A Tale of No Turkeys

SUCCESS! Thanksgiving in Spain. It worked. We did it, folks!

The potluck-style fiesta featured roasted chicken (meant to resemble turkeys), mashed potatoes, tortilla española, empanadas, chili (an American twist on a Mexican dish, prepared by a dynamic duo of an Irish friend and a Spanish friend—this chili was so multicultural that, in Irish friend’s words, “it hurts my mind”), pumpkin bread pudding, and a lot of wine (the 13 of us barreled through 11 bottles. Go team).

It. Was. Glorious.

There was a moment on Thanksgiving Thursday morning, after I’d invited 14 people to my house (half Spaniards and half Americans), painstakingly tracked down pumpkin pie makings, and scheduled shopping and cooking time, when I was 99.9% sure that I was in over my head. “Dear Jean,” I said to myself, “You’ve never hosted so much as a sandwich-making party.” In this moment I realized, with 6 hours left before the big dinner, that I didn’t actually know how to make mashed potatoes. Or a whole chicken. Or even, as mentioned in a previous post, eggs. Even if these folks showed up only hankering for an omlette, I couldn’t deliver. By the time Emma, another auxiliar, arrived to start cooking, I’d worked myself into a secret frenzy.

And then, miraculously, with some glasses of while-cooking-wine and some Google recipe searches, the potatoes got mashed, the chicken got roasted, the pumpkin pie-lets got baked, the brussel sprouts got sautéed, and everything started to come together. By the time Emma headed home to get ready and get her roommates going, the dinner had started to actually look like a dinner. And then, just as the oh-dear-god-I-can’t-cook fear gave way to an oh-dear-god-what-if-no-one-comes-to-eat-my-food fear, the phone rang. It was Casey, an auxiliar serendipitously from Pasadena, and his other Pasadena-native friend, Joseph. They had an early train the next morning and had been planning to pass on the characteristically Spanish 9:30 PM Thanksgiving dinner, but wanted to stop by and say hello while I cooked. By 7:30, the two boys had arrived, along with a third American from Campo de Criptana. Shortly after that, my roommate got home, popped some wine (I’m telling you, it was a night of lots of wine), and they all sat in the kitchen shooting the shit in Spanglish. The apartment had that holiday sort of bustle, and it smelled like pumpkin pie, and it didn’t take long for my secret frenzy to become a very un-secret gushy happiness.

And then the Spaniards showed up. With chili and tortilla española (eggs, potato, onion, all packed in a little circle of goodness) in tow. And more wine. The chili especially was a masterpiece of which Jessie (an Irish auxiliar who’s spent three years here in Alcázar) and Miguel (her Spanish partner in cooking crime who spent a year in the US) were very proud. As there is no chili powder in Spain, chili was quite a feat. Miguel took special pains to ensure that everyone ate the chili correctly, complete with cheese and crumbled tortilla chips.

I think I spent the whole night with a giant stupid smile on my face.

I’d expected Thanksgiving to be a tough day, considering how much I like family and food and the meeting of the two. This definitely didn’t feel like Thanksgiving at home. This was definitely not an afternoon with Nonnie and Papa, or an evening at Sue’s house, catching up with old friends over turkey and pecan pie while the sun sets over Silver Lake and Sam plays violent video games. This was its own breed of celebration, and because of this it was far more joyous than tough. This Thanksgiving wasn’t an imitation of a Thanksgiving in the US. We weren’t pretending that we were home, or trying to ignore our situation or our distance from family. Rather, this Thanksgiving was a moment—at least for me—of giving thanks for exactly where I was and who I was with. Usually Thanksgiving is about tradition and continuity. But this Thanksgiving was about the new relationships and new experiences that are dynamically and actively shaping my life.

Then, in true Alcázar form, the whole troupe of us went out until the wee hours. I spent the entire following day cleaning the disaster area of a kitchen, but it was more than worth it.

To top it all off, I even got a little taste of family Thanksgiving on Saturday, when I went into Madrid with Emma for a Thanksgiving lunch with my godmother, Valerie, and her family! Great day, great food, great company.

Life since Thanksgiving has consisted primarily in work and sitting around in the Café-Bar Bodeguilla eating tapas, drinking beer, and learning useful Spanish phrases like “Estás en el mundo porque tiene que haber de todo” (you’re in the world because there had to be one of everything) and “Se cree mierda y no llega a pedo” (he thinks he’s the shit but he’s not even a fart). Needless to say, there is really honestly nothing I’d rather be doing.

More than anything, I’ve been wandering around since T-givs in a sort of goofy haze of thankfulness, for the small experiences that I can feel accumulating into a very important change in perspective.

Also, I have been reminded this week of important things I forgot to include in my previous posts! They are in list form, because this post is already egregiously long, but I have a montón to say about all of them.

1. I’ve been doing a lot of eating.
2. I saw my amazing host sister Bettina in Madrid, which was beyond great. We paid a special visit to San Gines, my favorite churro place and biggest guilty pleasure, we saw my host mother. and will be going to visit her in Switzerland when spring thaws Zurich!
3. I got in a car accident! Before anyone can make jokes about my driving skills, I assure you I was not at the wheel.
4. I’ve been spending probably 65% of my day in bars and restaurants and have become a big fan of tapas.
5. Also a fan of goat cheese.
6. And pig ear (I know, right?).
7. Have I mentioned I’ve been doing a lot of eating?
8. I’m calling it “research” for where to take my mom out to eat when she comes in December. (MY MOM IS COMING IN DECEMBER!)

Adventures in Air-Drying and Other Things

It seems like a great idea when you think about it. Clean laundry, drying in the wind, billowing with sweet open air. It resonates with a sort of idyllic, 50s-style domestic perfection.

However, surprisingly, line-drying clothes isn’t as exciting as one would imagine. It’s a rainy winter, and anyway the only outdoor space we have for lines are our balconies, so the clothes hang around on the little indoor rack in the living room for a day and a half or so, while you check every fifteen minutes to gauge whether they feel any less soggy than they did before. It's like an exercise in patience: practice patience, and you can leave the house in dry jeans. I wear a lot of damp clothes. 

In everything else, I’m starting to feel settled. Life in Spain is a lot like life in any other place--work, laundry, cooking, friends--everything is just a little bit different and new.

Part One: Work. I love my coworkers and they’ve treated me with an almost familial generosity, the appreciation for which I wish I could properly articulate to them in Spanish. In my first week alone, the headmaster took me to the movies, the vice principal had me over for lunch, the preschool English teacher took me out for drinks twice, and the fourth grade English teacher gave me an extensive verbal list of good places to go clubbing. When the apartment drama was in full swing (which I’ll talk about, I promise), three separate coworkers offered me a place in their home while I looked for new housing. I can't even comprehend the niceness of these people. The kids are pretty great too. They are, if not always attentive during lessons, unfailingly adorable. I’m working with children from age 3 to age 12 and it’s fascinating to watch the way language teaching develops and evolves between levels. They have a lot of mocos, and I’ve been sick a few times since I started teaching, but their drawings pretty much make up for everything.

I’m also having a great time making friends. A closet introvert, I'm always intimidated by the idea of finding buddies (an intimidation that's compounded by the fact that when I try to talk to Spaniards I sound like a two-year-old), but everyone has been really welcoming. I've befriended all the Americans in the town and I’m also working on breaking into a particular circle of Spanish friends (this "breaking in" usually includes me either sitting mute while I fear saying something stupid or being taught dirty phrases and swear words) with unflagging—and probably annoying—persistence. Fingers crossed I will stop seeming like a personality-less pest to them by Christmas. Big goals.

Roommate with tortilla triumph

Some of my friends from high school and college are also in Spain, which is making adjustment all the easier and gives me top-notch excuses for trips. For Halloween, I went to Madrid to see Kirstie, a good friend from Prep, and this past weekend I visited Jessica, one of my lovely Stanford favorites, in Bilbao. I came back from Bilbao with a new respect for the beauty of the city, a ponch from the 80 pounds of delicious pintxos I at, and an ongoing tally of sightings of Old Basque Men In Berets (only 31 so far, but winter’s barely started). As far as Madrid goes, it remains unchanged and hands-down one of my favorite places in the world. Apart from the weekend with Kirstie, I’ve gone to Madrid four times (once for an American Christmas Bazaar, complete with a Santa and root beer (which Spaniards hate like cough syrup) and peanut butter (which Spaniards hate like vegemite)). It’s finally occurred to me that I should be taking pictures of these things—however, so far my camera’s just loaded with pictures of food. Typical.

Cooking for myself is another adventure. Most of my meals are either overcooked, undercooked, or prepared from frozen packages. Still, I’m starting to get the hang of it, which is even more rewarding than I would have expected. I even made some chicken last week that tasted pretty not bad! As I ate it, I said a hundred apologies to my poor father for making fun of him when, ten years ago, he proudly showed me how he had finally learned how to cook a chicken (this continues to be his signature—and maybe only—dish, and I have a whole new appreciation for it). Still, despite my fabulous chicken, I think my novice is showing. Last week, as my roommate, Laura, and I were making Spanish tortilla (see triumphant photo), she assigned me the seemingly simple task of scrambling the eggs in a bowl before we poured them in with the potatoes. I got out a fork and went about my scrambling business, but after 5 or 10 seconds, Laura looked over, laughed, and said, “You don’t do this often, do you?” She then kindly removed the fork from my hands and took to the eggs like a tornado. It was a low point in my life when I realized that, compared to her, I literally failed at scrambling eggs.

I’ll have to rally all my latent cooking skills this Thursday for the Thanksgiving feast I’m hosting with some American friends. That’s right. In only a few short days, Spanish teachers, Spanish friends, and Spanish roommates will unite to have their first taste of stuffing, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie (pie does not exist in Spain) prepared by the woman who cannot cook eggs. Let me repeat: these Spaniards’ first pumpkin pie (the single most important American invention and symbol of all time) will be baked by YOURS TRULY. Challenge accepted. Wish me luck.

AnsolabeWHERE?

So, I recently realized that I live in Spain. I’m not just on vacation or studying abroad or couch surfing through Europe. I live here. This realization came as quite a shock as I sat, stealing internet, in Café Aldonza, one of my favorite old man bars in Alcázar that is conveniently located less than a block from my current apartment. I’d ordered a Magdalena and a café con leche from the man behind the counter and was deciding whether it was worth it to run back home for my umbrella or if I should cheat fate and start the cloudy walk to work sans rain gear. It wasn’t any particularly special moment. I don’t even know what I’d been thinking about in the minutes before. As I finished my coffee, the waiter (with whom I’ve developed a sort of shorthand rapport) approached me and asked if I wanted another. I nodded and decided to consult him on the whole umbrella quandary.

“What do you think the weather will be like today?” I asked him, “I left my rain things at home. Do you think I’ll be okay?”

“It might be worth it to get them. Do you live far away?”

I expected everything in my body to scream YES. Yes. I live very far away. I live in the United States, dammit. Can’t you tell by the fact that I massacre your language every time I open my mouth? But instead, I answered automatically, “Sure, just around the corner.” And that sentence didn’t cause any twist in my chest or overwhelming sadness or even exuberance. It was just a fact. I’m an immigrant. I live over in Plaza Mayor and I like it here.

I won’t live here forever. There are fundamental differences between the Spanish and American sensibilities that I’ll never get used to, but it’s only now sinking in that being a part of this world for a year is a tremendous privilege, and one that will change me.

Because of this recent realization, I’ve decided to finally get off my butt and start recording this experience. I live in Spain, in tiny but adorable Alcázar de San Juan, for a single precious year, and this will only happen once in my life.

Most people I talk to, even Spaniards, have never heard of Alcázar de San Juan. In fact, it seems like Google has barely heard of it. The town of 20,000 inhabitants, according to Wikipedia (but 35,000 if you ask anyone who lives there), rests smack dab in the middle of La Mancha, vast flat Spanish wine country whose greatest fame comes from Don Quixote. There’s a statue of Don Quixote in Alcázar’s main square, and another statue of Don Quixote in the main square of the town next door, and the town next to that. They also sometimes have re-enactments of the Don Quixote Vs. Windmill Smackdown at the old windmills just above town. The old DQ is a really big deal here. A bigger deal for me, however, is the fact that Alcázar is also home to one of the biggest Manchego cheese factories in the nation. No one else seems to be quite as excited as I am about this particular Alcázar bragging point, so I try to make up for it by eating enough cheese to keep the factory in business.

When I’m not eating my weight in cheese, I live on the north end of town with a nice Spanish girl named Laura, following a move from an ill-fated but hilarious living situation upon which I’ll elaborate in a later post. I’ve been making friends. I’ve been speaking a fair amount of Spanish and have been keeping a book of new vocabulary (among them “armpit”, “dish towel” and a whole constellation of swear words). I’ve also been learning how to spend time alone. I didn’t think this was good at first. I thought that any moment that I wasn’t surrounded by people and violently happy, I was somehow wasting my time and my money and was letting down everyone back home who was expecting me to have the time of my life. In fact, recently, as I've made more friends and started to have actual responsibilities and social commitments, I've been actively seeking out time by myself to write and drink coffee and think. I’ve slowly been coming to understand that being alone is the only way I can really process and internalize my experiences, and that learning to be alone after four years of college and constant social stimulation is incredibly important.

In any case, photos and everything to come, along with more detailed descriptions of where I am, who I’m with, and adventures in line-drying clothes. Get set.