve consistently stated in this space, I am an avid fan of the casual nudity that pervades Spanish life. Mind you, its not all good, but lordy, is it ever more real. The decency standards here are completely different from the U.S. in general and it makes watching the nightly news a suspenseful experience.

I assure you, the running of the bulls looked very different from whatever video feed was used in the U.S. and at the same time, the war in Iraq, or the disaster-of-the-day looks COMPLETELY different when you actually witness the explosions, hear the victims and see more carnage than just twisted burning cars. I was surpised at the power of these images. Let´s put it this way, the Janet Jackson Super Bowl crisis would NOT translate.

Other then watching the nightly news through my hands, I think I´ve done a good job adjusting to the different customs and mores of Spanish society.

I accept the fact that no one in Seville is awake, much less working, at 8am EXCEPT for the crack demolition team, taking sledgehammers to my next door neighbors house.

I also accept the fact that for 5 days in a row I´ll have cold showers, followed by 3 days of warm showers and then 2 days of showers where the water smells like egg salad ---even though I always shower at the same time of day.

But, little kids in thong bathing suits? WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH THESE PEOPLE?

I´m all for treating nudity as a natural state, but that doesn´t mean I think Victoria´s Secret should be opening a ¨tween¨section. I´d rather chalk it up to bad Spanish Fashion than anything more insidious. This view is strengthened by what my Hobro wore for our ¨nice¨dinner out last night: flip flops, track pants, sleeveless shirt with the word ¨patata¨on it, and, of course, the neon green fanny pack, slung over the shoulder.

But fashion aside, there are lots of things I´ve valued differently in Spain than I would in the states.

Take this rock for example. You couldn´t have dropped me on the top of this rock on a helicopter and made me jump in the states.
But in Spain? Hey! Why not?!? Sure, I´m not that strong a swimmer, I am afraid of heights and the last time I climbed anything was the -3 ¨all hands¨wall at the climbing gym, but hey, ITS SPAIN!


It turns out the trick for attempting stupid stuff is to watch a whole bunch of other people do it first, including old ladies and children, and then give it a go.

First, you swim out to the rock. (Cmon, its not THAT far....anymore) By the time you make it to the rock, you´ve half accomplished something, so you are feeling pretty good about the next step, and you could swim back from here, but hell, you´re kind of tired, and wouldn´t the top of the rock be the perfect place for a rest? So then you climb the rock and enjoy the view and catch your breath. Then you decide that climbing back down would be a pain and --since you´re already here-- you might as well give it a shot, so you creep your way to the edge and jump before the thought bubbles forming in your brain balloon out into actual doubts.

And SPLOOSH! you are in the water. See, you´d make a great old Spanish lady.


Gotta run for now, but I´ve got lots to say about my impending departure for Barcelona.

I keep hearing different, confusing, and slightly freaky things about the place:

The school in Barcelona has 500 students. In Seville, we´re the size of the Duke Lacrosse team (but with more public urination).

The prostitutes double as pick pockets. (Ladies, pick a profession and stick with it!)

And, scariest of all: THERE IS NO ELECTICITY IN BARCELONA.

Apparently, along with A/C and ice, ¨power¨ is still a relatively new concept here, and there just isn´t enough of it to go around. So, I´m off to buy candles, and to try and convince some Spanish tech investors to buy my 8 bit Nintendo. I´ll even throw in Pro Wrestling. (no I won´t)

Deegster, we have a problem

I´m struggling with the existence and use of pronouns in Spanish. This is the type of help I am getting: (honest-to-god-Berlitz example)

¨Se trata de aceptar una nueva realidad territorial. Ello equivale a recompensar las depuraciones etnicas.¨

Actual Translation: ¨It´s a question of accepting a new territorial reality. That is the equvalent of rewarding ethnic cleansing.¨ (emphasis in the original).

OK. Hold on. I don´t even know what that means IN ENGLISH! This is not a good sign...

Being back in school is forcing my old bad habits and coping mechanisms to the surface. I STILL panic whenever we start a new topic. I´m still taken aback by the fact that the teacher won´t just stop what she´s doing and explain, (in a non-foreign language, thank you very much) just what the heck is going on. I still also resort to being the class clown. Because, if I can´t get all the answers right, at least I can amuse everyone (and serve some sort of purpose).

I'm also obsessed with classroom dynamics and am incredibly, unreasonably territorial of my desk and my friends. This whole ¨fitting in¨routine has always caused me more heartburn than necessary. Time, degrees and job titles haven´t changed that. As I said to my mega smart, ultra hot, Chinese American girlfriend last week. ¨The Japanese and Thai kids are cool, but I don´t want to get stuck hanging out with the Asians for the whole time.¨

I found out how bad its gotten today, when we had a new student introduced to our class and my alarms started ringing like crazy. He´s an American (that´s MY gig!) from some tiny school, 24 and studying for the MCAT (I didn´t realize they gave it in Spanish these days) and he´s got a laptop with wifi access. He seems nice enough and doesn´t know a soul in Seville. So, of course, I did absolutely nothing to help ease him in, didn't introduce him to anyone or clue him in to what we are studying in class, etc. You see, we´ve worked so hard (in 2 weeks...) to establish this cocoon world of ours, and I didn´t want some know-it-all Yank (well, he´s from Georgia, but STILL) coming in and spoiling the show.

There are some signs of progress for me, though. I´ve been making flashcards of verbs, doing my homework, and even assigning myself more work in ¨problem¨areas. If you´ve only known me during the last 7 years, you´d think: ¨and....what´s the big deal?¨but if you went to college, or god forbid, high school with me, you´d know what a quantum leap forward I´ve made in student survival skills.

You see, I was introduced to my very first day planner/calendar at the start of junior year of college...and then only because I worked for the school bookstore and they gave me one for free. Up until that point, I had just happily walked the earth in baggy plaid shorts and a striped shirt, smoking Camel Wides, (not) working in the school cafeteria and stopping only long enough to realize THERE WAS A TEST TOMORROW AND MY BOOK STILL MADE THAT CRACKING SOUND WHEN I OPENED IT!!!

There is no way to overestimate how unnatural planning and pacing and layering came to me. I remember in high school, a guy I knew decided to take Economics by ¨correspondence¨which meant that you got the book and the assignments, and had to complete them all on SCAN-TRON and then show up somewhere for your final at the end of the year and you´d get credit for the class, having never set foot into the classroom. Said dude was falling behind on his regular assignments and was forced by his parents to create a month long schedule, listing out what chapters he´d complete, and when, with the goal of finishing the class in the month (so he could pass and graduate highschool). I remember being near tears at the injustice of this most-onerous punishment. To me its seemed capricious and impossible. HOW IN THE WORLD was he supposed to know what he´d be doing a month from now? How was that even possible? He´s not a mind reader, or a time traveler. I mean, what did they want from this kid!!?? (Or so was my thinking for the first 20 + years of my life).

But if there´s proof that things can change, I´m it. I was never foolish enough to take a Correspondence course. I just kept showing up. One day, I started taking notes (or paying someone else to do so) and then much later, I actually started looking at said notes and thinking ahead. And the rest is history.

Sometimes I think I don´t get enough credit for what I´ve accomplished. I mean, yeah, my mom is proud that I graduated from law school, and have a great job, but wouldn´t she be even MORE proud if I´d done all that AND BEEN BLIND!? Or what if I was war orphan? that would rule! Then everybody´d see how much I´ve done. I guess I´m always looking for ways to be more impressive...not by doing more, mind you, but by coming from less. Its worked to mixed results. My girlfriend is sorta impressed with the stuff I´ve done. But I´ve also convinced that I´m (her words) ¨a little bit retarded¨

Ah well, can´t win em all.

But, if I can pass this test on Friday, I´ll win one more...

Three Trials, One Theme

Seeing as how its Friday, I´ve gotten several requests for an update. As I told my best friend Tomas: until some sweet Corporation swoops in and starts sponsoring me to go to an internet corporation, or even better, buys me a lap top, updates will have to wait till I´m at school, I´m not in class, and I can hang around until all the college kids stop chatting with their boyfriends.

Its Friday afternoon here and the place is now deserted. I´ve got a big test next Thursday that I really have to hunker down and study for. So, of course, I´ve going to the beach tomorrow and the Alahmbra in Granada on Sunday. This decision making is emblamtic of my constant struggle between the virtues of study and the virtues of fun.

You see, I was on top of the Giralter Tower at the Seville Cathedral last Saturday. The highest point in the city with magnificent views of the entire city and the river that serves as its border. At first, I was amazed by the grandeur of the scene before me. But, after awhile, sweating balls on top of this ancient tower, I couldn´t stop staring at one particular sight: A rooftop pool not 100 yards away where I could clearly see one fat balding dude in a tight Euro suit, arms and legs splayed in the pool all by himself. Sure he was a stones throw from the largest Gothic Cathedral ever built. But at the same time, I was just as a far from what looked like a sweet way to spend the afternoon (did I mention the bar? there was totally a bar). So really, who had the better deal? That´s when I came up with a name for my struggle:

I need to Do Spain before Spain Does me.

Now, as some of you have surmised from previous posts. I kind of live with a crazy person. He´s got a lot of good characteristics. For one, he´s rail thin, so doesn´t take up much physical space in our small apartment. Secondly, he cooks all my meals and is of the opinoin that ¨there´s always room for bacon¨ (Pasta? Bacon! Potatoes? Bacon! Jamon Serrano? Bacon!)
Thirdly, he is the only actual Spanish person I talk to other than my teachers and really does a good job of communicating with me and talking thru words I don´t know.


But, there´s also clearly a lot wrong going on. First, I´m not really allowed to have anything in the fridge or the cupboards, but I´m also not really allowed to take/eat anything that´s already in there. I have to wait until its all given to me. In the beginning, I found my utter lack of choice to be annoying. But now, its kind of fun to wonder ¨will i get an apple today? or maybe some yogurt? only time will tell!¨ I think I also got criticized last week for how I spread my butter. Apparently I stab too far into the container, and don´t exploit the whole surface of the butter tub. I´m also essentially forbidden from having any company, or expressing any preference about what´s on the TV.

¨How can you live under such conditions?¨you may very well ask.

And its kinda like this:

You know how when you are at Duke Basketball Campout, and you are sitting around in portable chairs in blistering heat and chilly sleepless nights for three days? And you know how on the last muddy night, when you are 30 beers in and still staggering along and your buddy Ken boots and rallies over the side of the beer pong table while Scotty Dub points and laughs from 10 feet away....while peeing on his own tent? Well, its kinda like that.

And also:

Its kinda like that time last fall when my ¨friend¨ Mike Kim tried to kill me by taking me ¨rafting¨in west virginia on the coldest, wettest day of the year. We slept three dudes to a 2 man tent, got tossed out of the raft into a river of ice and were then ´rescued´by a guy who proceeded to smack me in the face with an oar and then pull my shoulder out of socket. (and I didn´t even get the worst of it. Some guy who looked like the result of a three way between a Viking a Redneck and a Biker got stuck under the raft about 10 seconds into the trip) The only time it stopped raining was when we were packing up to go home on the last day and were all huddled around a pre WW I Craftsman Stove, waiting for the 10 lbs of bacon to finish cooking.

So, you get back to your house from adventures like these and leave your clothes drying under the fridge. After your shower and your nap, your toe accidentally touches your wet, cold, destroyed jeans and you shudder: ¨how the fro did I enjoy that?¨

Well, my living situation now is kinda like that. Except without the cold and without the rain, both of which I´d kidnap a baby for, right about now.

Its Spain, Its Seville, I ain´t working, so its all good, right?

Well this tale of human adaptability took a sharp left turn when Hobro yelled at me for using my fan.

That´s it, too much. As Cameron Frye would say ¨Its time to take a stand.¨

And take a stand I did, writing out an honest to God page of reasoning, in Spanish, as to why I should sole discretion of over the when and where of my fan usage. It was a great talk we had. It ranged into the politics of conservation, social responsibility and the casual nudity on Spanish network television (all three of which I avidly support, btw). In the end, we agreed that the point of his anger wasn´t the actual cost in dollars of using the fan, but the cost in global karma (I literally did at one point draw and use a ¨Yin and Yang¨as a visual aid during this discussion).

The end result being that I was given a DIFFERENT fan. One with a timer on it. So, I can have my precious fan turned on every night as I go to bed, but which will shut off within an hour to conserve energy. And, if I TRULY AM uncomfortably hot, I´ll simply wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and crank the timer back for another hour of sweet circulated air relief.

Done and Done.

But guess what Dear Readers? The savvy old Deegster figured out a way to BY PASS THE TIMER. That´s right folks: Punk´s Not Dead, Bitches! Suck it, Al Gore!

So, in the spirit of Doing Spain, I´m leaving Seville a month early for Barcelona. And in Barcelona I´m going to live with a French student I met in class here (Ben Wa? I can´t really pronounce the dude´s name, so why should I know how to spell it?) and, who happens to work as a cook for some fancy pants French restraunt back home.

So what if they don´t really speak Spanish in Barcelona? And so what if, for all his faults, my hobro has been my best source for Spanish conversations, and invaluable practice? Its like 10 degrees Celsius cooler in Barcelona, and if I want, I can Buy Some Freaking Ice Trays.

Owning Ice Trays and Not Speaking Spanish. Now THAT´S Doing Spain.

Have a good weekend. You know I will.

The Documentary I just saw

How do you turn Transformers, a movie that opens with the writing credit ¨Based on the toys created by HASBRO¨into a thinking man´s film? That´s easy, try watching it in Spanish.

I haven´t concentrated this hard in a movie since I saw Clue for the first time.

All of my new friends (all 1.5 of them) were out of town this past weekend, and so while I spent the days visiting touristy stuff (which I will generally spare you from....although SOMEONE is going to have to watch the freaking i-photo slideshow I will lovingly prepare) I decided to hit the cinema for a little R&R from my espanol. Someone had gone to the cine earler in the week and seen Oceans 13, in English with Spanish subtitles, and I was hoping to do the same.

Also the allure of 2 solid hours of air conditioning and an American-Sized Diet Coke were too great to pass up.

Unfortunately, when I showed at the cine, Oceans 13 had already started, so it Transformers was the next most viable option. Here was maybe my second or third interaction with a non-school-non hobro Spanish person, and it went about as well as could be expected:

(Translated from the Spanish)
Me: Hi, I´d like to buy a ticket to see Transformers at 10:30
Cashier: How many tickets?
Me: Just one.
**************************
So far so good, right? well, here´s where things took a real nosedive. Apparently, in Spain, they ASSIGN seats for their patrons. So while, I´m assuming all that is left in our transaction is for me to pay, she´s got something else on her mind.
**************************
Cashier: Where would you like to sit?
Me: I´d love to pay, how much is it?
Cashier: No, sir, íts not time for that, tell me where you´d want to sit first.
Me: Yes, one for Transformers at 10:30, and here´s my money.
Cashier: You aren´t getting a ticket until you tell me where you want to sit.
Me: Yeah, I love the Transformers.
Cashier: Sir, there is a line of people behind you, please just choose a seat.
Me: No, the Go-Bots sucked! I got one for my birthday once, his name was A-1, like the steak sauce.
Cashier: I´m just going to give you a middle seat in the front row you yankee bastard.
Me: Hmmm, I don´t know how an Energon Cube would taste, probably like an overripe mango.
**************************
At this point, after much rolling of the eyes, she turned her computer monitor towards me and pointed at a diagram of theatre. I got the point immediately, chose an aisle seat and sealed the deal.

Ticket in hand, I headed towards the concession stand for my big-ass coke and popcorn. These were purchased with relative ease, but when it came time to fill my cup with ice, the woman reached into a small metal vase and pulled out a mere two cubes of ice with tongs to drop in my glass.

This lack of ice seems to be endemic in this country. I mean, sure you can discover the new world and change the course of history on three contintents, but if you remain content to buy your ice from gypsies on the street, then what good is your freaking civilazation???

How hard is it to figure out that: water + cold = ice? You all have freezers, I´ve seen them, how about tossing a water nozzle or some ice trays up in there?

Anyway, I go to my assigned seat and settle in for a good ole American popcorn flick.

Sadly, it became clear pretty quickly that thsi whole thing will be in Spanish, and that I´m going have to pay attention if I´m going to have any idea what´s going on.

((I´d hate to leave wondering ¨what was MegaTron´s motivation? did StarScream resolve his Oedipus Complex?¨))

I think I was able to glean most of the intended plot points, and the movie was pretty good. My biggest problem was that the baddest Decepticon of them all, SOUNDWAVE was nowhere to be found. I understand that cassette decks are a tad outdated these days, but surely they could have worked him and his ever-so-cool-talking-like-Barry White-into-the-fan-on-high-speed-voice into the film!

Oh, and Bumblebee deserves an Oscar for his performance.

I haven´t talked about this much yet, but everybody, EVERYBODY in Spain smokes. And, sure enough, someone lit up in the theatre. Not once, but twice. And this wasn´t even weed! Just plain ole tobacco. Its completely illegal I´m sure but no one said anything. But it did make me feel better about that time I smuggled a Long John Silver´s (LJS for those in the know) Add-A-Piece Meal into the Riverside theatre for a late night showing of Species 2. (And thank God I did, those batter dipped fish rectangles were the best part of that film).

Watching Transformers in Spanish was a healthy experience for me. It helped broaden my worldly perspective. You see, Optimus Prime and the rest of the Autobots didn´t come to Earth just to save America, they came for ALL OF US.

Thank You, Spanish. And Thank You, Autobots.

Keep waging your battle to destroy the evil forces of....the Decepticons.

That its it for today. Next time I´m going to try and work all of the funky spanish keyboard keys into my message, but I won´t do it unless you all can see them. So please, someone in the comments tell me if you can see¨ ñ, €, ¿, ¡, ª, º, ¬, and of course, ç

Bullfighting is for the ....

On Thursday I attended my first ever bull fight. Bull fighting has existed in Spain for a whole bunch of years and is highly ritualized and intensely meaningful. Every costume, color and cheer is rich with hidden significance and the spectacle as a whole is symbolic of man's solitary struggle against large horned animals, when surrounded by cheering drunk Americans.

As luck would have it, we also covered bullfighting over 2 days in my culture class last week, so I am able to provide an in-depth analysis of the events that took place. Before we get to the actual bull fight, let's go over some of the facts and fictions regarding bull fights. Let's see if you can pick out the differences between the truth and the misconceptions

_________________________________________

BULL FIGHTING.....TRUE OR FALSE?


*Bull fighting is derived from the Roman Collesium spectacles

*Bull fights take place in a circular ring, and the seat of honor is reserved for the King of Spain.

*A typical bull fight involves bouts with 6 different bulls and usually lasts 2.5 hours.

*Before the matador enters the ring, the bull must face three different "Picadors" or, people with gnarly looking spears that jump up and stab the bull in the back.

*Bulls are colorblind and the color of the matador´s cape is red in honor King Leon ¨The Red Faced. ¨


*If a matador does well during a bullfight the crowd shouts at the governor to cut off the dead bull´s ear for the matador. If he does REALLY well, the crowed demands that both ears and the bull´s tail be given to the matador.

*Red Bull sponsors cheerleaders at most major bull fighting arenas. The bull fighters are also rewarded with some of their tail.

*Having empty bottles and seat cushions thrown at you by the crowd is a GOOD thing.

*It is ABUNDANTLY clear that all of the matadors are going Commando.

*Nobody laughed at my ¨the sum of my bullfighting experience comes from that one Madonna video¨ joke. (You know, the one where she gets dumped by the Matador...)

*Matadors have caddies with whom they consult and who provide them with different swords as the situation requires.

*Matadors in training make extensive use of the mechanical bulls at Coyote Ugly.

*After getting killed in the ring, the bull is chopped up and sold in a meat store on site.

*Even if the bull ¨wins¨ by, say, goring the crap out of the matador, he still gets killed, and chopped up and sold.

__________________________________________

Wait a second....all of the above is TRUE!!!

What a crappy sport!

Its kind of annoying that the bull has no freaking shot whatsoever. Its a worst case scenario handbook without any solutions, its the Kobayashi Maru from Star Trek II, except that its REALLY hard to cheat the system without opposable thumbs.

The sport does seem to go out of its way to be as brutal as possible. Yet, strangely, I was able to tolerate and even enjoy parts of the bizarre spectacle.

My ability to come up with and spout sage-sounding commentary was key:

¨The matador has total control of that bull...and this crowd!¨
¨That bull has got creepy-old-man-stength¨
¨The matador´s theatrics seem forced and hollow¨
¨This sort of behavior would never fly in Madrid....¨

This penchant for commentary, along with my extensive rationalizing made for a fun night.

¨Up until this very moment, that bull has led a good life....for a bull¨
¨That bull was dead the moment he walked into the ring¨
¨He´s probably so hopped up on meth that he doesn´t feel a thing¨

....(what am I saying? how can I stand this? what have I become? Has the dude selling ice cream passed by yet?)....

Hell Freezes Over; Or, this beats Conjugation Drills

Wow, here´s a place I never thought, I´d be: the BLOGOSPHERE. I used to make fun of that word, and now I found it strangely comforting. What a difference, a few days anad a ton of miles make.

Everyone I know has been really supportive about my trip to Spain. People that have spent time here seem to have strong feelings about this country. Before I came, I took a week´s worth of Spanish classes in DC. I had a great old teacher. She wasn´t old school, she was OLD WORLD, and she was always giving me creepy, old world advice like ¨don´t buy batteries from Gypsies on the street¨that always seemed to raise more questions than they answered.

All and all, things are going quite well. My house is really close to school, only two life-treatening, sidewalk-lacking streets away. I live in an apartment with a one other student, who I´ve seen for all of 5 minutes. My host family consists of a dude my age who wears pajamas with a picture of ghandi on them and who asks me if I´ve been to the gym before deciding what I get to have for dinner. I´ll call him my host brother, or hobro for short.

Hobro seems like a good guy, if a bit anal retentive. He gave me a tour of the house and the streets nearby on my first day. Hobro is big on control, he only gives me things when i ask for them. So, I didn´t get hangers for closet until I asked for them. I didn´t get a towel for the bath until I asked for it, I didn´t get a fan for my room until I asked for it. I reckon its a miniexperiement he runs to see how people cope with different surroundings and privations. I´m sure he once had a poor Japanese student, too shy to ask for anything who ended up sleeping on cinder blocks and drinking out of his hands. In fact, I have yet to ask for something that he hasn´t had ready to give me. In my mind he´s got a giant room like the pirate ship in Goonies where he just pulls out whatever I´d like or need. Hopefully its got fewer skulls.

Thankfully, Hobro is a good cook, and his trains seriously run on time. Meals are at 9:10, 2:30 and 9:00. To the second. You can set your watch by them. Hobro lays out a table cloth on the round table in the living room and unfolds two plastic ikea chairs...to be sat in only at meal times. Yesterday, when he was going out for dinner and cooked only for me, I got only HALF a table cloth because, apparently, the honor of a WHOLE tablecloth is reserved for when he eats with me.

I plan on peppering these posts with my Spanish revelations as they come to me. These will keep me from getting bogged down in the minutae. Here are a few to get started.

¨How the fro did I ever live without a personal deep frier?¨
--Just trying to imagine the inabilty to fry up ham and cheese fritters, french fries, fish sticks, is now laughable. Clearly there is something about these friers that allows the Spanish to stay rail thin. I will investigate further by consumer everthing that comes out of the magical toaster-sized contraption that occupies the place of honor in our kitchen.

¨Songs by Spanish-Language Artists such as Shakira ACTUALLY SAY STUFF¨
--Its not just a bunch of gibberish with a killer beat. There are words, nay PHRASES buried in there! I have yet to figure out a single song, but I´m starting to capture words: amor, pechos, that sort of thing.

¨Simpson´s quotes don´t translate, but Sesame Street impersonations will keep you alive in most countries.¨
--Its tough to convey Simpsons lines like ¨Those sandal-wearing goldfish-tenders!¨but everybody knows Sesame Street (here, Barrio Sesamo) and my Vampiro de Contar just KILLS....¨Uno! Dos! Dos Platos! Ah ! Ah ! Ah !¨

"Gay or Spanish?"
--Probably both.

¨Everything goes better with running bulls¨
--The running of the bulls is in Pamplona tomorrow and I´m having trouble concentrating on anything else. In culture class yesterday we learned about all of the solemn religious processionals held in Sevilla every Christmas. It was the first video we´ve watched in school so far. For every gorgeous, candle-laden icon of the virgin, and for every grand and silent march of purple hooded believers, I couldn´t help thinking ¨this is great, but when the bulls start knocking sh%t over, that´s when it´ll be aweomse¨ I´ve found this type of thinking to be contagious, and now, I see bulls stampeding through class, crushing desks and impaling that italian kid in hawaiin shorts who is weirdly fat in a way you don't see in America, Bulls running thru the Tienda with its one size (40oz) cervezas, and even, Bulls running thru my own living room trampeling the tiny TV and knocking over the dinner table, half table cloth and all

That´s it for now, I´ve got a fairy tale to write. This will be harder than my last few assignments because the answers aren´t in the back of the book. Thank god I didn´t have that temptation growing up. I´d still be in 4th grade.