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)