I’ve been wronged and cheated! Been played the fool and made a foolish victim. OH! jake, you thought you were strong, you thought you could survive in this inner city life, where crooks and criminals sleep along the streets. And men of confidence used as a guise in order to pick your back pocket. Oh foul world what have I done to deserve such harsh and unretractable lessons. Give me a second chance fate. I beg you, allow me to start again. I will not look the other way and leave my world unguarded free to be snatched by the hands of soulless mischief.
I’ve read too many books, and believed in Walt Whitman to soundly. Why Walt? Why must you live in a world that is not consistent with the reality that surrounds us?!! Why Walt, oh please! Tell me why?!! I put faith in you and my trust that all men are good and righteous. And I believed you when you said we are brothers and there is an inherent connection which bonds us all. But, oh, the sting it does create. To put faith in my fellow humans. To believe so inaccurately that my brothers would protect me as I would protect them. It would have been better if a hawk or a condor or if the fabled griffin himself had swooped down from the sky to snatch my satchel, then to feel the cold blade of betrayal turned diagonally in my unsuspecting back. I feel like ceaser, with trust in my brutus, only to be overthrown in the name of foolish antics such as simple commerce. Had you asked, oh man with veiled face, I would have given you a sandwich, would have fed you, my brother in darkness, till thy belly was full and no longer did evil intentions propel your existence. Death be thy name and I have seen ye in the face. Seen your cruel resemblance to the devil waking in the crowded streets, preying on the innocent man enjoying a pepsi in the plaza. Inner city life, I will no longer be so vein. I will no longer live in my dreams and the books that seem so foolish to me now. Trust I have not. Confidence I have lost. Inner city, I watch thee as ye walk away!
K, so my bag got stolen today. Son of a bitch, right!? I find it kinda funny. Kinda. In the sort of way that whoever stole it didn’t get his troubles worth. I was sitting in front of the riena sofia museum enjoying a pepsi and a cig before going into the museum, when one finely dressed man (who im not sure if he was related in the heist) was talking on his phone and started talking to me very quickly and asking which metro stop it was, then he ran off very hurriedly, I turned watched him run, then looked back the opposite way and shrugged my shoulders. At this point, I felt my bag slip, I thought it had shifted off the bench, because the movement was so light, but when I reached down to grab it….it wasn’t there. Nor was it anywhere near by. I looked all around, ran out in the the street, and saw absolutely nothing. Sneaky bastard. Hope he enjoys books on Spanish level one. Although, blocking complete merriment from me, is the fact that there were three artifacts in the bag. And I shall list them in order of importance.
1. My journal. The first thing I thought of when I asked myself, what the shit was in my bag? My memories, my inner most thoughts. My journal which has acted as a friend and confident for the past month. My journal who never judges and is there for me to work my head into a linear and sensical device. My journal. My beloved. My alleged keepsake of my time in Europe, good bye. I wish the well. Cause I know you’re in a garbage can in some shitty ally in Madrid. What an unjust fate.
2. The confidence man by Herman Melville. This was a gift from a very good friend. I’m very pissed because, A) I love getting books for gifts, and it’s one of the first I’ve received without having to ask. B) I was half way through. Damnit. And I was just starting to figure out what the hell was going on. Which, ironically. The confidence man is about crooks who steal from people by gaining their trust first. Oh, Melville, had I read quicker, maybe your truths would have saved this catastrophe.
3. Hank, my mp3 player. I list this last because it was the last thing I realized. It’s material, and I will not miss the awesome technology, though it was freaking cool. However, one month into spain, and I already miss the shit out of American music. Music in spain and Europe is not like American music. So, now, I’m really going to miss my American tunes. So long modest mouse. I will be alone down here without you. So long Rilo kiley, You were fucking beautiful. So long flaming lips. I’m afraid the robots have won. So long phosphorescent. And, no, I don’t think it will not be so hard to see you around.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
La Pedriza
La Pedriza, Spanish wilderness. The area is amazingly beautiful. And conveniently close to Madrid. Only a one hour bus ride, which drops you off in the pueblo nearest to the park--Manazarnes. I had to walk two miles along the roadside to reach the entrance to the park. The park itself consists of grand mountains made out of granite. The landscape is similar to that of Toledo, with large hills and giant boulders protruding from the sides. Only, in La Pedriza, there is a whole lot more rock action. Walking along the trail nearly every step is cluttered with smaller rocks, some the size of apples and some the size of bowling balls. Sometimes the trail will just stop at the base of a row of rocks, and one has to climb the rocks to find the trail alive on the other side. And sometimes huge slabs of granite lie slanted and flat across the trail, and one has to walk very carefully across them to not slip and slide off the edge to a long fall. Simply walking the trails is so much fun. At times I had to jump from boulder to boulder, or climb over large rocks. In pedriza the trails, at least the ones I found, are not simple and clear trails to observe the wilderness, but they are littered with obstacles, and require some extra physical exertion to tread. And, along the trail runs a stream/river. Not a large enough to be a river. Not small enough to be a stream. I think technically it is a river, but a small one. Regardless. Given the rocky environment, the river bed was also obstructed with countless rocks and boulders. Which made for a beautiful backdrop of nature’s songs while hiking. The river had many waterfalls from all the rocks. And some large rocks sat in the middle of the stream which cause the river to split into two separate paths around the rock and then to come back together on the other side. All of this with a loud rush and undercurrents and white rapids peaking. and, the water was the clearest water I have ever seen. Even when the river was at it’s deepest, maybe three feet, I could still see clearly to the bottom. It was bizarre. I’d look down into it and could see it’s moving along its current, but at the bottom were oh! so slightly distorted red and orange pebbles.
An hour into my hike I found a large green meadow, where I sat, ate some cheese and crackers, and the wrote in the old journal for a bit. The meadow had short green grass, which at first I though was moss. And the ground was damp. In every direction I was surrounded by massive mountains. Completely boxed in on all sides. The peaks of the mountains are only large boulders stacked upon other large boulders. Without pattern or design. Looking up at them they were stunning. The base of the mountains were green with trees and the peaks turned to brown and gray and white with only the boulders. I realized the stacked rocks meant one could climb to the top with ease. Then, my monomania hit, and I was determined to climb. Ha. It wasn’t easy, by any means. It was much much harder than I had anticipated. The lower part was very fun because it required climbing up one rock and then jumping small gaps of meter to the next rock. It required squeezing between two rocks, or trying like hell not to get cut by the thorns that were all over the landscape. But, the top. The top got very difficult. A few times I’d climb several boulders, nearly vertical, which required finding grooves to grip with my hands and one groove to plant a foot and to pull my ass up any way I could, anyway, a few times I’d climb a few rocks and then hit a wall. Literally. Massive boulders fifteen feet high and straight up. So, I’d have to turn around and attempt to find another way up. But, like I said, I had monomania and I was determined and every obstacle induced great fear in me, but after making the leap (literally, jumping sometimes) upon realizing my safety I felt enlightened. It was all very enthralling to me. But, alas, I did make it. To the top of one of many peaks. And very very very high up. From the top I could see clear across the valley and I could even see Madrid. From the top I sounded my barbaric yamp across the treetops of the valley. It echoed and rang off the hills. I felt a power and invincibility within me.
Unfortunately, my camera battery was dead…yeah, I know one should check those sort of things before leaving…so I only had time to take a few pictures which I was saving, and thought the top of the mountain was a damn fine place to do it. So, no pics of la pedriza, but I assure you, it wasn’t my last time going…
Simple poems I wrote in zen like fashion while sitting in the shade of a tree along the river curling around rocks:
a rock faced leap
from fear to ambition
ensured like the billy goat
or like self actualization
on a mountain
in a county
that is not your own
running down a mountain
each step quicker
a joyous flee from
the self left on top
grip harder the protrusions
of granite stone from earth:
its god’s hand helping
the ascension
to summits of solitude
and reverence
An hour into my hike I found a large green meadow, where I sat, ate some cheese and crackers, and the wrote in the old journal for a bit. The meadow had short green grass, which at first I though was moss. And the ground was damp. In every direction I was surrounded by massive mountains. Completely boxed in on all sides. The peaks of the mountains are only large boulders stacked upon other large boulders. Without pattern or design. Looking up at them they were stunning. The base of the mountains were green with trees and the peaks turned to brown and gray and white with only the boulders. I realized the stacked rocks meant one could climb to the top with ease. Then, my monomania hit, and I was determined to climb. Ha. It wasn’t easy, by any means. It was much much harder than I had anticipated. The lower part was very fun because it required climbing up one rock and then jumping small gaps of meter to the next rock. It required squeezing between two rocks, or trying like hell not to get cut by the thorns that were all over the landscape. But, the top. The top got very difficult. A few times I’d climb several boulders, nearly vertical, which required finding grooves to grip with my hands and one groove to plant a foot and to pull my ass up any way I could, anyway, a few times I’d climb a few rocks and then hit a wall. Literally. Massive boulders fifteen feet high and straight up. So, I’d have to turn around and attempt to find another way up. But, like I said, I had monomania and I was determined and every obstacle induced great fear in me, but after making the leap (literally, jumping sometimes) upon realizing my safety I felt enlightened. It was all very enthralling to me. But, alas, I did make it. To the top of one of many peaks. And very very very high up. From the top I could see clear across the valley and I could even see Madrid. From the top I sounded my barbaric yamp across the treetops of the valley. It echoed and rang off the hills. I felt a power and invincibility within me.
Unfortunately, my camera battery was dead…yeah, I know one should check those sort of things before leaving…so I only had time to take a few pictures which I was saving, and thought the top of the mountain was a damn fine place to do it. So, no pics of la pedriza, but I assure you, it wasn’t my last time going…
Simple poems I wrote in zen like fashion while sitting in the shade of a tree along the river curling around rocks:
a rock faced leap
from fear to ambition
ensured like the billy goat
or like self actualization
on a mountain
in a county
that is not your own
running down a mountain
each step quicker
a joyous flee from
the self left on top
grip harder the protrusions
of granite stone from earth:
its god’s hand helping
the ascension
to summits of solitude
and reverence
Sunday, January 27, 2008
photos in toledo
This is my forbidden photo. it turned out like crap, but the potential for an amazing shot was high. lost oppurtunity thanks to the spanish military.
toledo
My spirit and soul have been realigned and rejuvenated…and al it took was one beautiful trip to the Spanish countryside...well, kinda countryside. We went to Toledo, a city of 70,000, but nature is still very dominant there and the modern part of the town is built away from the historic part, which when entering, makes one feel as though they were stepping back in time—if one can ignore flocks of tourists with cameras and cars lining the narrow stone streets.
We, my friends Yelim and Sarah and I, started our adventure by climbing down a rocky hillside to sit on the bank of the river. Oh! How I’ve missed the river. The subtle flow and seamless eternity of water rippling on the surface as it passes over the rocks and ridges of the bed is enough to satisfy me for a lifetime. We sat near a very old bridge that had one large arch that spanned the river. The entirety of the bridge was created by stone and rock. It was very old and very beautiful. Through the arch one could trace the curve of the river to where a dam had been created and the water curved left slightly and then curved back right with a small and rapid decent. The water did not curl or have large rapids, just a subtle change and increase in velocity from the peaceful flow of my location. Back grounding the dam and the river were the steep Spanish hills that dominate the country side. The hills were beautiful. They rose and fell in steep descents and some rose to platues with nearly vertical drops. The steep slopes were amazing—with stone rising out of the sides and boulders protruding in gray and black, like the design of marble, all in excellence. But, they marble stones were juxtaposed with lush green grass, even in the these winter months. Truly a beautiful spectacle. Rising green hills, the boulders of gray and black, the river in a gorge separating the vista into two equal hemisphere of beauty.
And yes, there is more to say of the nature I saw sitting in one spot along the river. When I turned my head and looked north up the river, the hills were worn and beaten and were not lush and green with green hills and marble boulders, but were exposed with entire mammoth sides of red clay foundation. The opposing colors were amazing. Red and black and gray and green and the steady flow of the murky river. Within forty five minutes of my arrival I felt my soul had been repaired.
And, obviously, this does not even begin to cover the grandeur of the city itself. The buildings and the narrow streets and the monuments which dominate the historical district of Toledo. I was stunned by the beauty of Madrid. But, undoubtedly, Madrid does not compete with the majestical and historical beauty of Toledo. A small bit of background on Toledo, I don’t know much. When the Moors ruled Spain, Toledo was the capital…I think. And they allowed the catholics and the jews to live in piece along side them in the city of Toledo. So, architecture of all three conflicting religions still exist in harmoniously in the city today. Which, is very very old. Much older than anything in Madrid. I’ve discovered how modern of a city Madrid really is, in comparison to much of spain. It hasn’t always been the capital…not even close to it.
I don’t know how to accurately write what I saw. For I saw too much, and understood too little. I stood on a wall that surrounded an old castle, protecting the royal family from whom ever may have wished them harm, with platforms for watchmen to survey the valley below. The stone of the wall was crumbling on the outermost areas. I had to take a piece lying on the ground with me. We wondered through a tiny neighborhood with stereotypical, in the best sort of way, Spanish and medeterinian design. The streets were very narrow and neighbors, one standing on a second floor terrace, the other sweeping the stones of her entry way, called and talked loudly and laughed together. Continuing through the neighborhood, I thought we were on a road for cars when a set of stairs interrupted the road, which turned erratically left into another cramped neighborhood. The roofs of the houses were red and rounded tiles, long in length and short in width…again, as I’ve always imagine medeteranin architecture. Well, the tiles were once red. Now, most were decaying with time and weather, and splints of red paint remained, but mostly were a dull, very dull, orange with areas of no paint at all. But, I did not have a hard time imagining what all the tiles had looked like, in all their glory, a century (or more) ago. This is one amazing thing about being in the historic section Toledo. Being able to imagine yourself in the era when all of these buildings were in their finest. I may have been a Spanish knight for an afternoon, or a boy who only had the simple pleasures of life long before electricity complicated all we know. I did run on the tops of old stone walls that lined the sides of roads.
We saw grand cathedrals, at least 400 years old with busts of angles and jagged spires and statues of saints and Christ carved into the sides of the building. WE stood in a courtyard of a huge old mansion—it had white pillars that supported a large runway that stood twenty feet above. In the corner was a well with a cobble stone foundation. In one room of the mansion was a small art exhibit featuring art of the cult. Which had phenomenal pieces portraying the betrayal and crucifixion of jesus Christ. And others portraying the betrayal of St. Tome. And one gigantic piece of a queen whose face was hidden in a shroud of shadows and darkness but hose elegant dress was fully displayed in the light. The room also had parchments, decrees, and hand written letters from the ancient kings and artists of Spain. That was a pretty cool sight. An actual letter written by the king himself.
After seeing so much, which my pictures and words could never do even a quarter of the justice they deserve…Europe has to be felt with the body, there’s an aura and energy that these buildings exhale. But, after seeing so much, we went to a little Cuban restraint, where the owner was sleeping in the corner and the waiters at first did not want to seat us and def. did not want us there once we were in. But, oh well. We ate a good meal, though I have no idea what I ate, and we shared a pitcher of sangria. We laughed with the lightened spirits of the adventurous day and the uplifting wine and we toasted three separate times to life and adventures and uncertainty and friends and knowledge and to “bitch pig” (which is an inside joke none of you know).
After the wine and sense of courange and adventure it enables, I onged to see still even more…this after seven or eight hours of aimless wondering, climbing up and down the steep hills of Toldeo and seeing oh! so much. We hiked yet another hill to the military academy, which is now like our west point, and has been a fine academy for many years. It was sunset and the orange and reds and purples of twilight hung beautifully in the sky. At the bottom of a steep hill which led to the academy, there was a ledge of natural hill and grass I climed up to. It rose drastically higher than the rode itself, so by the point I walked the length of 100 meters that the rode was, I stood thirty feet above the road. From there I could see clearly across the gorge that divided the city and river at the bottom. I was high enough to see over the trees of the valley and looked directly upon the old castle, which is now a library, sitting on the highest point across the gorge. The setting son was directly behind the castle and the glorious twilight colors jutted out on either side of the castle. A military policeman yelled from the academy, “No! No! No!” letting me know to get down from the peak and back to the road. So I called back, “No?” as though I would comply fully, and then raised my camera to take a picture of the castle and sun set. The officer yelled even more ferociously as I raised my camera, “NOOO!” and I again called back with compliance in my voice, “Oh, okay,” and stood there long enough to take a photo of the vista before returning back down to the road.
And, on a completely unrelated side note. I found an English based magazine which writes reviews of the arts, entertainments, and clubs of Madrid, for which I’m going to write concert reviews. I’m very excited about this prospect of getting to know Madrid much better, and finding a group of friends, some Spanish, some British, some Brazilian and some American, who are all interested in arts and culture. I’m beginning to find a niche in my new home.
huzza!
jake.
We, my friends Yelim and Sarah and I, started our adventure by climbing down a rocky hillside to sit on the bank of the river. Oh! How I’ve missed the river. The subtle flow and seamless eternity of water rippling on the surface as it passes over the rocks and ridges of the bed is enough to satisfy me for a lifetime. We sat near a very old bridge that had one large arch that spanned the river. The entirety of the bridge was created by stone and rock. It was very old and very beautiful. Through the arch one could trace the curve of the river to where a dam had been created and the water curved left slightly and then curved back right with a small and rapid decent. The water did not curl or have large rapids, just a subtle change and increase in velocity from the peaceful flow of my location. Back grounding the dam and the river were the steep Spanish hills that dominate the country side. The hills were beautiful. They rose and fell in steep descents and some rose to platues with nearly vertical drops. The steep slopes were amazing—with stone rising out of the sides and boulders protruding in gray and black, like the design of marble, all in excellence. But, they marble stones were juxtaposed with lush green grass, even in the these winter months. Truly a beautiful spectacle. Rising green hills, the boulders of gray and black, the river in a gorge separating the vista into two equal hemisphere of beauty.
And yes, there is more to say of the nature I saw sitting in one spot along the river. When I turned my head and looked north up the river, the hills were worn and beaten and were not lush and green with green hills and marble boulders, but were exposed with entire mammoth sides of red clay foundation. The opposing colors were amazing. Red and black and gray and green and the steady flow of the murky river. Within forty five minutes of my arrival I felt my soul had been repaired.
And, obviously, this does not even begin to cover the grandeur of the city itself. The buildings and the narrow streets and the monuments which dominate the historical district of Toledo. I was stunned by the beauty of Madrid. But, undoubtedly, Madrid does not compete with the majestical and historical beauty of Toledo. A small bit of background on Toledo, I don’t know much. When the Moors ruled Spain, Toledo was the capital…I think. And they allowed the catholics and the jews to live in piece along side them in the city of Toledo. So, architecture of all three conflicting religions still exist in harmoniously in the city today. Which, is very very old. Much older than anything in Madrid. I’ve discovered how modern of a city Madrid really is, in comparison to much of spain. It hasn’t always been the capital…not even close to it.
I don’t know how to accurately write what I saw. For I saw too much, and understood too little. I stood on a wall that surrounded an old castle, protecting the royal family from whom ever may have wished them harm, with platforms for watchmen to survey the valley below. The stone of the wall was crumbling on the outermost areas. I had to take a piece lying on the ground with me. We wondered through a tiny neighborhood with stereotypical, in the best sort of way, Spanish and medeterinian design. The streets were very narrow and neighbors, one standing on a second floor terrace, the other sweeping the stones of her entry way, called and talked loudly and laughed together. Continuing through the neighborhood, I thought we were on a road for cars when a set of stairs interrupted the road, which turned erratically left into another cramped neighborhood. The roofs of the houses were red and rounded tiles, long in length and short in width…again, as I’ve always imagine medeteranin architecture. Well, the tiles were once red. Now, most were decaying with time and weather, and splints of red paint remained, but mostly were a dull, very dull, orange with areas of no paint at all. But, I did not have a hard time imagining what all the tiles had looked like, in all their glory, a century (or more) ago. This is one amazing thing about being in the historic section Toledo. Being able to imagine yourself in the era when all of these buildings were in their finest. I may have been a Spanish knight for an afternoon, or a boy who only had the simple pleasures of life long before electricity complicated all we know. I did run on the tops of old stone walls that lined the sides of roads.
We saw grand cathedrals, at least 400 years old with busts of angles and jagged spires and statues of saints and Christ carved into the sides of the building. WE stood in a courtyard of a huge old mansion—it had white pillars that supported a large runway that stood twenty feet above. In the corner was a well with a cobble stone foundation. In one room of the mansion was a small art exhibit featuring art of the cult. Which had phenomenal pieces portraying the betrayal and crucifixion of jesus Christ. And others portraying the betrayal of St. Tome. And one gigantic piece of a queen whose face was hidden in a shroud of shadows and darkness but hose elegant dress was fully displayed in the light. The room also had parchments, decrees, and hand written letters from the ancient kings and artists of Spain. That was a pretty cool sight. An actual letter written by the king himself.
After seeing so much, which my pictures and words could never do even a quarter of the justice they deserve…Europe has to be felt with the body, there’s an aura and energy that these buildings exhale. But, after seeing so much, we went to a little Cuban restraint, where the owner was sleeping in the corner and the waiters at first did not want to seat us and def. did not want us there once we were in. But, oh well. We ate a good meal, though I have no idea what I ate, and we shared a pitcher of sangria. We laughed with the lightened spirits of the adventurous day and the uplifting wine and we toasted three separate times to life and adventures and uncertainty and friends and knowledge and to “bitch pig” (which is an inside joke none of you know).
After the wine and sense of courange and adventure it enables, I onged to see still even more…this after seven or eight hours of aimless wondering, climbing up and down the steep hills of Toldeo and seeing oh! so much. We hiked yet another hill to the military academy, which is now like our west point, and has been a fine academy for many years. It was sunset and the orange and reds and purples of twilight hung beautifully in the sky. At the bottom of a steep hill which led to the academy, there was a ledge of natural hill and grass I climed up to. It rose drastically higher than the rode itself, so by the point I walked the length of 100 meters that the rode was, I stood thirty feet above the road. From there I could see clearly across the gorge that divided the city and river at the bottom. I was high enough to see over the trees of the valley and looked directly upon the old castle, which is now a library, sitting on the highest point across the gorge. The setting son was directly behind the castle and the glorious twilight colors jutted out on either side of the castle. A military policeman yelled from the academy, “No! No! No!” letting me know to get down from the peak and back to the road. So I called back, “No?” as though I would comply fully, and then raised my camera to take a picture of the castle and sun set. The officer yelled even more ferociously as I raised my camera, “NOOO!” and I again called back with compliance in my voice, “Oh, okay,” and stood there long enough to take a photo of the vista before returning back down to the road.
And, on a completely unrelated side note. I found an English based magazine which writes reviews of the arts, entertainments, and clubs of Madrid, for which I’m going to write concert reviews. I’m very excited about this prospect of getting to know Madrid much better, and finding a group of friends, some Spanish, some British, some Brazilian and some American, who are all interested in arts and culture. I’m beginning to find a niche in my new home.
huzza!
jake.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Being Lost
I’m lost here. I’m so fucking lost here. The original and initial response to the overwhelming beauty that abounds in this city is beginning to fade and the utter solitude I feel here is beginning to settle. Which sucks, but I might as well keep this blog truthful to the actualities of living abroad. I was told before leaving I would not return the same person and after two weeks, I can see how true this statement is. I will not be the same person. The shift in perception, the change in me has already begun. And like every drastic change in my life, and I would assume anyone’s life, it begins with hitting a place something like rock bottom. Every day life in Madrid is becoming redundant with it’s difficulties. This feeling of being so lost definitely has one, of a few roots, root in not speaking the language. Back to that idea of being deaf and dumb here. It’s very frustrating not having any basis for communication here. It leaves me in a complete state of solitude. And, I’m refusing to compromise myself and resign to hanging out with the other American 20 year olds here. Of course there are a few exceptions. I have two American friends here who I like very much. But, I came here for the counterpoint. To discover another culture. To juxtapose my own life with a culture completely foreign and independent from my own. I am grateful for the friends I do have, but, on some levels it feels like I left home where the people I love the most are, to meet other Americans. Side note to this, it’s funny the shift in how we (Americans) view ourselves. When we got off the plane originally and had our meet and greats with usac, it was important to define where we were from in America. As if it was a huge difference. Now, for me atleast, it’s to a point where whether you are from the west, Midwest, east, or south, we are all simply Americans. And our attitudes and personalities truly are very similar, very American. I don’t feel the need to locate my upbringing anymore. I am American, and that sums up who I am.
But, the being lost. I could not have prepared myself for this in anyway. It’s hard to explain the feeling. I wouldn’t feel this way if I was simply vacationing here for two weeks. If I was just backpacking and seeing the cities and getting a feel for the emotions they produce. But, the actualization of this is my home for half a year. This is where I walk, eat, sleep, socialize, go to school, gives one a feeling of utter confusion. Submitting myself to something so strange can only make one lost. All securities I’ve held on to disappear and I’m left naked and exposed. I’m sure with time it will become easier. It will. I know this. And that’s why this feeling is bearable, because I understand it’s temporary, but damn, it doesn’t make it easier. Even down to the literal sense. I can’t go anywhere here without getting lost. Trying to find my way around is daunting. I’m to the point where I’m going to go buy a compass to navigate easier. Cardinal directions have no inherit sense for me here. There are not natural landmarks to identify because buildings loom everywhere and streets do not run on a grid system. Everything is without direction here. I even tried to revert to my boy scout days when I had the bright idea of finding the north star….oh, I forgot, there are not stars in cities with six million inhabitants. Madrid is a place designed to confuse.
I’m entering a crisis of the soul. And the only way out is to rely on myself, to find the strength that has gotten me through some of the harder parts of my life. I’ve been able to overcome things in the past and become strong and confident, this is just another obstacle. But, it’s frightening not having any sense of security here, no way of predicting what will happen. There is no safely lining, no oracle or muse to hint and guide me. I’m alone on this one. Boy howdy, am I. Also though, that uncertainty I love as well. It’s so unknown who I’ll meet, what I’ll learn, what I’ll do, what I’ll discover. And these hidden treasures that are promised based upon my lust for them, are what allows me to stay so positive here. The adventure has begun, the surface level of beauty has been discovered (and is still being discovered. I often find myself stunned by the beauty of the buildings and art here).
And, again, because it’s so difficult. Coming to another country and not speaking the language sucks. Really really really bad. Super bad. Unfathomably bad. It’s testing in ways I could never imagine. Last night I went to a club and tried to order a beer. Cervaza. Easy right? My accent is so strong, and the Spanish accent is so unique, that my words are completely un understandable. Situations like this are what defeat me. However, my Spanish gets better daily. On such a minimal scale. I have so much to learn. I went to a café this morning and actually successfully ordered what I wanted. Without confusion, without frustration. That was incredibly pleasing.
Still gonnna sign out with utter excitement,
huzza!
jake.
But, the being lost. I could not have prepared myself for this in anyway. It’s hard to explain the feeling. I wouldn’t feel this way if I was simply vacationing here for two weeks. If I was just backpacking and seeing the cities and getting a feel for the emotions they produce. But, the actualization of this is my home for half a year. This is where I walk, eat, sleep, socialize, go to school, gives one a feeling of utter confusion. Submitting myself to something so strange can only make one lost. All securities I’ve held on to disappear and I’m left naked and exposed. I’m sure with time it will become easier. It will. I know this. And that’s why this feeling is bearable, because I understand it’s temporary, but damn, it doesn’t make it easier. Even down to the literal sense. I can’t go anywhere here without getting lost. Trying to find my way around is daunting. I’m to the point where I’m going to go buy a compass to navigate easier. Cardinal directions have no inherit sense for me here. There are not natural landmarks to identify because buildings loom everywhere and streets do not run on a grid system. Everything is without direction here. I even tried to revert to my boy scout days when I had the bright idea of finding the north star….oh, I forgot, there are not stars in cities with six million inhabitants. Madrid is a place designed to confuse.
I’m entering a crisis of the soul. And the only way out is to rely on myself, to find the strength that has gotten me through some of the harder parts of my life. I’ve been able to overcome things in the past and become strong and confident, this is just another obstacle. But, it’s frightening not having any sense of security here, no way of predicting what will happen. There is no safely lining, no oracle or muse to hint and guide me. I’m alone on this one. Boy howdy, am I. Also though, that uncertainty I love as well. It’s so unknown who I’ll meet, what I’ll learn, what I’ll do, what I’ll discover. And these hidden treasures that are promised based upon my lust for them, are what allows me to stay so positive here. The adventure has begun, the surface level of beauty has been discovered (and is still being discovered. I often find myself stunned by the beauty of the buildings and art here).
And, again, because it’s so difficult. Coming to another country and not speaking the language sucks. Really really really bad. Super bad. Unfathomably bad. It’s testing in ways I could never imagine. Last night I went to a club and tried to order a beer. Cervaza. Easy right? My accent is so strong, and the Spanish accent is so unique, that my words are completely un understandable. Situations like this are what defeat me. However, my Spanish gets better daily. On such a minimal scale. I have so much to learn. I went to a café this morning and actually successfully ordered what I wanted. Without confusion, without frustration. That was incredibly pleasing.
Still gonnna sign out with utter excitement,
huzza!
jake.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
random photos i like but haven't posted...until now.
the metro at 1:30 am. the lonlienst you'll ever find it.
view of old down town madrid from parque retiro
view of old down town madrid from parque retiro
Rastro flee market
I went to the rastro today, which is a giant flee market. To say the least, it was great for watching, observing, experiencing, and aimless wondering. The only other market like this that I’ve been to is the Saturday market in Portland. Which takes place in a big open area, a big plaza if you will. Rastro, however, is not an open area. The city just closes many streets, countless, atleast twenty (remember the streets are small here and start and stop at random), and vendors set up booths and display what ever the hell they may be selling. There was quite the plethora of things there. Hippie clothes, jewelry stands, funny tshirts, watches, wallets, electronic booths, swords, knives, shoes, scarves, art—both paintings and really odd personal art like can ash trays and wire sculptures, there was even one guy selling his old clothes including a pair of boots that were worn completely out. The market was packed as well. Tons of locals, tons of tourists, tons of everybodies.
The coolest part about the market was the obscure musicians set up randomly. My favorite was a man who had twenty crystal wine glasses off all sizes set up on a home made stand. He played a full melody of music with high and low notes that rang like signing sirens. Both hands worked quickly as though he were a concert pianist. It sounded beautiful and it was just so different.
I found a huge catholic church as well. I first noticed a grand red brick building lining amongst the small cafes and apartments that line the narrow streets of Madrid. I didn’t realize it was a church until I got to the door. Inide mass was being conducted. Of course, I had no idea what was being said, but that was fine. The inside of the building was so amazing. The most grand church I have ever seen. Everything in it was exquisite. Giant pillars lined the center of the room and huge sky lights domed with stained glass. There were several monuments of Christ and mary to worship at. The center, where the pupit was had a huge wall of gold, I’m not sure if it was real gold…but still impressive. There were pictures of Christ amongst the center as well. And more columns of gold. And the wall itself was decorated with twist and turns and rises (I have no idea what to call them) of gold. It was beautiful. I knelt at a pulpit, pretended I knew what I was doing, and did the cross thing. Told god I felt him. And that was the extent of my worship. I thought it was funny that inorder to worship at the several monuments through out the room you had to pay. I know most religions have some sort of tithing, or collection dish, and what not. But literally, in order to approach the statues one had to put money into a box in the wall. And in order to light a candle (which were electric lights) at the feet of mary, one had to insert money and then the candle would glow electrically. That aside, the cathedral, or church, or whatever it was, was beautiful. Truly amazing. I had to take photos renegade style. I really doubt it’s kosher to be taking photos during mass. But the beauty was to much to not capture and share with all of you. I waited around after mass as well in order to sneak more pictures, and I had the grand I idea of somewhat hiding my camera and videotaping the church. So excuse the crappy angles of the video and what have you. But I had to be sneaky.
Anyway, another cool afternoon in Madrid.
huzza!
jake.
The coolest part about the market was the obscure musicians set up randomly. My favorite was a man who had twenty crystal wine glasses off all sizes set up on a home made stand. He played a full melody of music with high and low notes that rang like signing sirens. Both hands worked quickly as though he were a concert pianist. It sounded beautiful and it was just so different.
I found a huge catholic church as well. I first noticed a grand red brick building lining amongst the small cafes and apartments that line the narrow streets of Madrid. I didn’t realize it was a church until I got to the door. Inide mass was being conducted. Of course, I had no idea what was being said, but that was fine. The inside of the building was so amazing. The most grand church I have ever seen. Everything in it was exquisite. Giant pillars lined the center of the room and huge sky lights domed with stained glass. There were several monuments of Christ and mary to worship at. The center, where the pupit was had a huge wall of gold, I’m not sure if it was real gold…but still impressive. There were pictures of Christ amongst the center as well. And more columns of gold. And the wall itself was decorated with twist and turns and rises (I have no idea what to call them) of gold. It was beautiful. I knelt at a pulpit, pretended I knew what I was doing, and did the cross thing. Told god I felt him. And that was the extent of my worship. I thought it was funny that inorder to worship at the several monuments through out the room you had to pay. I know most religions have some sort of tithing, or collection dish, and what not. But literally, in order to approach the statues one had to put money into a box in the wall. And in order to light a candle (which were electric lights) at the feet of mary, one had to insert money and then the candle would glow electrically. That aside, the cathedral, or church, or whatever it was, was beautiful. Truly amazing. I had to take photos renegade style. I really doubt it’s kosher to be taking photos during mass. But the beauty was to much to not capture and share with all of you. I waited around after mass as well in order to sneak more pictures, and I had the grand I idea of somewhat hiding my camera and videotaping the church. So excuse the crappy angles of the video and what have you. But I had to be sneaky.
Anyway, another cool afternoon in Madrid.
huzza!
jake.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
counterpoints
One big reason I wanted to come to Madrid was to expand my social conscience. To discover what makes a person of one nationality different from a person of another nationality. I wanted a counterpoint to the American mind set. In America we are well aware that we are “the greatest nation in the world.” Which, is true. We are a very wealthy nation, even with our economic slump of late. We have a powerful military with correspondence all over the world. Our art and media is influential all over the world…I hear more American music in Madrid than I do Spanish music. They likes No Doubt. My point to all of this is, in America we know this. We are told this by our leaders often. But being raised in America, I really know nothing of any other nation in the world. Just tid bits of tragedies that make it onto the television and newspaper. But as far as individual culture of a different country. Nothing. Nothing at all. And maybe this is because I’ve dedicated my study time to books, and not international studies and things of that nature. So it may be my fault. But me thinks not entirely. Even when I read the newspaper, the world section is very brief and usually only cover tragic events, such as storms or bombings, and or major political ones.
But, what I want to know about is the individual. I want to know about the average human, who is just like me, who lives a small life driven by personal satisfaction with an understanding that the grandeur of the coverage of the media is essentially irrelevant to our everyday lives. I will never be president. I will never be a suicide bomber. I will never be celebrity. I will live my quite life seeking happiness in the small things I find the most meaningful.
So, I got one counterpoint last night. I say one, because I hope to get many more. And while i had fantasized it would be Spanish counter points that I would be logging into my brain, last night was from a Spaniard, but rather a couple of Italians. Two girls, Franchesca and (well I call her because I can’t freaking say the full thing) Gabby. Both are studying at the URJC through usac as well. Last night we found a quite corner in a faitly quite bar in an are of town called Chueaca. It was I, two other American students—sarah and yelim, and the two Italians. And the conversation naturally turned towards life in our home countries and eventually stayed focused American politics. Much was said about the war in iraq and 9/11. and much was said about how president bush handles both and how the policing of the world is not Americas job. Which everyone at the table was in concurrence with. I don’t think it’s necessary to go into details about this topics. It’s pretty self explanatory. The more interesting part to me was the empirical evidence of my fundamental belief, which I pulled from reading literature from many nations through many time periods. People are people. Wherever you live we are equivalent. And while, yes, culture shapes mindsets and presentation of an individual, our thoughts are inherently equivalent.
One thing I was worried about coming to Europe was the stereotyping of the American individual. I was worried I’d be mistaken and seen as our government is viewed. Dominating, loud, aggressive. I was worried that the separation of the individual from the entity that is America would not be empathized with. Which, atleast with my Italian friends, couldn’t have been further from the truth. Infact, it’s well understood. And it’s a universal mindset. It applies to all peoples from any where in the world. The individual is valid and their thoughts are valid and love and harmony and compassion are seen in all peoples from any where in the world. Last night I was viewed as an individual first asked freely my thoughts of the state of many situations and my beliefs were accepted as valid based upon my free will and the acknowledgement of my private being.
I guess the counter point I ‘m trying to make clear. What I pulled from last night was how the Italians viewed Americans. Gabby said that when she thinks of Americans she thinks of faced paced, consumer driven people, who do not take time out of their day for personal enjoyment. And one thing I’ve definitely noticed with the Spanish siesta is that this is definitely true. In spain, every day all stores close for three hours and people meet at cafes to be with their friends and family. It creates such closeness of individuals to spend so much time together. It creates stronger bonds and makes friendship more of a loving situation than simply and companionship thing. Yes, I agree with gabby, Americans are faced paced and it seems often we do not take time out of our days to enjoy the simplest things in life. Friends, conversations, the beauty of the world that is always around us, i.e. the trees, the flowers, the blue sky, the sounds of the city. I’ve noticed this in the states. How can a self proclaimed vagabond/drifter/romantic/dharma bum/new aged hippie minus the need for drugs not realize the importance of these things? These things are what make me happy are what make my life full. But yes, hearing it from another culture is uite impressive. To realize that other places in the world put emphasis on such simple practices was all too cool.
Another counterpoint I loved, and I’m summarizing here, is that gabby views Americans as spoiled, to which franchesca agreed, to which I’m sure many Spaniards would agree. In the states we really know nothing of foreign countries. We know the bare minimum in fact, and often (and I really don’t mean everyone, in fact I’d say it’s the minority) view other countries as inferior and irrelevant to the power of the united states. We are spoiled because we don’t have to learn another language. Because the rest of the world is trying to learn ours just to keep up. At fourteen Gaby’s parents sent her to England to go to school because they knew it was necessary for her to learn English in order to be successful in the modern world. But American don’t have to do this. And most of us don’t have a desire to even try. We fully know that with English we can accomplish many things in the world. Which is completely true. So, too often, the desire for social expansion is not desired. Is not of any importance. And for this reason we are spoiled. And I am not trying to think of myself as a hero, really I am not. I just simply had never ever though of America in this manner. In fact, I was not really aware how powerful America is. I mean I knew. But didn’t understand. In italy, and I’m sure other places, it’s necessary for the peoples to stay informed on American politics and economy because so much of what the states does affects them at home. America has three giant military bases in italy that if or when the time comes, will turn italy into a war zone without them even wanting it to be. America is a very strong nation, I just never understood how strong it was.
Finally, I’m not trying to sound anit-america. I’m not. In fact after last night, I was very proud of my upbringing. Without being raised in Idaho on a farm in America I wouldn’t be the person I am today. And I like me. I actually left the bar with a feeling of gratitude. This doesn’t mean I agree with our politics or our stance in the world. But, I am grateful for my heritage. And to know that being American does not mean being stereotyped is a really good feeling. I look forward to my return to the west (though I am far from ready to have it actualized). I look forward to the trees and rivers and the nicety of the peoples throughout the pacific northwest.
huzza!
jake.
But, what I want to know about is the individual. I want to know about the average human, who is just like me, who lives a small life driven by personal satisfaction with an understanding that the grandeur of the coverage of the media is essentially irrelevant to our everyday lives. I will never be president. I will never be a suicide bomber. I will never be celebrity. I will live my quite life seeking happiness in the small things I find the most meaningful.
So, I got one counterpoint last night. I say one, because I hope to get many more. And while i had fantasized it would be Spanish counter points that I would be logging into my brain, last night was from a Spaniard, but rather a couple of Italians. Two girls, Franchesca and (well I call her because I can’t freaking say the full thing) Gabby. Both are studying at the URJC through usac as well. Last night we found a quite corner in a faitly quite bar in an are of town called Chueaca. It was I, two other American students—sarah and yelim, and the two Italians. And the conversation naturally turned towards life in our home countries and eventually stayed focused American politics. Much was said about the war in iraq and 9/11. and much was said about how president bush handles both and how the policing of the world is not Americas job. Which everyone at the table was in concurrence with. I don’t think it’s necessary to go into details about this topics. It’s pretty self explanatory. The more interesting part to me was the empirical evidence of my fundamental belief, which I pulled from reading literature from many nations through many time periods. People are people. Wherever you live we are equivalent. And while, yes, culture shapes mindsets and presentation of an individual, our thoughts are inherently equivalent.
One thing I was worried about coming to Europe was the stereotyping of the American individual. I was worried I’d be mistaken and seen as our government is viewed. Dominating, loud, aggressive. I was worried that the separation of the individual from the entity that is America would not be empathized with. Which, atleast with my Italian friends, couldn’t have been further from the truth. Infact, it’s well understood. And it’s a universal mindset. It applies to all peoples from any where in the world. The individual is valid and their thoughts are valid and love and harmony and compassion are seen in all peoples from any where in the world. Last night I was viewed as an individual first asked freely my thoughts of the state of many situations and my beliefs were accepted as valid based upon my free will and the acknowledgement of my private being.
I guess the counter point I ‘m trying to make clear. What I pulled from last night was how the Italians viewed Americans. Gabby said that when she thinks of Americans she thinks of faced paced, consumer driven people, who do not take time out of their day for personal enjoyment. And one thing I’ve definitely noticed with the Spanish siesta is that this is definitely true. In spain, every day all stores close for three hours and people meet at cafes to be with their friends and family. It creates such closeness of individuals to spend so much time together. It creates stronger bonds and makes friendship more of a loving situation than simply and companionship thing. Yes, I agree with gabby, Americans are faced paced and it seems often we do not take time out of our days to enjoy the simplest things in life. Friends, conversations, the beauty of the world that is always around us, i.e. the trees, the flowers, the blue sky, the sounds of the city. I’ve noticed this in the states. How can a self proclaimed vagabond/drifter/romantic/dharma bum/new aged hippie minus the need for drugs not realize the importance of these things? These things are what make me happy are what make my life full. But yes, hearing it from another culture is uite impressive. To realize that other places in the world put emphasis on such simple practices was all too cool.
Another counterpoint I loved, and I’m summarizing here, is that gabby views Americans as spoiled, to which franchesca agreed, to which I’m sure many Spaniards would agree. In the states we really know nothing of foreign countries. We know the bare minimum in fact, and often (and I really don’t mean everyone, in fact I’d say it’s the minority) view other countries as inferior and irrelevant to the power of the united states. We are spoiled because we don’t have to learn another language. Because the rest of the world is trying to learn ours just to keep up. At fourteen Gaby’s parents sent her to England to go to school because they knew it was necessary for her to learn English in order to be successful in the modern world. But American don’t have to do this. And most of us don’t have a desire to even try. We fully know that with English we can accomplish many things in the world. Which is completely true. So, too often, the desire for social expansion is not desired. Is not of any importance. And for this reason we are spoiled. And I am not trying to think of myself as a hero, really I am not. I just simply had never ever though of America in this manner. In fact, I was not really aware how powerful America is. I mean I knew. But didn’t understand. In italy, and I’m sure other places, it’s necessary for the peoples to stay informed on American politics and economy because so much of what the states does affects them at home. America has three giant military bases in italy that if or when the time comes, will turn italy into a war zone without them even wanting it to be. America is a very strong nation, I just never understood how strong it was.
Finally, I’m not trying to sound anit-america. I’m not. In fact after last night, I was very proud of my upbringing. Without being raised in Idaho on a farm in America I wouldn’t be the person I am today. And I like me. I actually left the bar with a feeling of gratitude. This doesn’t mean I agree with our politics or our stance in the world. But, I am grateful for my heritage. And to know that being American does not mean being stereotyped is a really good feeling. I look forward to my return to the west (though I am far from ready to have it actualized). I look forward to the trees and rivers and the nicety of the peoples throughout the pacific northwest.
huzza!
jake.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Plaza Mayor is ripe with history. it was were all the festivals of madrid were held...long long tme ago. it's where bullfights used to happen and during the spanish inquisition it's where heretics where beheaded via the guillaten (i have no idea how to spell that. you know, you put a head in a hole and a blade falls and chops it off). now it's cafes and shops and still in the summertime festavils are held there. you can buy one of the tiny apartments above it for only two million euro.
deaf and dumb.
Of course I knew. Of course I did. I knew that coming to another country where my native tongue was not their native tongue would be a trying and difficult task. But the idea of it excited me. I was revved for the challenge and thought many laughs would come from the misunderstandings. And in the back of my mind I had the comfortable thought that everyone in Europe speaks English…right? No, no no no no. so not true. One of the first things I was told when I arrived here is that hardly anyone speaks English in Madrid. So that comfort blanket was ripped away from me.
It has become daunting and tedious for me to do the most simple of things. I can’t go to a restaurant and order what I want. I can’t ask for a beer or a glass of wine. I can’t request my check. I can’t go to the farmacia and buy soap or q-tips or floss. I can’t ask for directions in the streets. I can’t do much of anything. Other than look like a jack ass and feel like one to. I even know how to say all the things I’ve listed above. But the Spanish accent is so strong that no one understands my lazy American tongue. Today, I don’t mind so much. I went to a café for a kebab bocadilla (which is a hybrid of hybrids a Spanish/Turkish sandwich), and ordered, I’m pretty sure exactly how a Spaniard would, and I got the most confused look from the bartender. But, it didn’t bother me. Yesterday I felt terrible. I felt very confused and frustrated and lost. I felt as though I had just lost the ability to speak and to hear. I’m deaf and dumb here. I’ve reverted to a savage state where all I can do is point and mumble at the things I want. I’m a child here. An infant here. I can’t say what I mean. I can’t understand grown up conversations. Sure I can catch a word or phrase and what not, but I have the ability of a two year old to comprehend the world around me.
Today, it’s not so bad though. I knew this would happen, but, my lord, yesterday it struck me pretty hard how out of place I am. Especially being the only blonde haired person amongst thousands of others. Oh, that’s another funny thing. The Spanish are people watchers…huge people watchers. On the metros all they do is observe everyone else. Everyone is watching someone…well, not everyone (lots of people read on the metro and lots sleep too…way too many people on the metro), but there’s a whole lot of people watching going on. And you know what’s great about people watching? Finding the most obscure thing about the scenario and discovering it. Yes, a big blonde haired kid is an easy target. I get stared at a lot on the metro. Though it doesn’t bother me. They aren’t vicious looks or anything. Just observations. My super American--couldn’t be more American and blend in in America looks, are finally helping me stand out. Hehe.
The old Spanish woman hate me though. I’m sure of it. I guess old Spanish women are more stubborn than old Idaho women. They’ve spent their entire lives surrounded only by the Spanish, and it’s only been in the past ten years that immigration and tourism has really picked up in Madrid. So old Spanish women have given me some pretty nasty looks. Oh bother.
On the plus. I was out rolling a cigarette before class, singing to myself, feeling pretty chipper. And two Spanish girls walked by and said some shit in Spanish I didn’t understand. However, my friend yelim (American student fluent in Spanish) was walking by them and told me what they said. They thought it was cute that I was singing and thought that I was handsome…I’m sure in Spanish cute and handsome are way cooler when not translated. So, sweetness, huh? Now I just need to quit being deaf and dumb and learn the damn language. Four days into class I can count and conjugate regular verbs….crap, long ways to go.
huzza!
jake.
It has become daunting and tedious for me to do the most simple of things. I can’t go to a restaurant and order what I want. I can’t ask for a beer or a glass of wine. I can’t request my check. I can’t go to the farmacia and buy soap or q-tips or floss. I can’t ask for directions in the streets. I can’t do much of anything. Other than look like a jack ass and feel like one to. I even know how to say all the things I’ve listed above. But the Spanish accent is so strong that no one understands my lazy American tongue. Today, I don’t mind so much. I went to a café for a kebab bocadilla (which is a hybrid of hybrids a Spanish/Turkish sandwich), and ordered, I’m pretty sure exactly how a Spaniard would, and I got the most confused look from the bartender. But, it didn’t bother me. Yesterday I felt terrible. I felt very confused and frustrated and lost. I felt as though I had just lost the ability to speak and to hear. I’m deaf and dumb here. I’ve reverted to a savage state where all I can do is point and mumble at the things I want. I’m a child here. An infant here. I can’t say what I mean. I can’t understand grown up conversations. Sure I can catch a word or phrase and what not, but I have the ability of a two year old to comprehend the world around me.
Today, it’s not so bad though. I knew this would happen, but, my lord, yesterday it struck me pretty hard how out of place I am. Especially being the only blonde haired person amongst thousands of others. Oh, that’s another funny thing. The Spanish are people watchers…huge people watchers. On the metros all they do is observe everyone else. Everyone is watching someone…well, not everyone (lots of people read on the metro and lots sleep too…way too many people on the metro), but there’s a whole lot of people watching going on. And you know what’s great about people watching? Finding the most obscure thing about the scenario and discovering it. Yes, a big blonde haired kid is an easy target. I get stared at a lot on the metro. Though it doesn’t bother me. They aren’t vicious looks or anything. Just observations. My super American--couldn’t be more American and blend in in America looks, are finally helping me stand out. Hehe.
The old Spanish woman hate me though. I’m sure of it. I guess old Spanish women are more stubborn than old Idaho women. They’ve spent their entire lives surrounded only by the Spanish, and it’s only been in the past ten years that immigration and tourism has really picked up in Madrid. So old Spanish women have given me some pretty nasty looks. Oh bother.
On the plus. I was out rolling a cigarette before class, singing to myself, feeling pretty chipper. And two Spanish girls walked by and said some shit in Spanish I didn’t understand. However, my friend yelim (American student fluent in Spanish) was walking by them and told me what they said. They thought it was cute that I was singing and thought that I was handsome…I’m sure in Spanish cute and handsome are way cooler when not translated. So, sweetness, huh? Now I just need to quit being deaf and dumb and learn the damn language. Four days into class I can count and conjugate regular verbs….crap, long ways to go.
huzza!
jake.
barrio de la concepcion. my neighborhood.
n
notice the shops underneath. this is how all the businesses in the burbs are.
Monday, January 14, 2008
The Prado
To write my about my time at The Prado is no easy task. To attempt to assign words to the intangible emotions that overwhelm the mind and body with such a feeling of solitude and peace and harmony and love and beauty seems like a futile endeavor. None of the words above even begin to encompass the intangible wholeness one feels when surrounded by so much grace and wonderment in large and small forms in every direction. Even when the words are combined they still do not convey nor equivocate the purity experienced when examining and studying the masterpieces displayed at The Prado. In fact, no words express expressing emotions can capture what I felt. There is no word like void that is highlighted in a positive connotation. Possibly if there is a word that combing void and solitude and quietude and beauty, then that word may be applicable. But I do not believe it exists. This undefined word is the true power of The Prado. I felt the absence of all things. The removal of earthly pain. I could not even sense the weight of my body pressing into the balls and heels of my feet. It was as though I was a heavenly body constricted not by gravity, floating angelically above the ground—where heat nor chill nor simple aches in the joints of my body are were noticed. This is the only way I can think to express the purity The Prado creates in the soul deep inside of me.
As for my external experience I dedicated my time to discovering the genius of Francisco Goya. There is so much to see in the prado. The building is four stories tall with at least six wings and ten rooms within each wing. To see everything in one day is impossible. Impossible in the sense that the mind and body and soul cannot handle that much beauty, it is too much to bear. Yes, one could walk from one room to the next, but to feel each painting is a feat I do not believe I can accomplish in the five months I will be staying here…especially because there are two other museums of equal caliber in Madrid.
When first standing in front of a giant piece by Valezquez, I was stunned by the massive size of the painting. It stood ten feet tall and five feet wide. How an artists could keep the precision to have congruency throughout the piece I will never understand. To keep such a massive work on scale is a talent all in itself. Also, the realization that I was standing infront of the exact canvas that the artist painted on himself was a powerful sentiment in itself. My eyes looked upon the same canvas that Valezquez’s eyes looked upon as well. All of the work in the prado is the same canvas the original artist touched with their own hands. That’s a profound feeling in itself.
I’m not sure why I am so drawn to the work of Goya. His diversity is very appealing to me. He can paint portraits and still life with the utmost of precision. He can paint and draw the absurd, or surreal, equally as moving. I started looking at the dates each was created, which made me wonder even more about Goya the man. The earliest work the prado had were paintings of friends and families celebrating life. Dancing and singing and playing in the outdoors. The blue of the sky were vibrant. The greens of the grass were lush. The yellows of children’s dresses mirrored the sun. The painting, for me, undoubtedly expressed an optimistic tone and a feeling of eat drink and be merry. I have to assume that this reflected the spirit of Goya in his younger years. I can imagine him celebrating life with friends in the country side during summer and stepping back to sketch a scene.
In his middle aged years he became the painter of the king and his family. Many works were displayed or the royal family. The thing I found interesting about this time period is that all the facial expression of the royals were nearly vacant. It appeared their eyes stared at nothing. As though they were calloused to the world. And though they had no emotions left in their hearts. And yet, they still allowed, and probably loved the work Goya had created. Over all, these pieces were my least favorite, however if I understood art more I’m sure I’d get more out of the accuracy in which he created the pieces.
Then in the late years of Goya’s life he created what are now called the Black Paintings. These are what really grasped me. Really made me dumbfounded by the creations of Goya. Black is a good word. Most of the scenes are dominated by dark colors, ash gray, blood red, jetblack. They are dark and oppressive and portraying his fellow Spaniards in such a dark and idiotic manner. To me, it seems he lost all hope and faith in this country me. In one painting, the name escapes me, a giant and omnipotent character stands loominous (not luminous) in the dark sky. He is naked and strong and savage. He looks confused as though he has no intentions of ill will but simply lost in his own head of destruction. In the valley below the sky, swarms of tiny humans flee in fear away from the giant. I took the giant to be time or god or afterlife or what ever eternal question can never be answered by humans.
This sentiment is mirrored in the painting Saturn. Saturn was the god of time and melancholy. Saturn, in Goya, is a beastly figure with a hairy body and wild eyes and bulging naked muscles. He bits the arm off of a body, which has no head and blood running from the neck. Again, I think this is the same sentiment as from above, the fear of death and life and the timid life it can create in the mortal humans.
The rest of black painting, I believe (who can possibly say what is right and wrong?) are derived from these two. They feature caricatures of half ape and half human bodies. In many of the scenes theses devolved creatures huddle together, like conformity, and their eyes express fear and the trembling of bones. Overall, I took that black paintings as Goya’s loss of faith in the Spanish and humanity in general. He was a cynic and viewed the world in such a hopeless light. And, I couldn’t help but think he was working out his own fear of death through these works, alleviating the pain and confusion he felt.
Incredibly lucky for me, the prado is featuring a very small collection of Goya for a short period. It was one of the last things he worked on before his death. He called it, “El Toro Mariposa (the bull-butterfly).” The collection was broken into three categories: Buelan Buelan (they fly they fly), dibersion de espana, and materia para ridiculo. All were done with pencil, some charcoal, and some with a pencial that looked like charcoal but with orange/red lead. Buelan featured men trying to fly. It was symbolic of the futility and foolishness of the dreams of men. Dibersion was all of bullfights. Spaniards stood in large groups laughing and dancing at other men who were being gored by raging bulls. And ridiculo featured more caricatures of the Spanish as beastly and devolved persons. All three helped form my opinions of the black paintings, which I think undoubtedly have to be linked due to their proximity in creating. Oh, and the really cool things about El Toro Mariposa, is that they were small pieces created in a notebook. Some were even done on the back of envelopes and one could still sea the postage stamp on them. I can imagine him carrying the notebook around Madrid, watching his country men, and sketching the tiny pieces in the very plaza I’m sitting in right now. Now, that’s a really cool notion.
huzza!
jake.
As for my external experience I dedicated my time to discovering the genius of Francisco Goya. There is so much to see in the prado. The building is four stories tall with at least six wings and ten rooms within each wing. To see everything in one day is impossible. Impossible in the sense that the mind and body and soul cannot handle that much beauty, it is too much to bear. Yes, one could walk from one room to the next, but to feel each painting is a feat I do not believe I can accomplish in the five months I will be staying here…especially because there are two other museums of equal caliber in Madrid.
When first standing in front of a giant piece by Valezquez, I was stunned by the massive size of the painting. It stood ten feet tall and five feet wide. How an artists could keep the precision to have congruency throughout the piece I will never understand. To keep such a massive work on scale is a talent all in itself. Also, the realization that I was standing infront of the exact canvas that the artist painted on himself was a powerful sentiment in itself. My eyes looked upon the same canvas that Valezquez’s eyes looked upon as well. All of the work in the prado is the same canvas the original artist touched with their own hands. That’s a profound feeling in itself.
I’m not sure why I am so drawn to the work of Goya. His diversity is very appealing to me. He can paint portraits and still life with the utmost of precision. He can paint and draw the absurd, or surreal, equally as moving. I started looking at the dates each was created, which made me wonder even more about Goya the man. The earliest work the prado had were paintings of friends and families celebrating life. Dancing and singing and playing in the outdoors. The blue of the sky were vibrant. The greens of the grass were lush. The yellows of children’s dresses mirrored the sun. The painting, for me, undoubtedly expressed an optimistic tone and a feeling of eat drink and be merry. I have to assume that this reflected the spirit of Goya in his younger years. I can imagine him celebrating life with friends in the country side during summer and stepping back to sketch a scene.
In his middle aged years he became the painter of the king and his family. Many works were displayed or the royal family. The thing I found interesting about this time period is that all the facial expression of the royals were nearly vacant. It appeared their eyes stared at nothing. As though they were calloused to the world. And though they had no emotions left in their hearts. And yet, they still allowed, and probably loved the work Goya had created. Over all, these pieces were my least favorite, however if I understood art more I’m sure I’d get more out of the accuracy in which he created the pieces.
Then in the late years of Goya’s life he created what are now called the Black Paintings. These are what really grasped me. Really made me dumbfounded by the creations of Goya. Black is a good word. Most of the scenes are dominated by dark colors, ash gray, blood red, jetblack. They are dark and oppressive and portraying his fellow Spaniards in such a dark and idiotic manner. To me, it seems he lost all hope and faith in this country me. In one painting, the name escapes me, a giant and omnipotent character stands loominous (not luminous) in the dark sky. He is naked and strong and savage. He looks confused as though he has no intentions of ill will but simply lost in his own head of destruction. In the valley below the sky, swarms of tiny humans flee in fear away from the giant. I took the giant to be time or god or afterlife or what ever eternal question can never be answered by humans.
This sentiment is mirrored in the painting Saturn. Saturn was the god of time and melancholy. Saturn, in Goya, is a beastly figure with a hairy body and wild eyes and bulging naked muscles. He bits the arm off of a body, which has no head and blood running from the neck. Again, I think this is the same sentiment as from above, the fear of death and life and the timid life it can create in the mortal humans.
The rest of black painting, I believe (who can possibly say what is right and wrong?) are derived from these two. They feature caricatures of half ape and half human bodies. In many of the scenes theses devolved creatures huddle together, like conformity, and their eyes express fear and the trembling of bones. Overall, I took that black paintings as Goya’s loss of faith in the Spanish and humanity in general. He was a cynic and viewed the world in such a hopeless light. And, I couldn’t help but think he was working out his own fear of death through these works, alleviating the pain and confusion he felt.
Incredibly lucky for me, the prado is featuring a very small collection of Goya for a short period. It was one of the last things he worked on before his death. He called it, “El Toro Mariposa (the bull-butterfly).” The collection was broken into three categories: Buelan Buelan (they fly they fly), dibersion de espana, and materia para ridiculo. All were done with pencil, some charcoal, and some with a pencial that looked like charcoal but with orange/red lead. Buelan featured men trying to fly. It was symbolic of the futility and foolishness of the dreams of men. Dibersion was all of bullfights. Spaniards stood in large groups laughing and dancing at other men who were being gored by raging bulls. And ridiculo featured more caricatures of the Spanish as beastly and devolved persons. All three helped form my opinions of the black paintings, which I think undoubtedly have to be linked due to their proximity in creating. Oh, and the really cool things about El Toro Mariposa, is that they were small pieces created in a notebook. Some were even done on the back of envelopes and one could still sea the postage stamp on them. I can imagine him carrying the notebook around Madrid, watching his country men, and sketching the tiny pieces in the very plaza I’m sitting in right now. Now, that’s a really cool notion.
huzza!
jake.
spanish peeps
The peeps in Madrid are a foreign bunch. Imagine that. I haven’t had any conversations with any Spaniards minus Gabrielle who works for USAC. All my opinions are observation based. The Spanish are very trendy. Super trendy. Which, as most of all y’all know, I generally dislike such behavior when back in the states. However, I’ll let it slide here based upon the idea of how close people are here. Friends are true friends who will talk for hours with each other. Families are so close. Every night Merche and Ana, the family I live with, go for an evening walk, they make dinner together, they even share a room. So yeah, I understand the desire to be like your friends…I guess. Anyway, I’m letting it slide.
I was in Puerto del sol, a part of old downtown Madrid, a really pretty part which is now a huge shopping center. Behind me was a mother pushing her three (or so) year old son in a stroller. The son said (in Spanish of course, a friend translated for me) “I don’t want to go home and take a bath. I want to buy clothes.” It was funny/sad. How does a two year old become obsessed with fashion? It seemed very odd to me. But that is what he wanted. Anyway, good or bad or different or whatever, the Spanish love fashion, and granted, the woman do look really hot, so who am I to complain?
As I imagine it is anywhere in the world, there exists assholes and nice peoples in spain. Which, is why I’m up so late tonight writing this blog. I went to a café this evening for a glass of wine. I said to the woman behind the bar, “Tienes vino?” and she looked at me really odd. Granted my Spanish is terrible and my accent sucks, so I’m sure it was hard to understand. But she was really cold and rude. Other places I’ve gone, the bartenders or baristas or whoever are really nice and are happy I’m trying my hardest to speak Spanish. But not this woman. She was rude as shit. Anyway, after a thirty seconds of dirty looks from her I just pointed to the beer and said, “mahou, porfavor.” (mahau is a local beer that nearly every café carries). And she poured it. Then my roommate came up and I asked him if there was something wrong with the way I was saying “tienes vino,” and he said no and then he asked her if they had wine for me. She said she spoke English and that’s why she was rude to me. I don’t get it. At all. If she spoke English she could have helped me out a little. How the hell am I to know she spoke English. Oh, and contrary to what I was told before leaving…hardly anyone speaks English in Madrid. Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is the Spanish get offended over things my American mind just can’t understand.
A second example of this: yesterday six of us students stopped at a café in Puerto del sol and had lunch. We started off on the wrong foot with the waitress. One student was taking a really long time to order and the waitress just stood there waiting for her order. We told her we needed a minute and she just kinda hovered. I get this, cultural difference, I guess. Order when the waitress has time, I suppose. Anyway, she just stood there and I felt really bad because as a member of the service industry I know how much of a pain in the ass it is to have a slow customer. By the time we got our order in the waitress was really peeved and kept rolling her eyes and what not. Which I thought was rude, I’m pretty sure there was some stereotyping of Americans going on. And I know it’s difficult to be in another country, especially spain which is incredibly proud of it’s heritage and culture. But doesn’t human compassion have to come in to play a little? A simple understanding of we are not from this country and we are trying hard to understand? Maybe not. Anyway, here’s the kicker. Once they brought out the food, my friend ordered a sandwich type thing, I forget it’s Spanish name, and she began to eat it with a knife and fork. At this point the waitress and one other waiter kept walking passed the table and scowling at us. Seriously scowling. A look of get the eff out, you are not wanted here. When I ordered another beer, the waitress slammed it down so hard that the head flowed over the top of the glass. Finally my roommate approached her when she was alone in the corner and asked her why they were so angry with us. She told him it was because our friend was eating her sandwich with a fork and it was meant to be eaten with her hands. Serious. This is why they got so angry. This is why they treated us like shit. This idea is very odd to me. Not the custom of eating it with your hands. I like that idea. But, the waitress not telling my friend to use her hands because it was customary is bizarre. To get so angry, to become so rude to other humans who are completely ignorant to local custom and who are in a foreign country to learn all about the customs, is completely perverse to me.
But, like I began this blog, some people are dicks. Some are nice. It’s universal. These are two examples of the bad in the world that have me up so late on a school night wondering why people suck. Well, I guess I shouldn’t say suck. Why the Spanish are the way they are. I guess I need to investigate much more. However, some of the responses I’ve received have been pretty perplexing to me. The Spanish are proud, indeed.
To give some props to the Spanish. I haven’t had a single bad experience with asking people for help in the streets. The Spanish are so willing to give directions and help a lost American find his way. It’s nice.
Anyway, should sleep, very late, very tired, very annoyed, very very very.
Jake.
I was in Puerto del sol, a part of old downtown Madrid, a really pretty part which is now a huge shopping center. Behind me was a mother pushing her three (or so) year old son in a stroller. The son said (in Spanish of course, a friend translated for me) “I don’t want to go home and take a bath. I want to buy clothes.” It was funny/sad. How does a two year old become obsessed with fashion? It seemed very odd to me. But that is what he wanted. Anyway, good or bad or different or whatever, the Spanish love fashion, and granted, the woman do look really hot, so who am I to complain?
As I imagine it is anywhere in the world, there exists assholes and nice peoples in spain. Which, is why I’m up so late tonight writing this blog. I went to a café this evening for a glass of wine. I said to the woman behind the bar, “Tienes vino?” and she looked at me really odd. Granted my Spanish is terrible and my accent sucks, so I’m sure it was hard to understand. But she was really cold and rude. Other places I’ve gone, the bartenders or baristas or whoever are really nice and are happy I’m trying my hardest to speak Spanish. But not this woman. She was rude as shit. Anyway, after a thirty seconds of dirty looks from her I just pointed to the beer and said, “mahou, porfavor.” (mahau is a local beer that nearly every café carries). And she poured it. Then my roommate came up and I asked him if there was something wrong with the way I was saying “tienes vino,” and he said no and then he asked her if they had wine for me. She said she spoke English and that’s why she was rude to me. I don’t get it. At all. If she spoke English she could have helped me out a little. How the hell am I to know she spoke English. Oh, and contrary to what I was told before leaving…hardly anyone speaks English in Madrid. Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is the Spanish get offended over things my American mind just can’t understand.
A second example of this: yesterday six of us students stopped at a café in Puerto del sol and had lunch. We started off on the wrong foot with the waitress. One student was taking a really long time to order and the waitress just stood there waiting for her order. We told her we needed a minute and she just kinda hovered. I get this, cultural difference, I guess. Order when the waitress has time, I suppose. Anyway, she just stood there and I felt really bad because as a member of the service industry I know how much of a pain in the ass it is to have a slow customer. By the time we got our order in the waitress was really peeved and kept rolling her eyes and what not. Which I thought was rude, I’m pretty sure there was some stereotyping of Americans going on. And I know it’s difficult to be in another country, especially spain which is incredibly proud of it’s heritage and culture. But doesn’t human compassion have to come in to play a little? A simple understanding of we are not from this country and we are trying hard to understand? Maybe not. Anyway, here’s the kicker. Once they brought out the food, my friend ordered a sandwich type thing, I forget it’s Spanish name, and she began to eat it with a knife and fork. At this point the waitress and one other waiter kept walking passed the table and scowling at us. Seriously scowling. A look of get the eff out, you are not wanted here. When I ordered another beer, the waitress slammed it down so hard that the head flowed over the top of the glass. Finally my roommate approached her when she was alone in the corner and asked her why they were so angry with us. She told him it was because our friend was eating her sandwich with a fork and it was meant to be eaten with her hands. Serious. This is why they got so angry. This is why they treated us like shit. This idea is very odd to me. Not the custom of eating it with your hands. I like that idea. But, the waitress not telling my friend to use her hands because it was customary is bizarre. To get so angry, to become so rude to other humans who are completely ignorant to local custom and who are in a foreign country to learn all about the customs, is completely perverse to me.
But, like I began this blog, some people are dicks. Some are nice. It’s universal. These are two examples of the bad in the world that have me up so late on a school night wondering why people suck. Well, I guess I shouldn’t say suck. Why the Spanish are the way they are. I guess I need to investigate much more. However, some of the responses I’ve received have been pretty perplexing to me. The Spanish are proud, indeed.
To give some props to the Spanish. I haven’t had a single bad experience with asking people for help in the streets. The Spanish are so willing to give directions and help a lost American find his way. It’s nice.
Anyway, should sleep, very late, very tired, very annoyed, very very very.
Jake.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
an afternoon with alfie
Today I went to el monumento de rey alfonso XII. It is located inside the beautiful parque de retiro, which means the park of relaxation. This is precisely the correct name for such a meditative place. I have never felt such reverence by being in the presence of anything man made before. Not ever. The feeling of spirituality that had overcome me this afternoon is a feeling I have only felt when stricken with all the glory of nature. However, observing the sheer elegance and artistic beauty of the monument left me in such a trance that only my soul was present to sense the outside world. The location of the monument was once where a palace the rey y riena de espana lived. It fell a long time ago. Rey Alfonso was the last king before the second republic took power of espana and forced him to leave, leading to the civil war and the rise of Franco. That aside, the monument was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. It sits in front of a gigantic man made lake/pond. The length is 200 yards tall and the width is 500 yards wide. Boats are available to rent and paddle around the monument. The monument itself is a large platform which has stairs in the front leading down to the water and four lions on the waters edge, which I imagine to be protectors of the king. On the outer edges of the platform, two large walls stand. They are reminiscent of the roman coliseums with giant pillars and decorated at the top with cherubs. In the center of the platform stands a giant vertical statue, I’m guessing 100 ft tall, with Rey Alfonso sitting on his horse. The four sides of the vertical statue each contained a smaller sculpture that the monuments creator had asked other respectable artists to create. One sculpture is the reason for me plummeting into such reverence at the holy site. It contains five characters. The center character is naked man who looks famished and his ribs show dominant through his skin. Behind him is an angel pulling his body up to heaven. His face looks pristine, as I imagine anyone who is looking upon the face of god would look. As though all pain and worry and strife had instantly been removed from his head and his heart. The angels face is look of compassion like the task was redundant but rewarding each and every time. To his left, a friend of the man with strong muscles and a splendid figure appears to be left behind on earth, and is allowing his friend to lean on him for strengthen, as though he was helping him stand, helping him ascend to his final glory, helping him through the struggles of life. Lying at the feet of the ascending man is a miserable looking human. His face, looking up at the rising man, is discontent and sour as though he was enraged with despair. Lying at his feet are shackles though he nor the ascending man nor the strong friend appear to have ever been locked into their clutches. The final figure I can not figure out. He appears to be a priest holding a bible, but his expression perplexes me. At first I thought he was simply raising his hand to say goodbye to a soul he may have helped but his eyes appear empty and his mouth is far too frowned. Perhaps he is jealous, perhaps he is distracted, no not distracted. He may be pondering when his time for heavenly assent will come. I just do know. I can’t place his look.
So, after pondering this monument I walked down the stairs that lead to the water, sat and wrote in my journal and then smoked a cigarette. A couple rowed near me in a boat and stopped to look at the king’s monument. The woman leaned her head back and the soft breeze swung her hair up, faintly exposing her ears, and she closed her eyes and the look on her face was like the look of the man ascending to heaven. She was perfectly content. Perfectly blissful. It was beautiful and I knew exactly how she felt.
jake.
So, after pondering this monument I walked down the stairs that lead to the water, sat and wrote in my journal and then smoked a cigarette. A couple rowed near me in a boat and stopped to look at the king’s monument. The woman leaned her head back and the soft breeze swung her hair up, faintly exposing her ears, and she closed her eyes and the look on her face was like the look of the man ascending to heaven. She was perfectly content. Perfectly blissful. It was beautiful and I knew exactly how she felt.
jake.
Friday, January 11, 2008
more pics sans caption. how about this. Madrid photos.
a standard street in old downtown madrid. i love the terraces. everybuilding in old downtown has a terrace.
The Prado. that statue is the back of Goya.
on the oppisite side is his face.a random side street i took. i thought the colors were pretty.
photos without captions cause i can´t figure out how to use this site and i´m getting charged by the minute in the interent cafe.
a central part of old downtown madrid. they're all office buildings now.
this is a train station. crazy huh?
t
this is a train station. crazy huh?
t
these are all in parque retiro. i liked this king cause he was standing on a head and his nickname is the battler.
10-1-08
Thing are settling slightly. Oh, so very slightly. As in the city isn’t as overwhelming. But not in a bad way. It gives me more time to reflect upon the actual beauty of it, in place of a feeling of pure overwhemltion. But, by god, this city truly is beautiful.
I live in the burbs. The burbs of Madrid, as I imagine any major city, are quite crowded. I imagine sooner or later I’ll begin to miss grass. Ha. Maybe I already do. The streets of my neighborhood, La Concepcion, are lined with apartment buildings. They stretch as far as one can see. It took twenty minutes of wandering last night to finally reach some sort of non-apt based area. Which is exactly what I had anticipated when moving to Madrid. So there are no let downs. What I wasn’t expecting was the lack of stores. Well, the lack of walmart, Albertson, winco, style store. I didn’t expect those exact chains to be here, but I had assumed Spanish style stores would. Nope. Negativatory. Most of the apartments begin on floor (what we’d call in the states) two. Though, they stil call it floor one. The bottom floors are shops. There’s a butcher. A pharmacy. A café (well, tons of cafes, they are everywhere!). A tailor. A tobacco store. A fruit stand. An electronics store. A bakery. Etc. Each one is owned by an individual and gives that person and their family their livelihood. I think it’s awesome. It makes for a cool community and gives plenty for the eyes to look at when passing on the streets.
The cafés here are awesome. There is at least one between every street. I’d say block, but the streets are so chaotic that blocks don’t really exist. You can eat for so incredibly cheap. Two euros will get you a good sized snack (tapas are everywhere) a cup of café con leche (which is the most phenomenal coffee on the earth. But I’ll have to make a separate paragraph for the grandeur of café con leche), and a beer. All for two freaking euros. If you are slightly more hungry, three and a half euros will fill you to the brim. And the food is excellent. I ordered paella, Spanish rice and sea food, and the dude behind the counter pulled fresh shrimp, muscles, and some sort of fish off of the ice in front of me, and sautéed it with the rice. All food here seems to be fresh. I haven’t seen any frozen food yet. Lots of cafés have cured ham hanging from the ceiling. Oh, ham is huge in Madrid.
My host family is very nice. I live with a 60 year old woman name Merche, her adopted daughter Ana (15), and one other American student named Isaac from Iowa. I am not excited about living with him. He’s 20, a douche, and talks about “getting bitches” a lot. He’s a know it all who never shuts up, and is constantly coming into my room while I’m trying to read. A cardinal sin in my book. However, he is fluent in Spanish. So I’m nice to him. Haha. He’s saved my ass a few times already. And living with Merche, who speaks no English, would be really difficult otherwise. I painted him in a pretty harsh light. He’s twenty and immature. And under no other circumstances would I choose to hang out with him. But, Merche. Very nice woman. She smiles a lot. Talks to me anyway, and I talk back in English. And we don’t understand each other. It’s fun. She has a dog who apparently will hates us for the first two weeks. A little tiny mutt. Jalie.
Our apartment it self is a big piece of crap. It’s tiny and old. Many thing are broke and even more things need fixing (how’s that possible?). I sleep in a room decorated for a little girl too. Pink walls. Posters of Disney and baby puppies. So I’m glad I didn’t pack my poster with kittens hanging from a close line with the caption that read, “hang in there,” Merche knew I was coming. I have no idea how old this place actually is. Not super old like 1750’s but I’m guessing early twentieth century. Oh, and I saw a for sale sign for one of the apartments on the street…240.000, 00 Euros!!!!!!!! They are so expensive. It’s freaking unbelievable. And we are twenty minutes from city center.
K, café con leche. Aw come aw wry! It is so good. They brew the grounds really strong. With a fraction of the water we use in the states. I’m not sure if the beans themselves are different, I’m guessing they have to be, because they are slightly sweeter, a whole lot less bitter, and have well, fuller, but not bold taste…not sure how to explain it. At cafes, they serve it in an 8 oz glass that looks like it is made for milk. Not a coffee mug at all. It’s about 1/3 café and 2/3 leche, and then you add pure sugar grains for the most delicious breakfast drink on earth. Or afternoon pick me up. Or late night snack.
I haven’t really met any Spaniards yet. School starts Monday and every day I’ve been here there has been some sort of USAC affiliated orientation. So I’ve been hanging out with the other USAC students a lot….which I just love…tons of twenty year olds…nuff said. A few asked about my tattoo and their eyes immediately glazed over the second I they heard the words, “moby-dick.” Ha. Oh well.
K, loosing momentum. Covered quite a bit. Though not everything. Not nearly everything.
Oh! One last thing. The roads here are lawless. Two lane roads often fit three cars abreast. Drivers will drive in the oncoming car’s lane and onto sidewalks to get around obstacles, such as people or a car parked in the middle of the road. It’s scary. I never want to drive here!
Huzza!
jake.
I live in the burbs. The burbs of Madrid, as I imagine any major city, are quite crowded. I imagine sooner or later I’ll begin to miss grass. Ha. Maybe I already do. The streets of my neighborhood, La Concepcion, are lined with apartment buildings. They stretch as far as one can see. It took twenty minutes of wandering last night to finally reach some sort of non-apt based area. Which is exactly what I had anticipated when moving to Madrid. So there are no let downs. What I wasn’t expecting was the lack of stores. Well, the lack of walmart, Albertson, winco, style store. I didn’t expect those exact chains to be here, but I had assumed Spanish style stores would. Nope. Negativatory. Most of the apartments begin on floor (what we’d call in the states) two. Though, they stil call it floor one. The bottom floors are shops. There’s a butcher. A pharmacy. A café (well, tons of cafes, they are everywhere!). A tailor. A tobacco store. A fruit stand. An electronics store. A bakery. Etc. Each one is owned by an individual and gives that person and their family their livelihood. I think it’s awesome. It makes for a cool community and gives plenty for the eyes to look at when passing on the streets.
The cafés here are awesome. There is at least one between every street. I’d say block, but the streets are so chaotic that blocks don’t really exist. You can eat for so incredibly cheap. Two euros will get you a good sized snack (tapas are everywhere) a cup of café con leche (which is the most phenomenal coffee on the earth. But I’ll have to make a separate paragraph for the grandeur of café con leche), and a beer. All for two freaking euros. If you are slightly more hungry, three and a half euros will fill you to the brim. And the food is excellent. I ordered paella, Spanish rice and sea food, and the dude behind the counter pulled fresh shrimp, muscles, and some sort of fish off of the ice in front of me, and sautéed it with the rice. All food here seems to be fresh. I haven’t seen any frozen food yet. Lots of cafés have cured ham hanging from the ceiling. Oh, ham is huge in Madrid.
My host family is very nice. I live with a 60 year old woman name Merche, her adopted daughter Ana (15), and one other American student named Isaac from Iowa. I am not excited about living with him. He’s 20, a douche, and talks about “getting bitches” a lot. He’s a know it all who never shuts up, and is constantly coming into my room while I’m trying to read. A cardinal sin in my book. However, he is fluent in Spanish. So I’m nice to him. Haha. He’s saved my ass a few times already. And living with Merche, who speaks no English, would be really difficult otherwise. I painted him in a pretty harsh light. He’s twenty and immature. And under no other circumstances would I choose to hang out with him. But, Merche. Very nice woman. She smiles a lot. Talks to me anyway, and I talk back in English. And we don’t understand each other. It’s fun. She has a dog who apparently will hates us for the first two weeks. A little tiny mutt. Jalie.
Our apartment it self is a big piece of crap. It’s tiny and old. Many thing are broke and even more things need fixing (how’s that possible?). I sleep in a room decorated for a little girl too. Pink walls. Posters of Disney and baby puppies. So I’m glad I didn’t pack my poster with kittens hanging from a close line with the caption that read, “hang in there,” Merche knew I was coming. I have no idea how old this place actually is. Not super old like 1750’s but I’m guessing early twentieth century. Oh, and I saw a for sale sign for one of the apartments on the street…240.000, 00 Euros!!!!!!!! They are so expensive. It’s freaking unbelievable. And we are twenty minutes from city center.
K, café con leche. Aw come aw wry! It is so good. They brew the grounds really strong. With a fraction of the water we use in the states. I’m not sure if the beans themselves are different, I’m guessing they have to be, because they are slightly sweeter, a whole lot less bitter, and have well, fuller, but not bold taste…not sure how to explain it. At cafes, they serve it in an 8 oz glass that looks like it is made for milk. Not a coffee mug at all. It’s about 1/3 café and 2/3 leche, and then you add pure sugar grains for the most delicious breakfast drink on earth. Or afternoon pick me up. Or late night snack.
I haven’t really met any Spaniards yet. School starts Monday and every day I’ve been here there has been some sort of USAC affiliated orientation. So I’ve been hanging out with the other USAC students a lot….which I just love…tons of twenty year olds…nuff said. A few asked about my tattoo and their eyes immediately glazed over the second I they heard the words, “moby-dick.” Ha. Oh well.
K, loosing momentum. Covered quite a bit. Though not everything. Not nearly everything.
Oh! One last thing. The roads here are lawless. Two lane roads often fit three cars abreast. Drivers will drive in the oncoming car’s lane and onto sidewalks to get around obstacles, such as people or a car parked in the middle of the road. It’s scary. I never want to drive here!
Huzza!
jake.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Day one in madrid
The travel was miserable. Much worse than i had anticipated. From leaving boise, and including al of the lay overs and delays, it took me twenty-eight hours to finally arrive in madrid. I learned a few things, the french really are assholes. eleven hours in a plane is equivalent to be putting in the hole. And jet lag is not a myth. But, i have arrived and it is amazing here.
tonight i got lost. that is all i wanted to do. Many of the other USAC students chose to go out drinking tonight. i had to pass. at dinner one student was talking about how spanish people are deuches, and needed to get their asses kicked. yeah, i don't get why he's here either. a few others talked about how dirt the city was, which i'll get too...instead i just wandered around seeing how much only a square mile (which was only investigated on the surface) has to offer.
one cannot prepare for the grandure that is madrid. Every thing in the city is art. Well, everything in the part of town my hotel for tonight, is art. The buildings are all so old. Every detail of them is perfected. The doorways are art. the window wells are art. the statues that top the buildings, they too are art. The round abouts have gigantic foutains in the center of them. All the ministry buildings, similar to our "deartment of" buildings are in old palaces. they are magnificent buildings. I'm staying a few blocks from the meuseo de prado. the building is gorgeous. i don't know what the architecture is called, but it remingds me of the palace of versille. and, right behind the prado is a huge gothic chapel. the styles are just so vastly different. it's amazing. and, also, right behind the chapel, is a gigantic public park. it was locked by the time i found it, but i wil discover it's beauty soon.
the city is so amazingly clean. it crazy. again, i'm staying in one of the most relevant areas so i can't speak for the whole city, but the streets are so clean. the sidewalks, which are created out of granite tile, not concrete slabs, are spotless. the building do look dirty. but they are so old. centuries of weather and damage to them. so yeah, some of the buildings do look like they have dirt on them, but touch them and they sure don't. everywhere in america i'd find cigarette butts, their euqivalent places in spain do not.
i took one turn off a major blvd, and i was on a stereotypical cramped european street. their wideths were barely wide enough for a passing car. the parked cars were pulled onto the sidewalk to make space. the streets themselves were coblestone, and were definitely not set up on a grid system. intersecting roads crossed at random and unpredictable angles. large buildings, some apts, some offices, some resrautns with offices and apts on the top levels, lined the roads. and every single window had a terrace. infact, nearly all apts i've seen in spain have terraces. oh man, i hope my apt has a terrace. i'll find out tomorrow.
the people here seem to be great. and yes, the spanish are beautiful people. my lord are they. i was sitting in front of the prado smoking, and a madrid native named alexendro asked me for a smoke, and then sat down and we talked. He didn't speak english well. i don't speak spanish well. but he still sat down and got my basic story. he told me he was going to grenada, which is three hours away, tomorrow.
this is only the surface of what mardid has to offer me. day one was amazing, and there is so much left of the city to discover. oh, and not to mention the people i am bound to met.
jake.
tonight i got lost. that is all i wanted to do. Many of the other USAC students chose to go out drinking tonight. i had to pass. at dinner one student was talking about how spanish people are deuches, and needed to get their asses kicked. yeah, i don't get why he's here either. a few others talked about how dirt the city was, which i'll get too...instead i just wandered around seeing how much only a square mile (which was only investigated on the surface) has to offer.
one cannot prepare for the grandure that is madrid. Every thing in the city is art. Well, everything in the part of town my hotel for tonight, is art. The buildings are all so old. Every detail of them is perfected. The doorways are art. the window wells are art. the statues that top the buildings, they too are art. The round abouts have gigantic foutains in the center of them. All the ministry buildings, similar to our "deartment of" buildings are in old palaces. they are magnificent buildings. I'm staying a few blocks from the meuseo de prado. the building is gorgeous. i don't know what the architecture is called, but it remingds me of the palace of versille. and, right behind the prado is a huge gothic chapel. the styles are just so vastly different. it's amazing. and, also, right behind the chapel, is a gigantic public park. it was locked by the time i found it, but i wil discover it's beauty soon.
the city is so amazingly clean. it crazy. again, i'm staying in one of the most relevant areas so i can't speak for the whole city, but the streets are so clean. the sidewalks, which are created out of granite tile, not concrete slabs, are spotless. the building do look dirty. but they are so old. centuries of weather and damage to them. so yeah, some of the buildings do look like they have dirt on them, but touch them and they sure don't. everywhere in america i'd find cigarette butts, their euqivalent places in spain do not.
i took one turn off a major blvd, and i was on a stereotypical cramped european street. their wideths were barely wide enough for a passing car. the parked cars were pulled onto the sidewalk to make space. the streets themselves were coblestone, and were definitely not set up on a grid system. intersecting roads crossed at random and unpredictable angles. large buildings, some apts, some offices, some resrautns with offices and apts on the top levels, lined the roads. and every single window had a terrace. infact, nearly all apts i've seen in spain have terraces. oh man, i hope my apt has a terrace. i'll find out tomorrow.
the people here seem to be great. and yes, the spanish are beautiful people. my lord are they. i was sitting in front of the prado smoking, and a madrid native named alexendro asked me for a smoke, and then sat down and we talked. He didn't speak english well. i don't speak spanish well. but he still sat down and got my basic story. he told me he was going to grenada, which is three hours away, tomorrow.
this is only the surface of what mardid has to offer me. day one was amazing, and there is so much left of the city to discover. oh, and not to mention the people i am bound to met.
jake.
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